Older, but always wiser, Cohen returns

In the face of international success and critical acclaim, Cohen has become increasingly reclusive, releasing his last studio album, the apocalyptic The Future, in 1992. But despite his hermitic relationship to the music business, Cohen's importance, both historical and contemporary, cannot be underestimated. Along with Dylan, Judy Collins, Tim Buckley, and fellow Canadian Joni Mitchell, he helped to create our popular image of the singer-songwriter; remember, this is the man whose body of work includes the undisputed folk classics "Suzanne," "Bird On A Wire," "So Long, Marianne," "Joan of Arc," and "Hallelujah." He has been hailed as a primary influence by artists such as U2's Bono, Nick Cave, Suzanne Vega, and, of course, Jeff Buckley, whose cover of "Hallelujah" is the definitive interpretation of the song. In fact, musicians are so eager to ally themselves with the Cohen camp that the past nine years have left his fans snacking on mediocre tribute albums: if happiness is a warm gun, misery is Sting and the Chieftains inflicting a Celtic gang-bang on "Sisters of Mercy." And let us not forget "Cohen pa norsk," which, loosely translated, means "Those Norwegians sure are ballsy!"

So light a clove and thank your lucky stars that Cohen has emerged from his Sybil's cave with Ten New Songs, an elegant, pithy meditation on love lost and religion found. Like all of his work, Cohen's new album is no upper. His hushed voice, ravaged by time and nicotine, lends a world-weary poignancy to the searing intimacy of his lyrics.

His words can, and will, break your heart, as in the stunning lines, "Confined to sex, we pressed against/The limits of the sea/I saw there were no oceans left/For scavengers like me." As always, Cohen has read his Bible: in "By the Rivers Dark" he channels the sensual beauty of the psalms into a muted cry of heartbreak, while "The Land of Plenty" is a moody breakup song that bemoans "the Christ who has not risen."

Ten New Songs continues in the same Zen-lounge vein as The Future, forsaking Cohen's old whiny-dude-with-a-guitar sound for prominent percussion and a mellow base. The tempo is invariably slow and sometimes sluggish, and despite the intensity of his language, Cohen's laconic tone can seem overly mellow. Such sonic brooding, combined with lyrics like "There was nothing left/Between the Nameless and the Name," occasionally teeters on the brink of monotony. Cohen fans don't listen to him for the beat; they're here for the words. So when "Love Itself" is not only musically unimaginative but lyrically abstruse to boot, the result is a six-minute exercise in narcolepsy. The album's relative brevity is therefore something of a blessing; in just under an hour one can enjoy a full dose of Cohen's poetic brilliance without being overwhelmed by the bleakness of his vision.

But let us remember, poetic brilliance is nothing to sneeze at. In Britney's world of simplistic hooks and mindless lyrics, I'll gladly shed a tear—and wear a beret—for good old "L. Cohen." (Columbia) —Ana Nersessian

Back to A&E...