Leonard

Twice in the last few days I have happened upon a very famous singer by chance. I mean actually happened upon actually by chance and actually very famous.

I was walking down a Dublin lane when I heard the unmistakable voice of legendary Canadian poet and songsmith Leonard Cohen. Over the fence was - unbelievably - the good man himself, singing in the middle of a field under a gloomy afternoon sky. He was warming up for his first concert in 15 years (so I've subsequently been told) and was in fine form.

As The Guardian recently put it he's always seemed like an old man, even when he lived in a younger man's body. And now at the age of 73 he finally fits into himself. A crumpled, greying old man clasping a microphone, hunched in a baggy grey suit beneath a fedora hat. His voice low and decayed but coarsely beautiful, matching perfectly his matured, melancholic phrases.

I watched him for some time as he practised his moves: bending dramatically near the ground, making fists at noone and hiding sullenly beneath his hat. He was very good - but the backing band? Fake strings, rimshot drums and compulsory blues wail. For a moment he brought to mind a delusional hobo, wandering confused into a maudlin karaoke bar. I guess I'm alone in these sentiments as all the reviews were glowing, especially towards the band.

It made me wonder what I'd do in the situation. Strip back for a start. Bring in Mogwai or the Brodsky Quartet second. Definitely keep the hat.