Leonard Cohen

Our first reaction, once we've taken our seats on the steps of the Cavea, is one of astonishment. Waiting for Leonard Cohen is not the usual handful of incurable nostalgics, but an impatient crowd pushing to reach their seats in time. It's been announced that the concert - incredibly - will start right at 9pm on the dot.

It's a resounding sell-out for the 74-year-old Canadian master, back on the live stage after fifteen years. A sign that, thankfully, collective memory is less fickle than one might imagine.

This time there isn't even the usual apprehension you feel in the presence of old glories: Cohen has never been a hot-headed frontman, still less a wannabe youth idol, and we won't see him hollering or flailing about bloated on stage like so many dinosaurs who mercilessly show the weight of their years. Cohen is still exactly himself, today as forty years ago, when he released his legendary "Songs". A gentleman poet who lent himself to music, capable of nailing you with a single line, a single gesture, a single shade of his "golden voice". A voice that's still there, warm and magnificent as ever.

The band comes on, then him. Lean and taut, he darts forward like a young boy to reach centre stage. Dark suit, grey waistcoat, Borsalino pulled down over his eyes, that same piercing gaze as always. He opens with "Dance Me To The End Of Love", backed by soft, almost-klezmer arrangements, and the six thousand people in the Cavea are already in raptures. Then comes "The Future", an anguished, apocalyptic prophecy on the fate of humanity, sung together with the backing singers (the Webb Sisters plus Shannon Robinson, his longtime collaborator).

You can tell the setlist will be generous and formidable. No pointless new album to plug (even the recent "Dear Heather" is completely ignored), but rather a journey back through one of the most precious songbooks of all time. The old ballads come dressed as they were on the 1979 "Field Commander Cohen Tour", while the other songs appear in partially updated form.

So we get the tender "Ain't No Cure For Love" followed by the sermon of "Everybody Knows" (from "I'm Your Man", the 1988 comeback album), the bare mantra of "Bird On The Wire", the more recent "In My Secret Life", and the gentle lullabies of "Who By Fire" and "Hey, That's No Way To Say Goodbye".

The crowd is ecstatic, and Cohen takes off his hat and holds it to his heart in thanks, almost bewildered by the reception. Someone in the audience shouts: "We love you, Leonard!". And he, wry as ever, replies: "Oh, I am fond of you too…". Backing him is a fantastic band that never overplays its hand, under the musical direction of bassist Roscoe Beck. While Rafael Gayol (drums and percussion) stays low-key, brushes tickling the cymbals, and guitarist Bob Metzger sticks to the essentials, multi-instrumentalist Dino Soldo enchants the crowd, switching between sax, clarinet, harmonica and Ewi, fellow virtuoso Javier Mas sets the strings of mandolas and Spanish guitars ablaze with dazzling solos, while Neil Larsen adds sparing touches of organ and keyboards.

"It's a blessing to play in a place like this, when so much of the world is in chaos," Cohen remarks before launching into the prayer of "Anthem" ("Ring the bells that still can ring/ Forget your perfect offering/ There's a crack in everything/ That's how the light gets in"), closing out the first set.

Twenty minutes' break, and the concert resumes with the powerful "Tower Of Song", performed by Cohen himself on synthesizer. Then a roar greets the immortal fable of "Suzanne", which returns in all its bare beauty. It's genuinely spine-tingling. Cohen wraps the audience up in his composed crooning, kneels, moves with unmatched elegance and charisma. And he even allows himself a few flashes of his sardonic humour. "For years I've chased after philosophies and religions in search of the truth - do you want to know what it is? Are you dying to know? It's du-dom-dom," he jokes, alluding to his backing singers' refrain. But this is a man who once retreated to a Zen monastery for five years, and he truly knows how to brush against the peaks of spirituality: "Hallelujah", with its nostalgic hammond organ and its spine-chilling refrain, still moves us. Then things veer toward rockier sounds, with "Democracy" and the magnetic "I'm Your Man". The Spanish waltz of "Take This Waltz" seems to bring the celebration to a close.

But the Cohen who comes back out for the encores is a Gaber-like figure, one who doesn't want to leave his audience just yet. He'll carry on for nearly three hours of music: perhaps this too is old-school, in the face of so many half-hearted rockers today.

"So Long Marianne" is still a dagger to the heart, with its solemn, aching chorus. Then another blistering "First We Take Manhattan". When he forgets one of the opening lines of "Sisters Of Mercy", it's a delight: he jokes with the crowd, then picks it back up with a smile on his lips.

"Closing Time": this time it really seems like the end. But no, Cohen keeps hopping on and off the stage. "I Tried To Leave You," he sings, almost apologizing for not having left yet, to general laughter. And finally he offers a solemn farewell with the previously unheard "Whither Thou Goest", performed a cappella with his musicians, along with a tribute to the audience: "Thank you for all the years you kept my songs alive."

Leonard Cohen has aged wonderfully. A monument to class. This time not even the exorbitant ticket price could serve as an excuse to miss the event. A night to remember.

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