Kneeling before the tower of song

Where do you begin?

You walk into a concert hall expecting a fine performance from a longtime professional.  The building is lovely, the event carrying the feeling of excitement–people from all over in attendance to see a legend, a songwriting virtuoso, and a man of such esteemed elegance that the prices on the seats float away with the rest of the worries of the night.  You sit, accompanied by a fan the likes of which cannot be measured, waiting for the show to begin.  You know the result will be good, and that you will enjoy songs you have liked, some you may not have liked before, and will walk away no less than pleased.

 

You walk into his garden.  You realize you walked in blindly.

 

From the opening song, he was no less than magical.  No, magic would say that there were some other power responsible.  What you witness is almost fifty years of art, skill, love, sex, meditation, agony, prayer, heart-wrenching living, and hard-won grace, encapsulated in a performance.  Every lyric was sung from the depths of memory, from the humor of “Dance Me To The End of Love” to the pain of “The Miracle” to the peace and humility of “If It Be Your Will”, which he didn’t actually sing.   He spoke poetry.  He sang.  He played guitar like a man my age.  He danced, knelt, and cradled his microphone like a child.

The artisan of a century was well accompanied.  An assembled crew of musicians from around the world, renowned each on their own, supported him, and in turn were supported by him.  In his grace he shared the spotlight in every way, eyes glued to them and hat off while they soloed, and singing to individual performers just to literally share the light with them.  His introductions were ebullient with praise, and their performances were overflowing with heart and style.   They lent their abilities to his masterworks, covering the spectrum–country, latin, ballad, and plenty of blues.   They performed like a band that had played all their lives together, sharing, falling into solid grooves, standing out individually, and coalescing to create a unified, polished performance that rates no less than spectacular.

Even above the man and the band, though, was the music.  New interpretations of older songs, made fresh for a live band, mixed with rock-solid performances of every classic you could desire (save one–”Joan of Arc”), and songs you may have never heard before, created a set list that had no rival.  With a performance that came in at 3 1/2 hours, including four encores that comprised a complete set in their own right, the audience was never left behind.  On the contrary, the concert hall was ringing with cheers, squeals, and catcalls that belonged to a performer 50 years his junior.  All the while, the man was humble, funny, light on talk, and heavy on songs that each rate as masterpieces.

To paraphrase Bono, Leonard Cohen throws away songs that other artists aspire their entire lives to write.

At the end of the night, I walked away renewed, revealed, and revived.  The Master made me think, made me feel the entire time, and reminded me, song after song, of some of the best moments of my musical career, where I really made beautiful music in the company of others.  If an artists makes you love music again, the way you did as a child and the way you should as an adult, then he has done his job splendidly.  You walk away from his concert knowing that this is the way all concerts should be given.  He has fallen and risen, he has stalled and striven, and he leaves you and the stage after placing his microphone down on the stage floor like an offering on a shrine, dancing.