4
O
viedo
| C
ampoamor
T
heatre
| 21
st
O
ctober
2011
Now, you know of my deep association and confraternity with the poet Federico García Lorca. I could
say that when I was a young man, an adolescent, and I hungered for a voice, I studied the English
poets and I knew their work well, and I copied their styles, but I could not find a voice. It was only
when I read, even in translation, the works of Lorca that I understood that there was a voice. It is not
that I copied his voice; I would not dare. But he gave me permission to find a voice, to locate a voice,
that is to locate a self, a self that is not fixed, a self that struggles for its own existence. As I grew older,
I understood that instructions came with this voice. What were these instructions? The instructions
were never to lament casually. And if one is to express the great inevitable defeat that awaits us all, it
must be done within the strict confines of dignity and beauty.
And so I had a voice, but I did not have an instrument. I did not have a song.
And now I’m going to tell you very briefly a story of how I got my song.
Because I was an indifferent guitar player. I managed a few chords. I only knew a few of them. I sat
around with my college friends, drinking and singing the folk songs and the popular songs of the day,
but I never in a thousand years thought of myself as a musician or as a singer.
One day in the early sixties, I was visiting my mother’s house in Montreal. Her house is beside a
park and in the park there is a tennis court where many people come to watch the beautiful young
tennis players enjoy their sport. I wandered back to this park which I’d known since my childhood, and
there was a young man playing a guitar. He was playing a flamenco guitar, and he was surrounded by
two or three girls and boys who were listening to him. I loved the way he played. There was something
about the way he played that captured me. It was the way that I wanted to play and knew that I would
never be able to play.
And, I sat there with the other listeners for a few moments and when there was a silence, an
appropriate silence, I asked him if he would give me guitar lessons. He was a young man from Spain,
and we could only communicate in my broken French and his broken French. He didn’t speak English.
And he agreed to give me guitar lessons. I pointed to my mother’s house which you could see from the
tennis court, and we made an appointment and settled a price.
He came to my mother’s house the next day and he said, “Let me hear you play something.” I tried
to play something, and he said, “You don’t know how to play, do you?” I said, “No, I really don’t know
how to play.” He said, “First of all, let me tune your guitar. It’s all out of tune.” So he took the guitar, and
he tuned it. He said, “It’s not a bad guitar.” It wasn’t the
Conde
, but it wasn’t a bad guitar. So, he handed
it back to me. He said, “Now play.” I couldn’t play any better.
He said, “Let me show you some chords.” And he took the guitar, and he produced a sound from that
guitar I had never heard. And he played a sequence of chords with a tremolo, and he said, “Now you do it.”
I said, “It’s out of the question. I can’t possibly do it.” He said, “Let me put your fingers on the frets,” and he
put my fingers on the frets. And he said, “Now, now play.” It was amess. He said, “I’ll come back tomorrow.”
He came back tomorrow, he put my hands on the guitar, he placed it on my lap in the way that was
appropriate, and I began again with those six chords: a six chord progression that many, many flamenco
songs are based on them. I was a little better that day. The third day… improved, somewhat improved.
But I knew the chords now. And, I knew that although I couldn’t coordinate my fingers with my thumb
to produce the correct tremolo pattern, I knew the chords; I knew them very, very well by this point.
The next day, he didn’t come. He didn’t come. I had the number of his, of his boarding house in
Montreal. I phoned to find out why he had missed the appointment, and they told me that he had taken
his life. That he committed suicide.
I knew nothing about the man. I did not know what part of Spain he came from. I did not know
why he came to Montreal. I did not know why he stayed there. I did not know why he appeared there at
that tennis court. I did not know why he took his life. I was deeply saddened, of course.
But now I disclose something that I’ve never spoken in public. It was those six chords, it was that
guitar pattern that has been the basis of all my songs and all my music. So, now you will begin to
understand the dimensions of the gratitude I have for this country.
Everything that you have found favourable in my work comes from this place. Everything,
everything that you have found favourable in my songs and my poetry are inspired by this soil.
Leonard Cohen
—
Prince of Asturias Award
for Literature
2011
Excerpt from the speech given on
the occasion of receiving the Prince
of Asturias Award for Literature
on 21/10/2011.
