"Born with a gift of a golden voice"

As a young man, he hobnobbed with Joni Michell, Lou Reed and Nico; jammed to his biggest hit with Jimi Hendrix; received a blowjob from Janis Joplin at New York City's Chelsea Hotel (and wrote a song about it); wrote poems and novels and climbed up the literary ladder of his hometown, Montreal. He was enchanted by a woman named Suzanne and fell in love with a woman named Marianne. He would immortalize them later. He lived in Greece, Montreal and New York.

As an older man, he tasted failure, suffered through depression ("I have no talent left/ I can't write a poem anymore/ You can call me Len or Lennie now/ Like you always wanted"), experimented with styles, producers, fasts and LSD, strummed his guitar before modestly attended shows, gradually conquered Canada, England and most of Europe ("First we take Manhattan/ Then we take Berlin" -- but in reverse order) and wrote songs for the top folk singers of his day.

As an even older man, with his fame catching up to him and America waking up to his talent, he retreated to a monastery to become an ordained Buddhist monk. His style changed -- he had synthesizers now and backup singers cooing as if in a choir. His voice matured into a rich baritone -- haunting, deep, crystal clear, almost hypnotic. His lyrics were sparse. Simple words with profound resonance. Religion. Mortality. Sex. Love (If you want a father for your child/ Or simply want to walk with me a while/ Across the sand/ I'm your man). He retreated to a monastery. Tribute albums and Best Of compilations arrived in droves. One of his hits was covered by Bob Dylan, Willie Nelson, Bono, Rufus Wainwright, Justin Timberlake, k.d. lang and (most memorably) Jeff Buckley. As a more pertinent sign of its prominence in the new millennium, Simon Cowell declared it one of his personal favorites. Another cover of this same song climbed to number one on the UK singles chart but was later pushed to number two by another cover of the same song ("Baby I have been here before/ I know this room, I've walked this floor/ I used to live alone before I knew you./ I've seen your flag on the marble arch/ Love is not a victory march/ It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah."). He stopped smoking and threw away his antidepressants. He said he wanted to fall with his eyes open.

He got engaged to Rebecca de Mornay in the early 1990s, but it didn't last. He cut an album with Rick Ruben. He lost his entire fortune in 2004, when a business associate to whom he entrusted his finances betrayed him. Now in his mid-70s, he was forced to go on a world tour. His sublime, three-hour performances are now the stuff of legend. He's a wit, a charmer, a fountain of wisdom and the ultimate gentleman. And he's still going strong, having just released a new album in January.

Leonard Cohen's voice was rolling through my head almost the whole time I was reading Sylvie Simmons' phenomenal new biography, "I'm your man: The Life of Leonard Cohen." That, in itself, is a great reason to read the book, but there are many others. Her research is astonishing, her writing is beautiful and she intersperses her tales of Cohen's fascinating life with interview snippets. She covers her subject with affection but doesn't shy away from chronicling his depression, anxieties and sexual liaisons. She talks to everyone and, more importantly, everyone seems to talk to her.

Consider Simmons' account of Leonard battling depression in the Mount Baldy Zen Center, a spartan Buddhist retreat close to Los Angeles where Cohen became "Jikan," a monk among monks subject to a rigorous daily routine. In describing the experience, Cohen compares the monk's life to "pebbles in a bag; one is always working shoulder to shoulder, so it has the same quality as life anywhere, the same sensations of love, hate, jealousy, rejection, admiration. It's ordinary life under a microscope."

His first stop after leaving Mount Baldy, Simmons notes, was McDonald's, to buy a Filet-O-Fish. "He would wash it down later with a glass of good French wine." He went home for a few days, watched some "Jerry Springer," realized what life outside the monastery is like, and went back to the mountain. The details sparkle.

Simmons also does a masterful job tracing Cohen's evolution as a musician, from a guitar-stroking folkster singing about tea and oranges to a fedora-wearing crooner predicting Apocalypse in front of a booming synthesizer. The difference is striking. The voice I hear when I listen to early versions of "Suzanne" and "Bird on a Wire" is indistinguishable from the one belonging to the "kid with a crazy dream," the Jewish monk in a fedora who enchanted the Paramount Theater crowd in Oakland in December 2010 (one of the most memorable concerts I've ever attended). The beautiful vocals of the Webb sisters and the soft notes coming from his band provided the perfect backdrop for Cohen's baritone ("I was born like this/ I had no choice/ I was born with a gift of a golden voice").

Cohen's wisdom is as soothing as his voice. When he loses his life savings, he doesn't panic or despair (though his history shows he was perfectly capable of both reactions). He tells his friends, "It's enough to put a dent in one's mood" and then rises up to even greater height. Crowds pack to see him. Women swoon and so do critics. Now 78, he remains on top of his game -- still, steady and free. A bird on a wire.

My favorite Cohen performance of "Hallelujah." Live in London, 2009:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YrLk4vdY28Q