Anything new from Leonard Cohen is cause for rejoicing. That he’s named his new album Old Ideas is only right. At his age, who can expect him to have new ones? At his age, where can he look except at the past? The new album is self-aware and self-referential. He knows very well what his image is, and he can get away with writing a song about it. He has always presented himself as a ladies’ man, but an old and weary one, even in the beginning. Remember, though he entered music and became famous during the youthquake sixties, he is a generation older than the folk-rock peers who first embraced him. When his voice, lamenting and enshrining some Suzanne, entered the world’s consciousness he was in his thirties, old enough to have amassed enough conquests to feel weary about. He was old all along, and he’s only gotten older. So of course he’s taken an even deeper turn for the rueful. Somehow his last album, Dear Heather, didn’t make any impression on me at all. It just felt bare-bones and cold. This one I want to delve into. It may be the last chance we have to hear new words from the man, snuggle up to his warm voice, soak up his wisdom.
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