Dear Mr. Cohen,
may I be honest with you? I never liked your music. As a boy, i sat in dark, smoke filled rooms, reading your poems, listening to your voice, while most of my friends were out there; in the sun; listening to the „Bay City Rollers“ or „Suzi Quatro“.
Actually I learned how to play the guitar, because I wanted to sing your songs and attract girls by doing so. It worked. I mean I learned how to play the guitar and -yes- it attracted the girls. Well not THE girls, but a specific type of girls, those girls who had the same strange ideas and melancholy in their hearts as I did, girls with long dark hair, preferably dressed in black, with a fine melancholy, big boobs and even bigger souls. And so we sang your dark melancholic songs and read your dark melancholic poems.
The first time I saw you in concert had been in 1979 in London, the last time in Bucharest in 2013. Many things happened in between these 30+ years, Love and tragedy, happiness and loss. And you were there, with me, my friend, soothing my wounded heart.
Still when I sit in my room, at night, the candles lit, I play guitar.
And when the hour gets late I always end up playing your songs.
Still I can’t do smalltalk for more then 5 minutes without throwing in sentences like
“Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash.” or “It doesn’t matter what you do because it’s going to happen anyway.”
I never liked your music.
I loved it.
I adored it.
It has been the fuel, I ran my life on.
I love the strange ideas and the melancholy you gave to me.
Life might have been easier without you, but it would have been a lot colder.
And the world is a much colder place now already. Without you.
So long, Mr. Cohen. We’ll meet again.