Anjani

We met in the fall of 1984 through John Lissauer, the superbly talented singer, musician, and arranger, whom Leonard had chosen to produce the Various Positions album. A friend in Maui gave me John's number to call when I moved to Manhattan. We became good friends and he hired me for a few vocal sessions, including the background date (at which Leonard was not present) for "Hallelujah," where I met John Crowder and Ron Getman.

When it came time to put a band together for Leonard's tour, John asked if I'd be interested in the keyboard/vocals chair.

My focus was on jazz -- fusion, straight ahead, lush standards. I had spent a year at Berklee College of Music in 1981 as a keyboard major, but I knew within a few weeks of being there I wasn't going to make a name for myself as a solo jazz pianist. Those guys locked themselves inside practice rooms for six, seven hours a day. After two solid hours of scales and a few tunes, I'd be going, "Enough, I've gotta eat!"

Armed with enough knowledge to lead a jazz trio, I got a gig at the Kapalua Bay Hotel in Maui. Imagine living in a luxury resort with a view of the 16th hole at Kaanapali. The most pressing decisions I faced were whether to lay by the pool all day or drive to Lahaina for lunch. Eventually I fell in love with a tourist visiting from NY. We started a long distance affair, till he convinced me I was miserable in paradise. Then it was, "Big Apple, here I come." The romance didn't survive, but I liked the city enough to stay.

Indirectly...through Roberta Flack's gorgeous cover of Suzanne. Leonard was lauded as a folk icon in Europe early on in his career. But he didn't receive the same exposure on American Top 40 playlists as say, James Taylor, Simon & Garfunckle, or Bob Dylan. John did his best to enlighten me about Leonard's work. He said, "Leonard is the best songwriter, ever. His stage presence is amazing, and most incredible thing is, I've never heard him miss a line...that may not mean anything to you now, but wait till you hear his lyrics." That, and the prospect of eating my way across Europe was all it took to know I wanted that gig.

I hate auditions, and do my best to avoid open calls, which I find rather traumatic and depressing. Lucky for me, John knew my work and wasn't considering anyone else for the job. So my "audition" consisted of going to John's loft to sing one song. I still hadn't heard any of Leonard's records or seen his photos, so when he strolled in sporting a black double-breasted suit and cowboy boots, exuding a haunting charm -- I was a bit intimidated. We had coffee, then I sat at the piano and played "Skylark." When I was done, he said, "Okay, John will call you with the arrangements."

Q: Was Leonard a strict taskmaster when it came to rehearsals? What was the most challenging aspect of learning his music?

In all the years I've known Leonard, I've never seen him lose his temper, even when he had every right to. He started coming to rehearsals a week after John conducted us through the show at a studio in Soho. There was Mitch Watkins on guitar, Ron Getman on pedal steel guitar, John Crowder on bass, Richard Crooks on drums, and myself on keyboards. We all sang and had a pretty celestial blend going there. Ron and John were in The Tractors, a country band, and they brought a laid back feel to Leonard's music. Mitch had done the 1979 tour with Leonard, and was also in a jazz fusion band called Passenger, so we had a similar background. The most telling factor regarding Leonard's temperament, revealed itself during the last few rehearsals when I got familiar enough with the music to throw some jazz inflections into the mix. He asked me three or four times very kindly, to play it straighter, simpler. I tried to comply, but some other force was at work, and my hands could not play those elementary triadic chords (after all I went through to learn so much more) to save my life (may I add that I was not the only band member with this affliction). Rather than blow up about it, Leonard gave up this request, which I took as a sign he was starting to like this new direction.

Many years later he admitted that he just lost the will to fight for what he wanted to hear. Truth is, Leonard was well acquainted with musicians taking creative license with his material. Unlike Joni Mitchell for example, whose compositional theory can withstand alternative rhythms and unusual chord voicings, the challenge of Leonard's songs is to deliver them in as pure and concise a vein as he conceived them. Although his chordal movement is much simpler than Joni's, it's just as difficult to perform. Mostly because the players are tempted to put their own stamp all over it. It's easy to embellish Leonard's songs. A pro sees that C triad on "Bird On A Wire," and goes, "Hmm, I'll invert that and add a 9th for starters." And once one player takes it out, the others chime right in. Then the volume starts creeping up (got to hear myself better), and soon there goes the sensitivity, the space, the respect for those intense lyrics that never needed much embroidery in the first place.

This has been an issue in every band Leonard has had. Don't misunderstand -- things settled into a lovely groove, reviews were marvelous, and we gained a reputation among the crew as the quietest band that ever toured. And it really was awesome, to have six musicians play so softly we had to tread lightly across the stage or our footsteps would be heard. But if I had another chance at that music I know I'd approach it differently. A while ago I wrote a little story for Leonard (http://www.leonardcohenfiles.com/) about the concept of musicianship (and just about everything else I thought I knew) that I gave up, which led me to appreciate the striking clarity and beauty of his music. Mitch read that story a few months ago, and said he feels the same way.

In the interest of space, we covered the continents of Europe, the USA, and Canada in the first tour, then Australia, and the USA again in part two.

The band derived a lot of amusement from conversing in a heavy Southern drawl. No Europeans could figure out what we were saying, that's for sure. We called ourselves The Cheep Family, and each had a nickname: Leonard "Bubba", John "Red", Ron "Itchy", Mitch "Mitchie", Richard "Ritchie", me "Florine", and our road manager, Geoff "Two Dogs" Clennell. Anyway, Mitch taught the band a lovely 5-part a capella number. Gosh, it was beautiful. We sang it at the airport waiting for our baggage, on the bus, anytime. Leonard had all kinds of gear made especially for us, imprinted with "Various Positions" and his interlocking hearts logo: jackets, t-shirts, sweatshirts, and my personal favorite, the tour boxer shorts. I always smile when I think of the band wearing those tough black leather jackets, standing in a circle singing so sweetly to each other.

One of the features of touring is you don't have to think for yourself. You just follow the itinerary and do as you're told. It's rather like boot camp, tackling one city (and often, one country) per day. Have you ever thought, "Musicians have such a glamorous, exciting life?" Let me enlighten you to the finer points.

You wake up at 5am, put your bags in the hall for the porter to collect, take a shower and drag yourself down to the hotel restaurant, hoping they offer something more than pickled herring and toast, get on the bus heading for the airport, board the plane and hope you can fall asleep again but never do, check in to the new hotel, go sightseeing, shopping, eat lunch, do laundry, go back to the hotel, pay bills and write postcards, grab your clothes and board the bus for 4pm soundcheck, do that, eat dinner at 6, amuse yourself till 8pm downbeat, play a three hour show, go back to the hotel, crash and do it all over again.

About halfway into the enterprise, a charming delirium sets in from sleep deprivation, and you start dreaming up silly ways to relieve the boredom. John found a pair of white socks in his laundry bag that didn't belong to him. After nobody claimed them, the socks mysteriously appeared in Ron's carry on bag. Next day at soundcheck, Richard discovered them nesting on his drum throne. During intermission, he casually slipped them into the pocket of Leonard's coat. He had them served to me for dinner on a dome-covered platter by a tuxedo clad waiter. They were eventually framed and presented to Leonard as an award for surviving the tour.

That would be a tossup between Richard's neurotic girlfriend who joined the tour for three hellish weeks before attempting suicide in Germany, and the incident where John panicked and swallowed a lug of hashish during questioning by a customs officer at immigration. We waited in the bus for almost an hour, wondering if he was being deported, before he staggered aboard. He was a most peculiar shade of motion sickness-green during the show that night.

Since we played a three hour set, we took an intermission for fifteen minutes or so, midway through the show. We'd gather in the dressing room and discuss the sound and feel of the show, whether or not the audience was into it, etc. Strangely enough, every time the band complained about the sound being terrible and how we couldn't hear ourselves, Leonard would pipe up, "Oh no, friends, it's wonderful! You have no idea how great it is." But if we were giddy from sounding so good, Leonard would have this incredulous look on his face and say, "Really? Are you serious? I can't hear a thing. I feel like I'm standing in a cave."

This happened at every intermission, without fail. Needless to say, Peter Flynn, who did the monitor mix on stage, was perplexed by it all. He had the worst job really, trying to give each individual the balance they wanted in their own monitor. All during the show we'd be cuing him to raise volumes, lower volumes, cut things out entirely...when at times there was nothing wrong at all.

Well, there's my big confession, and my apology to Peter. I had a crush on him and part of my flirting ritual included a lot of problems with getting my sound JUST right. 80% of the time it really was right, but it was the perfect excuse for me to get his attention. In retrospect, the sound was probably 80% fine for everyone else too, but kvetching about it is part of the backstage camaraderie. After a little pep talk, you get all psyched up to go back out there and kick it for the finale.

First I want to point out the technical merit of chordal movement in "Hallelujah." Here's a roundabout explanation of why it would escape you unless you knew music theory. There's a section in my favorite Cole Porter ballad that goes:

There's no love song finer
but how strange the change
from major to minor
Every Time We Say Goodbye

When the vocalist sings, from major to minor, the chord also changes modality along with the phrase. It's the only song I can think of besides "Hallelujah," where musical theory marries the lyric...but Porter's effort is nowhere near as developed as Cohen's brilliant ascending line before the chorus:

It goes like this
the fourth, the fifth,
the minor fall, the major lift
(the battled King composing Hallelujah)

Leonard is no holy man, just a poet who visits the chasm of woe from time to time like the rest of us. "If It Be Your Will" moves us from a sense of futility about the purpose of life, into a more valiant, accepting light. The understanding here is, "Let Thy will be done." That's because your personal will is nil. Leonard often quotes a passage from the Bhagavad-Gita,

"It is perhaps only one in thousands of beings who strives for freedom. And amongst those who strive for freedom and think they have succeeded--hardly one knows Me in principle."

So even if you have some cosmic, mystical experiences on your spiritual path, whether or not you fully enter into some higher state of consciousness is still up to God, no matter how much you pray, meditate, and devote your life to the quest. This is a tough realization for the seeker with grander expectations of enlightenment or meeting face to face with God, but accepting it is what leads to ultimate freedom. For once you cease the pressure to evolve beyond your station in life, what happens next? All you can do is live your life responsibly and enjoyably and gratefully despite whatever disharmony or difficulty appears in the way. You truly know that as God's breath energizes every particle of creation, so you encounter God's presence in all things, every moment of your life. It's a beautiful, powerful, humbling realization.

Q: Your take on spirituality sounds similar to Leonard's. Did you speak to him about your search for enlightenment back then?

Yes. Like Leonard, I suffered from depression which surfaced in my teens, for about twenty-three years. It never occurred to me to seek treatment from a physician for "the blues." I was a health food fanatic who wouldn't take aspirin for a headache. So I endured the trial and everyone had to bear with me (my apologies to those who knew me when).

During that time I was also a devotee of Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, founder of Transcendental Meditation; which despite what that organization purports, functions like any religious church that idolizes a deity. What's unfortunate is the sense of superiority among meditators in the more advanced levels of practice, who privately diss non-meditators for not working off karma on their way to enlightenment.

In 1980 I paid my $3,000 to became a siddha of Age of Enlightenment, a rank which entitled me to participate in a bizarre ritual known as yogic flying. This took place in a giant dome where a thousand siddhas in full lotus position (or in my case, cross-legged) hopped down a foam runway. They hopped because their consciousness wasn't advanced enough to maintain full flight. At least that's the explanation they gave.

But the peer pressure in this situation was so intense, I can assure you that for a while, a good number of them were faking it, as I did. The whole thing is an absurd proposition, but initiates are quite vested in it and do their best to enlist others in the movement.

In retrospect, I'm amazed I was so gullible, but I really believed Maharishi when he declared it would take five years of meditating to become enlightened. Of course, when no one showed any signs of entering cosmic consciousness after five years, he said people were so stressed out that it would take ten years. Eventually he quit talking about a time frame altogether. And even though I diligently followed this practice, after ten years I found TM to be relaxing, but it hadn't brought on a state of nirvana. I stuck with it for another ten years--that's how good a sales pitch Maharishi had, and how desperately I wanted to attach some greater meaning to my existence.

At some point on the tour I spoke to Leonard about the levels of higher consciousness (supposedly) attainable through TM. He was a committed student of (Joshu Sasaki) Roshi's by then. My grandmother was a Buddhist, so I knew the chanting and sitting aspect of zazen, but the focus on contemplation struck me as obtuse. I never felt dumber than when trying to answer a koan (a paradoxical riddle the Master asks the student).

But Leonard took to that oblique, austere regimen like a duck to water. He maintained such a neutral demeanor throughout the tour, that none of us had an inkling he was severely depressed the entire time. Just the fact that Leonard could appear stable amidst all that pressure, was a tribute to Roshi and his teaching.

It wasn't until 1993, during a discussion we had about my state of mental health, that I found out Leonard suffered as I did. It was a relief to learn I had an actual medical problem that people sought treatment for. However, Leonard had tried every pharmaceutical drug available, and no treatment had eliminated his depression.

So what to do? This information did not alleviate my condition, but it finally dawned on me that TM might never lift my brooding spirit--let alone bring on enlightenment. Here I had never met Maharishi personally, but I trusted him implicitly as my Master. I had also spent a fortune on a myriad of his wacky courses to gain supernatural powers. Still, it took me another year to get over the strange guilt I felt from abandoning the TM movement. You can imagine the shock I was in. Leonard certainly did. He immediately invited me into his bed to sleep it off, but that didn't change matters much.

I wasn't just the only female on tour, I was the youngest member of the band as well. Plus, I was under a lot of self-imposed pressure. As I said, I was very into TM at that time. No drugs, no drinking, eating vegetarian when possible and meditating for two hours a day was a formidable challenge. It was also rough for me because men on tour quickly revert to being boys. Even our British crew thought the American blokes were rather lewd and crude. I had no desire to hang with the guys when they were in that mode, so I established the front of the bus as a no smoking, no belching, no dirty jokes, no farting zone (I won't name names here, but someone got a lot of joy out of lighting a match with his farts). Most of the time I had that area all to myself.

The guys didn't really know how to deal with me. Unlike Leonard, I was too young to keep my emotions in check when they got on my nerves. There were some morose, bitchy days, alright. Sometimes when they knew they had really gone too far, they'd make amends by schlepping my carry on bag, which was always loaded with 40 lbs. of souvenirs and candy and stuff. And they behaved themselves when their wives or girlfriends were around, so I was grateful for those breaks.

Absolutely. I have many more fond memories than unpleasant ones. On stage, we shared a bond that grew stronger with each performance. Richard Crooks was one of the few drummers that could play an entire show with brushes and still come up with creative parts. John was a rock solid bassist--no fancy stuff, just the right notes to lay down a foundation. When we started out the tour, Ron, Mitch and I took turns adding improvised lines here and there. One night, no one played much in the spaces, and in one of those unadorned, pure moments, Mitch smiled at me and nodded, "Yeah." Get it? We knew and respected each player's talent--and what could've been played, but didn't need to be heard. We got into the concept of leaving space open for the music to breathe.

We saw the greatest cities of the world from a privileged vantage point. We played Carnegie Hall, and the jazz musician's dream, The Montreux Jazz Festival. Leonard threw me a lovely birthday dinner in Spain. And just when I thought I would go mad from solitude, something wonderful happened in Australia: Peter Flynn broke his cardinal rule of not dating a band member.

Q: What were the audiences like, and were they appreciative in any memorable way?

Adoring. Devoted. Midway during the European leg, Leonard got an offer to do one week in Poland. No one else in the band wanted to go but me. So Leonard and I convinced them it would be an exciting, culturally enriching, once in a lifetime experience, and just think of the historical significance, why this would be something to tell your children, etc. Ten minutes later they agreed to go.

Words fail to describe what we encountered in the lobby of the Holiday Inn Warsaw. "Time warp" comes to mind, in the form of enormous floating lime green and neon yellow plastic disk mobiles dangling from the ceiling, vinyl modular furniture (emphasis on mod), and what was left of the twenty-year-old burnt orange shag carpeting. After the luxury digs we were accustomed to, my feeble attempt at gaiety over the 1970's retro charm did not sit well with the band.

Spirits brightened as we were handed a thick wad of zlotys, with instructions to spend every last one, as the currency was nearly as worthless in Poland as outside the country. I purchased a stunning amber and silver bracelet, and a round cut crystal vase the approximate size and weight of a bowling ball, for $4.00 US.

The most fanatical audiences were in Poland, where counterfeit tickets were a problem at every concert. Leonard is so popular there, that he and I were assigned bodyguards for the shows (the promoter figured the other Cheeps could fend for themselves).

For a few days until our British tour bus arrived, we had use of the finest transport vehicle in the country, which turned out to be an ancient school bus with worn out shocks and no seatbelts. We were literally bouncing up and down on seats with stuffing and springs erupting through the leather. Occasionally Leonard would offer up a reminder such as, "After all, this is a country under duress," to no one in particular.

No matter, the people were so endearing and eager to please. After the concert in Wroclaw, a group of college students greeted us in the hotel lobby. One of the young men named Krzysztof (Christopher), spoke English, and he invited the band to a party. They all declined, figuring things could only get worse. I was trying to beg off as well, when Carey, our British bus driver, walked over and offered to chauffeur me there. Touched by their enthusiastic pleas, I agreed; and we all piled in the customized tour bus--an extravagant chariot the likes of which these kids had never seen.

One hour later, all traces of city life had long faded into miles of frozen potato fields and the occasional farmhouse. I wondered if I'd ever see my mother's face again. Krzysztof kept assuring me his house was just a bit further down the dirt road. In another thirty minutes, we reached a modest, two story cement block house wayyy out in I don't know where. Krzysztof's mother was a nuclear physicist, and she immediately dispensed rounds of vodka, which I was not allowed to decline. Carey thought it was a fabulous custom, and participated wholeheartedly.

Keep in mind that at this time in Polish history, Lech Walesa was still imprisoned; and all these college kids hoped for was to be left alone by the government. It was heartbreaking to hear about their struggle to survive under an oppressive regime. Somewhere around 3am, I was reeling from the effects of vodka and the intense discussion of Mr. Leonard Cohen's position on the matters of United States counter-culture and it's socio-economic-political ramifications.

After a teary goodbye with promises to carry on as best as we could, those sweet kids presented me with twenty records by Polish jazz artists. Then Carey, Krzysztof and I stumbled onto the bus for the long ride back to the hotel.

We pulled in around 4:30 am, to face an apoplectic Geoff Clennell, demanding to know where the hell we'd been. He was about to alert the authorities that kidnappers had absconded with Carey and me and more importantly, the tour bus. I never got on very well with Geoff, a male chauvinist who used his title as tour manager to score with every female he could. All I replied was, "Oh relax...we're here, aren't we?" before crawling up to my room. That left poor Carey to suffer through Geoff's subsequent tantrum. Sorry, mate.

The band had so many zlotys they couldn't drink enough to spend them all. So they gave away what was leftover to the waitresses who served them. Leonard handed his entire stipend to an astonished cleaning lady in the men's restroom at the airport.

As we were leaving Poland, I couldn't believe my ears when the customs officer demanded a $120.00 US tariff on my crystal vase. "But that's crazy," I protested, "it only cost me four dollars!" He ordered me to pay the tax or leave the item behind. I kept on pleading there must've been some mistake in computing the figure, while the band filed past me on to the boarding area. In desperation, I waved to Poland's Minister of Entertainment, who came to the airport to see us off. Josef came forward and increased the pressure by flashing his business card. A few heated words later, the guard grudgingly allowed me and my bargain to go on to Vienna, tax free. And voila, I hand carried that 8 lb. treasure through six countries before it came to rest on a shelf in my apartment.

As you would expect, with aplomb and his famously droll sense of humor. At no time did he ever give the impression that his job was more important than that of a plumber or gardener. Of course, they don't have to deal with a flock of females trying to worm their way backstage, on to the tour bus, in the hotel lobby.

It's true, Leonard has a discerning eye for aesthetics, especially in the female form. But he was with (photographer) Dominique Isserman at the time. So he spoke to the girls, but didn't pursue the offers. Really.

No, we initially respected each other as peers, and later on became true friends. I wasn't intimidated by his fame (or anyone else's, for that matter). But I don't think he knew what to make of me, as only four topics interested me: music, enlightenment, true love, and food, not necessarily in that order.

The male/female swirl of energy is a rare and tantalizing fuel for any artistic endeavor. While introducing the band during the show, Leonard would often do a poetic riff on, "Anjani, the orchid of the Pacific", or "the woman in black lace," referring to a pill box hat with a lace veil I had bought in Paris. Sometimes his ode would go on for three or four minutes, an eternity in stage time. So yeah, people might have wondered if there was something going on between us. But there wasn't.

Q: What kinds of things did you, Leonard and the band do between concerts?

We'd check in to a hotel and usually the guys would just eat there or suss out the nearest McDonald's...imagine craving a Big Mac in Paris, Munich, or Sydney. I couldn't do it. I'm from a family of serious eaters. Before the tour began I bought a Fodor's guide to Europe, and spent a month highlighting the sights and top restaurants in each city. With sound check at 4pm, I had many lunchtime gastronomic indulgences, before fulfilling my shopping goal of one souvenir per country.

Coming from New York, I had no fear of walking the streets alone during my foray through Brussels for marinara and cheese baked mussels at Jacques, Paris (where Dominique uttered the great line, "It's terrible what they do to the ducks to make foie gras...and if they ever stop making it, I'll stop eating it.") for foie gras and heavenly clouds of Isle Flotante, and Cascais for grilled lobster, clams, crab and shrimp on a bed of rock salt, accompanied by a loaf of fresh baked country bread slathered with butter. I won't go into the results of my "Best Croissant in Europe" or "Penultimate Cake in Western Hemisphere" contests, but I was 113 lbs. when we left for Europe, and 128 lbs. when we returned. Believe me, it was worth every bite.

Meanwhile, Leonard's attention was divided between meetings, journalists, TV crews, radio interviews, friends and fans. Even when the accommodations are first class, touring is a rigorous venture, and he was right in the thick of it. I felt sorry for him, as people constantly interrupted him for an autograph, or begged for a photo. I used to hit the hotel sauna around midnight, and usually had it all to myself, except for the few times Leonard showed up to unwind from the pressure. We didn't say much, just basked in the heat.

Q: What did it feel like to wrap up the tour? Are you still in touch with the band members?

It was a bittersweet conclusion, as we'd been on the road for nearly a year, and everyone was anxious to climb into their own beds back home. We got rave reviews for the final show in Los Angeles at the Wiltern Theatre, that Joni Mitchell and Bob Dylan attended. Afterward, we all headed back to New York, and oddly enough, haven't seen each other since then.

Leonard and I have been in touch with Mitch and Ron through e-mail, but I have no idea what Richard or John is up to. Cheeps, call home!