A Review of Christophe Lebold's Leonard Cohen: The Man Who Saw the Angels Fall...

A version of this article first appeared in PRODUCT magazine

In my early teens, with music an increasingly integral part of life, a friend’s dad would periodically sit us down and sermonise as to who and what was worthy of our devotion, and what we should avoid. There was no room for opinion or debate – this was the gospel according to Jim Jackson. Examples included his decree that Bob Dylan had only ever written one bad song (although he never disclosed which one – we would have to work that out for ourselves).

Another proclamation which stayed with me was that everything you needed to know about Leonard Cohen could be found on the first album Songs of Leonard Cohen, and, at a push, you could distill that even further to the opening track ‘Suzanne’. I had this in mind as I cracked the spine of Christophe Lebold’s mighty and in-depth biography, Leonard Cohen: The Man Who Saw The Angels Fall. In a way, old man Jackson had a point. ‘Suzanne’ would cast a long shadow over Cohen’s career, but Lebold’s book proves that fatherly decree moot and meaningless, as it was most likely always meant to be.

Even those with only the briefest curiosity about Leonard's Cohen’s music would know that already. I can’t claim to be a Cohen completist, but I am familiar with what you could call the classics, and have heard tell of a number of the accompanying myths and legends. In this updated edition (the first was published in French in 2013) Lebold looks behind those to honestly and critically attempt to get to a sort of truth about this most charismatic and complex of men, although his admiration for his subject is never far from the surface (it should be noted that the two became friends before Cohen’s death in 2016, bonding over a shared devotion to Zen Buddhism).

Religion plays a huge part in the story, far more than I had realised. Born into an Orthodox Jewish family, this upbringing was felt deeply and Judaism’s faith, symbolism, and iconography would never fully leave him (even when he became an ordained Zen monk in the 1990s) running through all of his work to a significant degree. This need for faith (rather than belief) is central to everything he tries to be, which makes his failures as interesting as his successes, arguably more so. The symbolism of the fall of man, as alluded to in the title, is never far from the subtext. Philosophical thinkers outside of religion are also an important part of Cohen’s quest for greater knowledge, self-improvement and understanding, with Nietzsche and the Existentialists proving a particularly good fit for his particular clash of egoism and self-loathing (always a heady combination) and his attempt to live with it.

The early years when Cohen was best known as a poet and novelist were a revelation to me, and I’ll be exploring a number of his publications on the back of this biography. 1963’s award-winning novel The Favourite Game was compared to James Joyce’s A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, and his second novel Beautiful Losers (1966) was described as a “hallucinatory masterpiece” – a title which says quite a lot about the writer himself. As a poet, he followed in the tradition of the metaphysical poets, such as John Donne and W.B. Yeats, the intersection of the sacred and the profane arguably defining his life’s work. This identity as a literary figure would feed not only into his later music, but also his self image.

In The Man Who Saw The Angels Fall, Lebold steps outside of the well-trodden biographical path to offer a number of fascinating facts and asides. A name I didn’t expect to crop up is that of infamous Scottish writer Alexander Trocchi, the author of Young Adam and Cain’s Book. His appearance is as brief and salacious as those familiar with his life and work would expect. Fans of Cohen’s music will know of his move towards more electronic sounds in the 1980s, but who knew that it was the simple Casio VL-Tone toy synthesiser, as used by the German band Trio on their global hit ‘Da Da Da (I Don't Love You You Don't Love Me Aha Aha Aha)’, which kick-started that interest? Those early to mid-1980s albums sound far more dated than those from the 1960s and ‘70s. But there was always something chameleonic about Cohen, a ‘Zelig’ like character able to shape-shift and fit in with most movements and times.

There was the Mediterranean poet, the existential troubadour (and later, the new wave troubadour), the Jewish cowboy, the lounge lizard, and so many more identities to be worn and discarded as deemed appropriate. His appearance in an episode of arguably the defining TV show of the day, Miami Vice, (resplendent in Armani suit) sealed his acceptance by the tastemakers of the ‘80s, a welcome return for a musician who some thought irrelevant after punk and post-punk. But he was always a songwriters’ songwriter, and when the likes of Echo and the Bunnymen’s Ian McCulloch, and The Sisters of Mercy’s Andrew Eldritch (whose band take their name from an early Cohen song) were offering their seal of approval in interviews it meant he remained feted among the more discerning musos.

His later albums are, for me, the most interesting in terms of style if not substance. The extraordinary tales behind 1988’s I’m Your Man could make for a book all of its own, where the synth pop choices could be called brave or foolhardy, depending on how kind you’re feeling. It could be argued that for most of the eighties this was a man musically out of time, and it’s important to acknowledge that long-term friend and collaborator Jennifer Warnes’ album of Cohen covers Famous Blue Raincoat played a significant role in his critical restoration. Although Lebold takes time to offer an overview, further justification for his artistic and aesthetic choices at this point would have been interesting. It seems ludicrous to suggest that a book of this depth and scope could leave you wanting more, but there are times when this is the case. The stories behind 1977’s Death of a Ladies’ Man and working with Phil Spector is another section where it feels like there may be more to tell.

Which brings us back to where we began, and ‘Suzanne’, then ‘So Long, Marianne’, ‘The Winter Lady’, ‘Sisters of Mercy’, ‘Take This Longing’ (inspired by the legendary Nico), other songs linked to Joni Mitchell, Janis Joplin, and so, so many others. This was a man of multiple muses, and the list of his lovers and paramours is both exhaustive and exhausting. Despite his varied interests and beliefs, Cohen seems destined to be defined by his relationships, particularly with women. Not always romantic – but pretty close to it, to say he preferred the company of women is the biggest understatement in this review. It’s the reasons behind this which are fascinating and significant. As he gets older his raging against aging becomes difficult to read about, often contemplating the end of the affairs before they even begin, something which becomes unbearable for all involved.

Leonard Cohen: The Man Who Saw The Angels Fall is a such a comprehensive book that you can take what you want from it. Interested in the personal and prurient? Then his trials and tribulations with relationships, substances, and religion are all detailed. More intrigued by the poetry, philosophy and piety, then that’s all in there too. And if it begins and ends with the music, then the sections on the albums and tours dig deep into the sort of details which many fans will be looking for. But taken as a whole, what emerges is a picture of a flawed but brilliant man, one who, while fully aware of these aspects of his self, fought hard to try and reconcile them. It is the most human of stories, yet one touched by the divine.

Leonard Cohen: The Man Who Saw The Angels Fall is published by Luath.