On Thursday August 5, 2009, I went alone to the second of two Leonard Cohen concerts in Istanbul. It was in Harbiye at Cemil Topuzlu Açıkhava Sahnesi, an outdoor amphitheatre. By eleven o’clock that evening, an audience of four thousand had been wooed through two hours of our own cheers and tears.
We had heard the words “I have changed my name so often. I’ve lost my wife and children, but I’ve many friends. And some of them are with me here tonight” and we cried for joy because I think we believed Leonard Cohen was singing about us. And he was. We were seduced to encore. I was waiting especially for “Famous Blue Raincoat” and had a Dictaphone at the ready, toying with recording it. Part of me struggled with the fact that the moment was supposed to be enough and my need to flail against the dissolution of my own memories and capture something permanent. Undoubtedly Leonard Cohen would have taken the former view due to previous Zen Buddhist endeavours.
When the encore began with “So Long Marianne,” a woman remained standing, as many others were. She stood clapping and swaying in that reverie Leonard Cohen had made us believe we all basked in. An aspect of lost love shared permeated the audience and I felt a solidarity of isolated togetherness. This woman clapping and swaying stood in front of the old man who sat beside me. She was awkward in her rhythm, but in a way I felt like she was all of us, uncertain how to navigate the release being offered, so I forgave her off-time gestures. Suddenly, the old man tapped the woman, indicating she must sit down so he could see. As she was about to acquiesce, he prematurely stood up and placed his rough hands on her shoulders and forced her down into her seat.
I wouldn’t say I felt indignant, but I did smoulder with rage at this old man, who I’d noticed earlier wasn’t outwardly enjoying himself, for momentarily ruining what I would later say was “the most emotional if not the best show I’ve ever seen.” Through a red filter, I heard the words, “it’s four in the morning, the end of December. I’m writing you now just to see if you’re better.” I pressed record, but could only feel the heat radiating off this old man beside me who wished to view another old man perform and could not collude with this appreciative atmosphere. What had been so profound had become – for a moment – a mere tinkling trickle on a stage far below me.
As I walked to the ferry after the second encore, I checked the Dictaphone and discovered nothing on it. In the dark of the amphitheatre, I had pressed the wrong button.
-- Michael Goertzen
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