It’s the 100th song. I knew I was saving a big gun for this
one, but which song? Then yesterday I was sitting at a lecture by Nobel
laureate Wole Soyinka of Nigeria, a lecture on the forms of slavery that still
exist in our world, and the line popped into my head: “Everybody knows the deal
is rotten / Old black Joe’s still picking cotton / For your ribbons and bows /
And everybody knows.” So, yeah, this song.
And if that wasn’t enough, later that night I watched 12
Years a Slave, with those cotton-pickin’ songs (literally), and there you see
some roots of the blues. Cohen’s blues, like Soyinka’s lecture, are
rather global in their sweep, bringing along a kind of measured,
pre-apocalyptic imagery that was suitable to 1988, when this song was released.
Remember? That was the year of “read my lips, no new taxes” and “a kinder,
gentler nation” in Bush the First’s nomination acceptance speech. It was the
time of the managerial candidates—Bush and Dukakis—coming after the charisma
machine of Reagan and before the charisma machine of Clinton. It was a whiter,
duller nation in those days, that’s for sure.
Cohen has always been a provocative songwriter. He and I go
back to the summer of 1977 and his first album, then a decade old, but I’ll go
there another time. (Well, actually, I went there already, here.) Then it’s eleven
years later, and I’ve heard everything the man has released, but this album I
got on cassette for some reason. CDs were all the rage at the time and I didn’t
have a player, and probably couldn’t find the vinyl. In any case, the album, I’m Your Man, is Cohen’s first foray
into the processed sound, particularly the rhythm tracks, of the time. This
song does better than some of the others on the album, which features two other
stand-outs: “First We Take Manhattan” and “The Tower Song.” This song is as
cynical and sharp as Cohen is at his best (and would be again on his album The Future (1992), to which this song is
akin).
Everybody knows the war is over / Everybody knows the good
guys lost / Everybody knows the fight was fixed / The poor stay poor / The rich
get rich / That’s how it goes / Everybody knows.
Does it get more succinct than that? Sure, you might say,
that just about kills all hope, and hope is a precious commodity. But, let me
tell you, if you really think of things like virtues (hope) as commodities,
well, there’s not much hope, is there? By 1988 anything like real discussion in
the U.S. media had been occluded by the age’s worship of the “rich and famous,”
and by our nation’s ever-slicker efforts to appear as rich as possible, to
manifest—its great desiderata—managerial panache in all things. It wasn’t quite
“the revenge of the nerds” yet—where computers and computer jobs, and being the
wunderkinder of electronics and the digital revolution became the “new cool”—but
we were well on our way to “the business model” as the gold standard of every
kind of human interaction.
Cohen’s song though is more backward-looking than future-oriented.
He’s writing an epitaph for the era he came up in, the era of a brief flurry of
creativity and change that got stymied all too soon. Look at his even more
cynical and clear-eyed LPs of 1971 (Songs
of Love and Hate) and 1974 (New Skin
for the Old Ceremony) to see where he’s coming from.
As is characteristic of Cohen, today’s song
blends reflection on sexual mores with reflection on the surrounding “mood.”
Cohen has always been a romantic and lyrical poet, in that regard, willing to
see “the state of the union” in terms of the fraught terrain couples inhabit.
Can it get any more direct, in that age of AIDS awareness—Rock Hudson had died
in 1985, coming out of the closest with his death and opening a more general conversation
on the disease, with celebrities (without celebrities nothing happens) weighing
in—than: “Everybody knows the plague is coming / Everybody knows it’s moving
fast / Everybody knows the naked man and woman / Are just a shining artifact of
the past.” So much for your sexual
revolution, now “a meter on your bed . . .
will disclose / What everybody knows.”
You ain’t gettin’ any? I believe the reference is to the lack of sex in
married couples, and, with “fear of AIDS” undermining more adventurous liaisons,
there’s just nothing happening any more. All that’s over. Time to log on.
Elsewhere though Cohen looks askance at all that “free love”
promiscuity of the Baby Boomers’ youth with a bit of the aged rouĂ©’s fondness
for invoking sexual appetite—once liberated—as inherently boundless: “Everybody
knows you’ve been discreet / But there were so many people you just had to meet
/ Without your clothes / And everybody knows.”
This is so wry, in the spirit of many Cohen songs where he’s the cuckold
or the languishing lover who knows all about what his lady love gets up to when
his back is turned—see “Paper-Thin Hotel” (1977), “The Master Song” (1967), “The
Smokey Life” (1979), for starters.
Recently, I sat through—endured is more like it—Martin Scorsese’s
The Wolf of Wall Street (2013) which
makes Oliver Stone’s Wall Street
(1987) look like a restrained tale of heroic egos, and was reminded of this
wonderfully apropos line: “Everybody knows you live forever / When you’ve done
a line or two.” In Wolf, Jordan Belfort
(Leonardo di Caprio) actually insists, while snorting up a minor mountain of
blow, that it makes him “invincible.” That was certainly a dominant idea from
the Seventies to whatever we want to call our current era. Cohen notes it down for us at the moment when
entitlement became the game.
So where’s the pre-apocalyptic stuff? Check out that final
verse:
And everybody knows
that you’re in trouble
Everybody knows what you’ve been through
From the bloody cross on top of Calvary
To the beach at Malibu
Everybody knows it’s coming apart
Take one last look at this sacred heart
Before it blows
And everybody knows
Everybody knows what you’ve been through
From the bloody cross on top of Calvary
To the beach at Malibu
Everybody knows it’s coming apart
Take one last look at this sacred heart
Before it blows
And everybody knows
For me, this is a little epitaph on the set of people Cohen
might be said to be among—those songwriters who were once so inspired and so
inspiring as they laid bare their hearts and laid into the powers that be for
an entire generation of fellow-travelers. Where were they, and we, going? From
the cross on Calvary—all those messianic impulses and ego-intense sacrifices—to
Malibu (Dylan owns a house there, but let’s not insist he’s the target here, or
not the only one), where “what you’ve been through” stands for an entire
generation that aimed to be different than the previous one but simply found a
different level of hedonism and self-congratulation. A last look at “this
sacred heart” may not be said with utter cynicism, if, for instance, you keep
in mind Cohen’s great paean to the power and mystery of song, 1985’s “Hallelujah,”
but, still, he’s not giving much hope for it—that heart of actual love for all
humanity—or us lasting much longer.
This song arrived when the bells one could hear tolling in
the distance were for the “Soviet experiment” that was definitely “coming
apart,” but I don’t think Cohen is thinking about that. That would be taken into account on the next
record. Here, there’s just a feeling that we’re living in what Fredric Jameson
is fond of calling “late capitalism,” as though what comes next were somehow to
be espied. We’re always taking “one last look” and then we get up and look in
the mirror again.
Everybody’s got this broken feeling
Like their father or their dog just died
Like their father or their dog just died
And here he is singing it, in 1988.
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