The Time on the Wire

I have to begin this with a few confessions.

First, it took me a very long time to get into the cult of Cohen. I thought all of that moodiness and dark rambling was a pose. Being a student of literature in Canada did not help, either. You pretty much have “Suzanne” in your DNA if you are of a certain generation studying poetry and song in this country. When I was a teenager, it was Neil Young who did it for me (even having a roommate who worshipped Leonard Cohen did not convert me). And then I finally got it: the wit, the fedora, the gravelly-voice intonations and desires for the impossible woman who will set everything straight. It all fell together as I went back to the records and could hear what the man was saying about romance and love.

Second point: I bought an extended edition of “Songs of Love and Hate” at a secondhand store in Montreal a week before Mr. Cohen left this plain. I only mention this because most people refuse to believe me when I mention it. It was November; there was an election coming up south of the border that many here were nervous about (for good reasons?); the deaths of Bowie and Prince had already left a bad note in my thoughts; and I would soon have to find a new apartment. So, I bought the album. And then Mr. Cohen died.

I do not tie in these things so casually that I think they can prove a point. I just feel that I need to make this moment mine before I get into an actual review of the book. He was that kind of man, and this is a very special kind of book.

I had read other graphic novels on the lives of other figures in history (Chester Brown’s “Louis Riel” is still one of my favourites, along with the ones on George Orwell – “Orwell” by Pierre Christin, Sebastien Verdier, and others - and Dr. Hunter S. Thompson - Will Bingley and Anthony Hope-Smith's “Gonzo” and Troy Little's “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas” – respectively). The artist who created this particular narrative, Philippe Girard, was not one that I knew too well. I had not read any of his other translations from the French, although I had seen some of his work online and in posters.

Well, shame on me, because this is without question one of the most interesting and beautiful stories put into the graphic novel form that I have ever read. I might be biased as a fan, but I think that this might be the book to convert any fence-sitters out there who still wonder about how just how genuine Cohen was as a poet and musician.

Well, he was the real deal. Coming from a middle-class home in Montreal’s Jewish community, he had many opportunities presented to him as a possible future (the idea of him being a lawyer, despite his time studying law at McGill, still makes me laugh – imagine being cross-examined by that voice). But, like many artists, it was music and literature that got its teeth into him and he would befriend and create connections with some of the most interesting figures of twentieth-century art in both Canada and the U.S., and across the water in Europe. His many love affairs, friendships, betrayals and incredible luck all play out in the narrative. It is a wonderful portrait of an interesting man.

It is good to see several references and explanations provided for in the page. Remember: there really was a Suzanne (a very amusing montage of her appears in the book); there was a blue raincoat (not yet famous when it first appears); he did seduce – or was he the one taken by her – Janis Joplin; and Phil Spector did once pull a gun on him (maybe a little too much time is devoted to the Spector material?). Those were the ones I knew. Some of the other incidents are heartbreaking (the loss of a family dog named Tinkie opens up the memoir as the first story); some a little disturbing (Nico’s racism against blacks and ageism towards Cohen are not avoided); and others just confusing and unfortunate (it is hard to see Cohen as condemning Palestine just by playing songs for Israeli troops, but it is also encouraging that he wanted to cross borders and play for the other side, even during a war). But all lives contain these changes and moments, some bigger or smaller than others, as they should be.

And this is a memento mori. Our first scenes in the book are Mr. Cohen lying on the floor of his bedroom awaiting death. His last album, “You Want It Darker”, makes it clear that he was quite prepared for it, even if the moment itself seems ignominious (he fell out of bed and, apparently from this narrative, a cat was his last living companion, here called Hank Williams).

I do not know whether or not other cartoonists will attempt what Mr. Girard did here, or whether they should even try. I have seen depictions of the lives of other musicians – the Beatles, Bob Marley, Nick Cave, etc. – and they both succeed and fail in different ways. But Mr. Girard – and his translators Helge Dascher and Karen Houle – deserves much respect and cheers for this one.

Final note: the photo I took of the book’s last image in contrast with its inspiration came to me as I was walking to work. I remember the first time I saw the mural, and when I did see the sketch in the book, I could not resist. Many have commented on the contrast and on whether or not I had a partner to help me with the photo (I did not). I simply thought that I would let readers and fans know that this city does have a deep love for Mr. Cohen and that the book is a worthy tribute to the man who danced on a wire, sang in that midnight choir, and played a chord that pleased all of us.

Much respect and love, Leonard. We are all still missing you.

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You can find more poems, stories, and articles by Kendall Defoe on my Vocal profile. I complain, argue, provoke and create...just like everybody else.

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