Leonard Cohen (1934-2016) in conversation with Stan Rogal
let us
have another official language,
let us
determine what it will be,
let us
give a Canada Council Fellowship
to the most original suggestion,
let us
teach sex in the home
to parents,
let us
threaten to join the U.S.A.
and pull out at the last moment
— from:
The Only Tourist in Havana
It was mid-afternoon on a Tuesday when the phone rang. Hello, I said. A strictly business-like female voice responded with her own hello, followed by: Mr. Rogal, yes? I’m calling from Toronto Life magazine. Toronto Life, what? Well, my jaw dropped, and you could’ve knocked me over with a feather, as they say in the movies. Why would Toronto Life be calling me? The woman allowed time for my shock to pass and for me to catch my breath. Are you still there, she asked. Yes, still here. Where else would I be? I smiled, but my attempt at humour fell flat on the other end. The voice went on to inform me that the magazine had a story for me, something that suited my particular area of expertise — that is, a ‘possible’ story — if I was willing to take the risk and check out the truth or falsity of the claim. I became more intrigued. Of course, my so-called ‘expertise’ was generally viewed with scorn and considered highly debatable, even questionable, among the rank and file of local salaried reporters, and who could blame them? Even I could hardly believe it. Anyway. She continued, saying that the magazine had just been made aware that a person resembling poet-singer-songwriter Leonard Cohen was now sitting in the bar at the Chelsea Hotel, and was I willing and able to head downtown immediately to see whether an interview was in order or not. I would be paid accordingly, dependant on the outcome, and, did I understand her meaning. Crystal, I said. Depending whether it was a wild goose chase or not. Standard fee or bus fare, yes? Precisely, she said, then added that time, obviously, was of the essence.
Toronto Life, I thought. Uh-huh. Interesting. It was rare when I was approached by an actual employee working for an actual reputable magazine to interview a dead poet. The procedure was generally an anonymous invitation from an unnamed source for some undesignated or else relatively unknown or (or ghostly) publication, such as Periodicities, which had graciously printed several of my interviews, a blog produced and transmitted by an avid (perhaps overly so) poetry fan from their back room or basement in Ottawa. I would conduct the interview, type it up, and mail a hard copy to a P.O. Box in Toronto. This would be followed by my receiving a not unreasonable and much-needed amount of cold hard cash delivered in an unmarked white envelope slipped under my door. It was all very cloak-and-dagger stuff. Business concluded until the next time. And, who knows, perhaps it was this same unknown source who had provided the tip to Toronto Life. Though, more likely, the magazine didn’t want to waste the time of their own staff investigating what they suspected was plainly a crank call. Or a joke. I mean, Leonard Cohen at the Chelsea Hotel? It was a bit obvious, no?
Mr. Rogal, the voice urged. Is this arrangement agreeable to you? Are we a go?
Yes, I said. We are a go. In fact, I’m at the door and leaving as we speak.
Fine, said the voice, relieved. I’ll email the necessary paper work. Good luck. She hung up as I flew down the stairs.
I wore brown sandals, olive green shorts and flat cap, a lime green short-sleeved polo shirt with a jungle theme of plants and animals done in black lines and yellow highlights, sunglasses, and a light-weight shoulder bag, also olive green, prepared to meet the blaze of a July afternoon. I grabbed my bike from the vestibule, hit the road, and headed south.
Arriving at the hotel, I locked the bike to a convenient metal rack and made my way to the bar. Sure enough, sitting at a table was a man who looked remarkably like Leonard Cohen, aged somewhere in his mid-sixties, looking dapper in a grey shirt, black bolo tie and grey striped sports coat. He appeared to be drinking his signature Red Needle, two ounces Tequila, one slice lemon, ice cubes, topped with cranberry juice. I hesitated, aware that during normal proceedings, the poet would be expecting me for an interview. In this instance, I’d have to introduce myself, tell him my business, and hope he’d be open to talking with me. I suddenly realized that apart from my not possessing any official press identification, my attire was hardly in keeping with that of a serious reporter. Ah, well, faint heart ne’er won hand of fair maiden, or words to that effect. I took a breath and made my approach.
Stan Rogal: Excuse me, but do I have the pleasure of meeting Mr. Leonard Cohen?
Leonard Cohen: (He smiled warmly and folded his hands at his chest). I’ll reserve comment on the pleasure part, but, yes, I am Leonard Cohen. Would you care to join me?
SR: Yes, if you don’t mind. (I tucked my cap in my pants pocket, plunked myself down across from him, fumbled my tape recorder from my shoulder bag, dropped the bag between my feet).
LC: Not at all. I was told I might expect visitors.
SR: I see. Told? By whom, if I may ask? (I wondered if he might provide me with some insight as to the identity of the ‘powers that be’ who set up these otherworldy interviews).
LC: The director.
SR: The director. Which director would that be? (I slid the recorder between us and hit play).
LC: Is that a tape recorder? (He kept his hands folded and pointed with both index fingers).
SR: Ah, yes, sorry, allow me to explain. I’m a freelance reporter. On my day off, hence, the casual clothing. I got a call from Toronto Life magazine saying that you were here, and would I be able to do a short interview. Being a long-time fan of yours, I said yes. That is, if you’ll allow me to ask you a few questions.
LC: (He pressed his index fingers to his lips, hesitated, then threw his hands apart and smiled widely). Of course! I have nothing but respect for the press. Drink? (He tossed back the remains of his glass just as the server arrived with two more and placed them on the table). What would you like to know?
SR: I suppose, mainly, what is the reason for your — what? — “materialization” at this place in time, and who is the director and what part does he or she play?
LC: She. You don’t know?
SR: As I said, details were less than sketchy. I’m here, more or less, on a fact-finding mission.
LC: Well then, that makes two of us, as I’ve had to do the same since my arrival. Cheers. (We raised our glasses and sipped our drinks). What can I tell you except that a movie is being made by an aspiring young film company that chronicles my life during the 1960’s, especially when I left Greece having decided to give up writing poetry and fiction and return to New York to pursue a career as a folk music singer/songwriter.
SR: Yes, I’m familiar with the details, and one certainly can’t argue with the outcome. (I leaned back, spread my arms toward the man, and warmly announced). I mean, the rest, as they say, is history. Though I’m slightly puzzled and maybe you can clarify. It would seem that you had great success with your early writing. Louis Dudek published Let Us Compare Mythologies as the first book of the McGill Poetry Series in 1956. You were only twenty-two. Your poetry collection, The Spice-Box of Earth in 1961, met with great critical success. Robert Weaver declared that you were probably the best young poet in English Canada at the time.
LC: Yes, that was very flattering of them.
SR: In 1963 you had a novel published, The Favourite Game. In 1964, a third collection of poems, Flowers for Hitler. In 1965 the National Film Board produced a 44-minute documentary on you and your work. Pretty impressive, I’d say. Many struggling young writers would kill.
LC: You’re right. I seemed somehow blessed, and it would be ungenerous of me to complain, though, to be accurate, those following books did not fare so well outside the hallowed walls of academia, getting mixed reviews and selling very few copies.
SR: Uh-huh. Your 1966 novel, Beautiful Losers, received a good deal of attention from the Canadian press, as I recall.
LC: Ha, true, though most of it bad, due both to its formal construction, which reviewers found off-putting, as well as toward a number of controversial graphic sex passages in the book, which had them wagging a finger in utter disgust, calling the book pornographic. As if no one in this country ever performed oral sex or masturbated.
SR: Or fantasized about a dead Mohawk female saint and wanting to “fuck her on the moon with a steel hourglass up your hole.”
LC: What can I say? I was attempting to break the confining chains of polite literature in Canada, much by way of experimentation and excess. The press was not amused.
SR: Whereas the Boston Globe stated: James Joyce is not dead. He is living in Montreal under the name Leonard Cohen.
LC: Which maybe says something about the difference between the two countries in terms of the artistic and sexual revolution of the ‘60s. The U.S. was much more daring and radical in many ways. That is, in my opinion. Still, in the end, the novel failed to find an audience, and so, it crashed and burned like the proverbial lead balloon. I decided a change in scene and a change in career was necessary if I wanted to try and make a name for myself, as well as — hopefully — earn a decent living.
SR: You moved to New York, where you’d already made some connections, especially through the underground art scene. Andy Warhol’s factory group, and so on. Your first big success with a song was “Suzanne,” correct? It became a huge hit for Judy Collins in 1966, though you had written it years before, as a poem.
LC: That’s very good. I’m impressed with your knowledge. I did tell Judy that it was a poem, but she insisted it was a song. I mean, I think I’ve always felt that everything I write has been composed with music in mind, always the sound of my guitar in the background, whether poetry, fiction, or songs.
SR: Though you made a slight change — one word — between the poem and the song, and voiced your reasoning, something which impressed me, that you actually considered why altering one word was appropriate as a differentiation. It stuck with me and even affected my own work.
LC: Then, you’re also a poet? (I shrugged and waved may hands in the air, so-so). In the song, I end the poem with, “she’s touched your perfect body with her mind,” completing the circle of love that the majority of people want when listening to a popular song. In the poem, I end with, “she’s touched her perfect body with her mind,” which opens the poem to a very different interpretation; a very different feeling.
SR: A poem often being more complex, more challenging, than a pop song.
LC: Yes, though not necessarily better or worse, just a different animal.
SR: Nice. (We sat quietly for a moment and sipped our drinks. Leonard sat patiently waiting. I touched a finger to my lips). So, let me get this straight. Some novice film company is shooting a movie about you. Here we are in the Chelsea Hotel. Does that mean there’ll be a scene that involves how you and Janis Joplin met in 1968? (The story went that Janis Joplin was drunkenly searching the hotel in order to ball Kris Kristofferson and bumped into Leonard Cohen in an elevator who was similarly in search of the elusive Nico, wanting to ball her. Leonard asked if Janis knew what Kris Kristofferson looked like. She replied no. Leonard said, well, you’re in luck, I’m Kris Kristofferson, and the pair went off together to a room). You’re quoted as saying: “We fell into each other’s arms through some process of elimination.” Very theatrical. Even romantic, on some level. You wrote the song “Chelsea Hotel No. 2” describing the rendezvous. I liked the lines: “You told me you preferred handsome men / But for me you would make an exception.” Humble, self-deprecating, and funny on some level. Did she actually say that?
LC: (His voice got suddenly somber and wistful). I think she might’ve said she preferred men with more meat on their bones, or something along those lines, as I was quite skinny in those days. I made use of poetic license. (Leonard winced somewhat uncomfortably and rocked his head slightly).
SR: Sorry, are you thinking of something? Or did I say something out of line?
LC: No, not you, me. I also wrote: “Giving me head on an unmade bed while the limousines wait in the street.” I’ve always disliked the locker-room approach to these matters. I named her at some point. It’s an indiscretion for which I am very sorry, still.
SR: Uh-huh. And the line you used on her in the elevator, that you were Kris Kristofferson. Did she really believe that?
LC: (He laughed and reached for his glass). Oh, hardly. Kris’s handsome face and powerful physique were on display everywhere. There was no mistaking me for him under any circumstances, drunk, high, or sober. No, but she never let on. It was all a game. Great generosity prevailed in those doom decades.
SR: You met a few times after.
LC: Yes, she’d say: “Hey, man, you in town to read poetry for old ladies.” She liked to kid me.
SR: She could be cruel too, yes? In a 1969 interview she said something like: ‘I live pretty loose. Balling with strangers and such. But sometimes you’re with someone and you’re convinced that they have something to tell you. So maybe nothing’s happening, but you keep telling yourself something’s happening. All of a sudden about four o’clock in the morning you realize that, flat ass, this motherfucker’s just lying there. He’s not balling me. There’s nothing.’ She said that happened to her twice. You and Jim Morrison. She said you were the only two she could think of — the only prominent people — that she tried to like up front, because of who they were, and who she wanted to know better. And that you both gave her nothing.
LC: I know. Sad. She was a very complicated and torn individual. It was a like tragic love story that ended even more tragically.
SR: Yeah. (I bent over the table on my elbows and nodded). Getting back to the song. You gave her the line: “We are ugly but we have the music.” Do you ever wonder if that’s enough? The music, I mean, through all the bullshit and tragedy and death?
LC: Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose. It is what it is. I don’t know. (The server arrived with two more Red Needles and removed our empty glasses).
SR: And in terms of the movie, what’s your involvement, besides being the main character?
LC: (He took a deep breath and resumed his former smile). Ah, it seems that I’ve been summoned in a strictly consulting capacity. As an observer of the action, called upon to clarify or expand, when asked
SR: I would imagine there being some very basic, and obvious, difficulties. I mean, the Chelsea Hotel of present-day Toronto is hardly the Chelsea Hotel of 1960s New York. And Toronto “the city” (I made air quotes with my fingers) is hardly New York “the city,” nor are the characters you met in New York — Judy Collins, Andy Warhol, Nico, Lou Reed, Joan Baez, James Taylor, Allan Ginsberg, Bob Dylan, to name a few — hardly the characters of Toronto. Recognizable, world famous artists and celebrities, I mean. And you can’t simply change history and have actors portraying these characters as somehow living in Toronto rather than in New York, right? Square pegs in round holes. (I mimed the action. The Tequila was getting to me). I mean, I assume you’re shooting here, yes? Otherwise, you’d be… (I used my thumb to point in the direction I thought was south).
LC: Yes, it’s awkward, to say the least. As I said, it’s a fledgling Canadian film company using little-known Canadian talent, working within a very limited budget. From what I’ve been able to surmise, there’ve been constant re-writes and updates, changes in writers, changes in staff, the upshot being that the plot of the movie is now going to be more along the lines of a fictionalized account loosely based on a true story. The idea is that instead of leaving Greece for New York, I leave to return to Toronto. The song “Suzanne” subsequently gets discovered and sung by a fictional up-and-coming singer on a TV talent show.
SR: Why not Joni Mitchell?
LC: I know. I love Joni. The problem is, no one wants to get involved with lawyers and dealing with the legal paperwork. Too time consuming and expensive. They’re also worried about being sued if the movie tanks.
SR: That doesn’t worry you?
LC: I think that, given my present circumstances, I’m beyond worrying.
SR: Of course. What about the Janis Joplin character, which seems crucial and essential?
LC: Again, she becomes another fictional character.
SR: So, not Janis Joplin.
LC: No, fear of being sued by her estate. Of anyone’s estate.
SR: But isn’t the whole appeal for an audience that you were involved with actual famous people? That you performed with them, had sex with them? I mean, that’s part of the overall drama and storyline, right? Or, am I wrong? I mean, from what I’ve seen of most — if not all — biopics, the characters have to look, walk, and talk like the person they’re portraying or else audiences feel cheated. Never mind that the chance of winning an Oscar is shot out the window.
LC: No, you’re right. Which is why the producers are even considering making me a fictional character. Perhaps even of a different ethnic background.
SR: Are you fucking kidding me? (Leonard shook his head). Uh-huh. Only in Canada. I think I need a drink. (I took a large swallow and rattled the ice cubes in the glass. I figured I’d shift gears before I said something I’d regret later). You mentioned earlier that there might be visitors arriving. Anyone you can think of?
LC: I was hoping — and the director strongly hinted at this — possibly, Nico. Although Nico did her best to avoid my advances sixty years ago, so I’m not expecting that to change.
SR: Nico? You mean the real Nico? Or an actress resembling, dressed as, and playing, the real Nico? Or an actress resembling and dressed as the real Nico, but actually playing a totally different character altogether, so not Nico? Given the budget and fear of lawsuits, I mean.
LC: It does seem more than a bit confusing, when you say it like that.
SR: Uh-huh. And how are you feeling about the whole thing?
LC: Well, considering that it’s a young, spirited group of people involved, and that everyone appears to be doing the best possible job they possibly can, given the situation, I’m quite happy to pitch in any way that I’m able, and I look forward to the result of all their hard work.
SR: That’s a very gracious and generous attitude — in these doom decades — especially as you may be written out of your own story.
LC: “We mortals are but shadows and dust.”
SR: Well, if you’re gonna throw Shakespeare in my face, I’m gonna give up now. (We both laughed as two more drinks arrived. I checked the time on my cell. Four o’clock in the afternoon and I was getting plastered). Anyone else you’d like to have come around?
LC: It would be nice to see Bob Dylan again.
SR: The real Bob Dylan.
LC: Is there any other kind?
SR: We’re not sure. He tends to re-invent himself at intervals.
LC: I was under the impression he’d passed over.
SR: Strictly a rumour, I had the recent pleasure. Though, there was some degree of uncertainty, I must admit.
LC: Sounds mysterious. Do you have any more questions for me?
SR: Just one. I know that you were or are a follower of Zen Buddhism. I also recall that you dabbled in other belief systems, to which you said you never met a religion that you didn’t like. Still, in all, you said you maintained your Jewish heritage and were, at bottom, a Jew. Am I right? (Leonard gazed at me, blinked, and nodded). My understanding, and my confusion, is that in the Jewish religion there is no such thing as heaven or hell; that there may or may not be an afterlife, though there is the likelihood that there is something given certain readings of the Torah, but, even this something, is foggy. (I realized that my knowledge of Judaism was vague, at best, and I was likely coming across as a babbling fool, but I pressed on. Blame the Tequila). So, my question to you is, having gone to the other side, what did you discover?
LC: Hm, well, sorry to disappoint you, but all I can remember clearly is that I was sick with leukemia, I fell down some stairs in my California home, and I awoke here, in Toronto, at the Chelsea Hotel. The rest is a blank. I’m not saying I did or did not experience a form of afterlife, I’m only saying I don’t remember. I’m sure that’s not the answer you were looking for.
SR: No, it wasn’t. Although it was the answer I was half-expecting. (As I raised my glass to my lips, two women marched over to the table. They didn’t appear too pleased). Leonard? (I tipped my glass toward the pair). Who are they? Friends of yours?
LC: Ah. This is the director and her assistant. (He waved a hand in my direction). This is a reporter from Toronto Life. Doing an interview. (The director reached down, grabbed my recorder, shut it off and removed the tape).
Director: Sorry, no interviews. And, I must insist that you leave. You’re on my set.
SR: (I checked out the bar. There were two people at one table and one person sitting at the bar, talking with the bartender). Are you saying these people are actors?
Director: They’re extras. This is the green room. The talent is upstairs, shooting.
SR: (I pointed to her hand). What you have there. It’s my property. I need it back.
Director: This is my set. You have no permission to be here. I’m confiscating your tape, which you can have back once we’ve completed shooting. Sign this. (She snatched a clipboard with a pen attached from her assistant and held it in front of me. I signed). Thank you. And now, I’m asking you to vacate the premises immediately.
SR: Can I finish my drink?
Director: It’s cranberry juice.
SR: What?
Director: This is the actor’s green room. That’s cranberry juice.
SR: If this is cranberry juice, then who’s he? (I indicated Leonard).
Director: I can’t tell you that. Everyone here is under contract. Everyone’s identity is protected by law. Now, please leave or I’ll have to have you escorted out.
LC: (He chuckled, smacked the table with his hands, and stared at me. He rocked his head and spoke/sang in that famous gravelly voice of his). “How many nights I prayed for this, to let my work begin, first we take Manhattan, then we take Berlin.” (We both laughed).
Whether as a sign of defiance or simply as a benefit of the doubt, I knocked back my drink and smacked my lips. I grabbed my gear, put on my hat, staggered out of the bar, and fumbled with the lock to free my bike. If that was merely cranberry juice, why did I feel so woolly-headed and why was I worried that I might be too drunk to ride? I had to ask myself: what the hell really happened back there with the director? I blew through my lips and rubbed my eyes with two fingers. Whatever. She could keep the damn tape as I considered my memory to still be pretty sharp, and I figured I could remember enough of the details that I could take a relatively decent stab at piecing together the various parts of the interview into the semblance of an accurate and coherent report for the magazine. That is, if I could manage to get home without wrapping myself around a lamp post or falling in front of a bus. How does that joke go, where the cop asks the guy why he was driving in his condition, and the guy says, because he was too drunk to walk, har, har. Yeah, funny, if it wasn’t so true. I got off the bike and started pushing it along the sidewalk.
The Tequila was real, I repeated to myself, ergo the bar was real, ergo the customers and staff were real, ergo Leonard Cohen was real, ergo the director and her assistant were not real, and, instead, were peddling a load of horse manure. They were probably themselves actors pretending to be...so on and so forth…as part of a Theatre 101 improv exercise or whatever.
Fine, I thought, just keep telling yourself that. After all, when the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw, a Red Needle from a cranberry mocktail, yes?
Still, no need to tempt fate. I adjusted my shoulder bag and kept pushing my bike up Bay street. It’d take longer, but I’d arrive alive, yes? All things being equal.
I stretched my face and blinked my eyes.
One Tequila, two Tequila, three Tequila, floor.
Stan Rogal lives and writes in Toronto along with his artist partner Jacquie Jacobs and their pet jackabee. His work has appeared almost magically in numerous magazines and anthologies. The author of several books, plus a handful of chapbooks, a 13th poetry collection will be published in March 2025 with ecw press. Co-founder of Bald Ego Theatre and former coordinator of the popular Idler Pub Reading Series.
