1987 is the most important year in alternative rock

From chart hits to mainstream breakthroughs, it was the year modern rock came into its own

Why 1987 remains the most important moment in alternative rock
The Psychedelic Furs; Depeche Mode; Echo & the Bunnymen(Credit: Legacy/Sire)

The National has achieved many things in its career: music festival headlining slots, Grammy nominations and near-chart-topping albums. However, the brooding, Brooklyn-via-Cincinnati band hasn’t had a No. 1 single — until now.

Billboard reports “The System Only Dreams in Total Darkness,” a song from the National’s forthcoming “Sleep Well Beast” album, reached the top slot of the Adult Alternative Songs chart for the week of August 19, beating Arcade Fire’s “Everything Now” by a measly two spins.

In addition to the National and Arcade Fire, the rest of the Adult Alternative Songs chart top 10 includes a slew of seasoned artists: Portugal. The Man, Spoon, The War on Drugs, The Killers and Jack Johnson. Sonically, these acts don’t overlap much. However, on an aesthetic level, they all promulgate a musical approach predicated on constant metamorphosis.

The Killers’ “The Man” is an icy, funky strut; the War on Drugs’ “Holding On” is rife with sparkling Springsteenisms; Portugal. The Man’s “Feel it Still” is a taut, soulful shimmy. The biggest chameleons might be Spoon, whose latest effort is the ominous, funky “Can I Sit Next to You,” which feels like Duran Duran filtered through a paper shredder and pieced back together.

In a striking parallel, the composition of the Adult Alternative Songs chart — notably the abundance of veteran bands who are fearless about evolution — echoes the equally transformative alternative bands dotting 1987’s music landscape.

That’s not necessarily surprising: 1987 was an enormously influential year that shaped how fans and artists alike create, consume and appreciate so-called modern or progressive music.

To understand why 1987 is a cultural inflection, it’s best to consider it the year a burgeoning underground movement crystallized and mobilized. Certain facets of this movement were already in place, of course. Specialty national video shows such as MTV’s “120 Minutes” and “I.R.S. Records Presents The Cutting Edge” and USA’s “Night Flight,” as well as regional video shows (V66 in Boston and MV3 in Los Angeles) were already airing clips from new wave and so-called “college rock” bands. Modern rock-leaning radio stations — notably KROQ in Los Angeles and the Long Island powerhouse WLIR — were also giving these new groups a platform.

On a more mainstream level, John Hughes-associated movies such as 1984’s “Sixteen Candles” and 1986’s “Pretty in Pink” combined relatable depictions of teen angst with a cool-mixtape musical vibe. Hughes treated bands such as Thompson Twins, New Order, OMD and the Psychedelic Furs like futuristic pace-setters. The people responded in kind.

In 1986, OMD’s “If You Leave,” from Hughes’ “Pretty in Pink” peaked at No. 4 on the U.S. pop charts. No wonder critic Chris Molanphy, writing in Maura Magazine, points to “how pivotal Hughes was in helping to break what became known as alternative rock in America — he served as a bridge between what was known in the first half of the ’80s as postpunk or new wave and what would be called alt-rock or indie rock by the ’90s.”

Hughes’ imprint reverberated well beyond films. For example, the movie “Pretty in Pink” took its title from the Psychedelic Furs song of the same name. Appropriately, the U.K. band re-cut the tune, which originally appeared on 1981’s “Talk Talk Talk,” for the film’s 1986 soundtrack. This slicker new version landed just outside the top 40, at No. 41. However, the goodwill earned by this re-do buoyed the Furs through 1987: The desperate swoon “Heartbreak Beat,” the lead single from the band’s 1987 LP, “Midnight to Midnight,” became the Furs’ only U.S. top 40 hit, peaking at No. 26 in May.

“Midnight to Midnight” polarized fans: A collection of full-on synth-pop gloss, it bears little resemblance to the group’s early, moody post-punk. Yet bold evolutions were a 1987 trend; multiple established modern and indie bands staked a decidedly contemporary claim, sometimes in ways that completely overhauled (or at least added intriguing new dimensions to) their previous sounds.

(Let the record show that this phenomenon also has precedent: For example, Scritti Politti’s glittering synth-pop gush “Perfect Way,” which reached the top 15 in 1986, is a far cry from the band’s scabrous post-punk roots.)

Elsewhere in 1987, Echo & The Bunnymen buffed up their gloom on a self-titled album with sharper production, while Depeche Mode countered with “Music for the Masses,” an (appropriately) massive-sounding record with a dense, industrial-synth sound. The Replacements, meanwhile, teamed up with producer Jim Dickinson for “Pleased to Meet Me,” their most streamlined and focused rock record yet. R.E.M. forged a production partnership with Scott Litt that would stretch into the ’90s, releasing the loud-and-proud political statement “Document.”

In many cases, these evolutions didn’t necessarily lead to immediate commercial dividends. In fact, the Smiths — inarguably one of the biggest cult alternative acts in the U.S. — broke up in 1987, making their forward-sounding final album, “Strangeways Here We Come,” a posthumous swan song. However, in 1987, the upper reaches of the pop charts were noticeably more amenable to modern bands.

 Consider this a culmination of a slow and steady trend — how the chart inroads made by OMD and the Psychedelic Furs paired with those made by Pet Shop Boys (“West End Girls” hit No. 1 in 1986) and INXS (who set the stage for its blockbuster 1987 record “Kick” with 1985’s top 5 smash “What You Need”).

“Just Like Heaven,” from 1987’s “Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me,” became The Cure‘s first U.S. mainstream top 40 chart hit, peaking at No. 40 in 1988. The shimmering 1987 synth-pop gem “True Faith” also became New Order’s first top 40 single, landing at No. 32. Other bands found even greater success: Midnight Oil’s “Diesel and Dust” spawned that band’s first mainstream hit, the top 20 entry “Beds Are Burning,” while R.E.M. landed its first top 10 single with “The One I Love” from “Document.” Los Lobos’ cover of “La Bamba” hit No. 1 (though having a major Hollywood movie behind them helped tremendously).

What’s interesting: Besides individual radio station charts and specialized trade magazines, these alternative acts didn’t yet have a dedicated Billboard chart. The publication only launched its Modern Rock Tracks chart on Sept. 10, 1988, “in response to industry demand for consistent information on alternative airplay,” as it noted in that week’s issue. In hindsight, it’s easy to see this chart as a reaction to 1987’s alternative groundswell. The influence of these groups was now impossible to ignore, and measuring their reach and impact — no doubt crucial for label bean counters, if nothing else — made sense.

In an interesting twist, 1987’s beginnings and endings were as formative as their transformations. That year’s dissolution of the Smiths and Hüsker Dü led to each band’s frontman — Morrissey and Bob Mould, respectively — launching fruitful and vibrant solo careers that endure today. Debut records from Jane’s Addiction (a self-titled effort) and Pixies (“Come On Pilgrim”), and second albums from Dinosaur Jr (“You’re Living All Over Me”) and Faith No More (“Introduce Yourself”) put forth an aggressive, hybridized rock sound that presaged ’90s grunge, metal and punk. Even Crowded House’s 1986 debut LP finally spawned two hits in 1987, “Don’t Dream It’s Over” and “Something So Strong.”

And, in terms of the touring circuit, plenty of popular 1987 acts continue to find success; U2 playing 1987’s “The Joshua Tree” to packed stadiums is the most obvious one. Depeche Mode is currently embarking on an amphitheater tour while Echo & the Bunnymen and Violent Femmes have toured sheds together all summer. In spring 2017, Psychedelic Furs tapped Robyn Hitchcock as an opener. In the fall, the band is teaming up with Bash & Pop, featuring the Replacements’ Tommy Stinson, for tour dates.

These tour dates in particular have led several writers to recently question whether “80s pop” or “classic alternative” could become the new classic rock. It’s an intriguing idea, although one the radio consultants at Jacobs Media doubt has traction.

“While these bands may do well at state fairs and other summer festivals boasting well-stocked lineups of bands, their ability to support a format is questionable,” Fred Jacobs wrote in a recent blog post. “Classic Rock — and its derivatives — as well as Oldies stations were predicated on the power of nostalgia — not just for a few thousand fans in a market, but for tens of thousands or more of die-hard supporters. We’re talking mass appeal vs. niche.”

Jacobs then went on to point out that Echo & The Bunnymen received only seven spins on a Classic Alternative station in a recent week. “It’s hard to create a groundswell of support for poorly exposed music that’s now 30+ years old,” Jacobs adds.

In a sense, current successful bands like Arcade Fire, Spoon and the National are better positioned than their 1987 analogs to avoid this trap. Multiple channels — radio, video, streaming, live shows — make it easier for bands to gain exposure and reach more people.

At the same time, 2017’s fractured musical culture means that there are plenty of people who either don’t listen (or don’t need to listen) to any of these bands. For proof, just look at the puzzled reactions to Arcade Fire nabbing the Album of the Year Grammy in 2011. One person’s mainstream band is another’s niche or unknown act. Perhaps the underlying concept that drove alternative music culture’s 1987 rise — the mainstream cracking the door open to outsiders — is still alive and well in 2017.

Annie Zaleski is a Cleveland-based journalist who writes regularly for The A.V. Club, and has also been published by Rolling Stone, Vulture, RBMA, Thrillist and Spin.

Depeche Mode’s “Spirit” is a reminder of how political the band can be

“Grabbing hands, grab all they can”:

The group’s latest studio LP is a byproduct of and commentary on today’s global political upheaval

"Grabbing hands, grab all they can": Depeche Mode's "Spirit" is a reminder of how political the band can be
Depeche Mode (Credit: Sony Music)

The members of Depeche Mode spent the weeks leading up to the release of their 14th studio album, “Spirit,” fending off an association with the far-right movement. In late February, white nationalist Richard Spencer — a self-avowed “life-long Depeche Mode fan” — facetiously called the influential synthpop group the “official band of the Alt-Right.” The act swiftly issued a crisp statement through a rep: “Depeche Mode has no ties to Richard Spencer or the Alt-Right and does not support the Alt-Right movement.”

The exchange was a reminder that Depeche Mode was actually tangling with politics more than it had in recent years. The Martin Gore-penned “Where’s the Revolution,” the first single from “Spirit,” encourages people to engage in mutiny against oppression. Although not explicitly liberal, a sampling of chorus lyrics (“They manipulate and threaten/ With terror as a weapon,” “Who’s making your decisions?/ You or your religion/ Your government, your countries/ You patriotic junkies”) points to a left-leaning perspective.

As many reviews have noted, the rest of “Spirit” also has an overt political bent. However, it’s more precise to say that the album features commentary on (and is a reaction to) the societal and cultural elements that led to 2017’s global political upheaval.

“Going Backwards” juxtaposes technological progress with decaying morals and devolution to “a caveman mentality,” while “Worst Crime” calls for people to own up to corrupt behavior: “We are all charged with treason/ There is no one left to hiss.” The electro-dirge “Poorman” is specific about its stance: “Corporations get the breaks/ Keeping almost everything they make/ Tell us just how long it’s going to take/ For it to trickle down.” And “Scum” pulls no punches in how it portrays a faceless person presumably abusing their position: “Hey scum, hey scum/ What are you going to do when karma comes?”

Speaking to Rolling Stone about the album, Gahan didn’t necessarily reveal inspiration specifics. “We called the album ‘Spirit,’ because it’s like, ‘Where’s the spirit gone?’ or ‘Where’s the spirit in humanity?’” he said. Earlier in the article, he admitted he “wouldn’t call this a political album, because I don’t listen to music in a political way. But it’s definitely about humanity, and our place in that.”

One could argue that the latter idea — someone deeply considering where they fit in the world among their fellow citizens — is inherently political. However, Gahan has a good reason for demurring on specifics. In a recent Billboard interview, he discussed not just the Spencer incident, but also how his band’s music has been misunderstood. “I think over the years there’s been a number of times when things of ours have been misinterpreted — either our imagery, or something where people are not quite reading between the lines.

“If anything, there’s a way more sort of socialist — working class, if you like — industrial-sounding aesthetic to what we do,” Gahan continues. “That’s where we come from. We come from the council estates of Essex, which is a really s—-y place, just 30 minutes east of London, where they stuck everybody when London was getting too overpopulated in the late ’60s.”

From a sonic perspective, Depeche Mode’s early music captures the cloistered existence Gahan describes. The fogged-up-window synths of 1981’s debut, “Speak and Spell,” give way to sharply modern keyboards on 1982’s “A Broken Frame.” That record’s programming conjures textures that are simultaneously drab and chirpy: dripping faucets, a dull church service or a melodramatic sitcom theme.

On subsequent records, Depeche Mode employs clanking production and scraping sound effects, as well as midnight-hued keyboards and generous slathers of reverb, to convey increasingly hollowed-out angst. The sounds of industry remain an aesthetic influence on a song such as “Black Celebration,” which resembles a bustling, belching factory, and on the “electronic metal” the band embraced as the ’80s progressed. But although modern technology and different production techniques changed the band’s sound — giving it a sleeker, dystopian and minimalist vibe — Depeche Mode has never lost its utilitarian, greyscale synthpop essence.

What’s more intriguing is how the thematic bent of “Spirit” revisits and amplifies aspects of the band’s past. Notable parallels can be made to 1983’s “Construction Time Again,” the record containing the greed-demonizing “Everything Counts.” That LP’s cover image features a chiseled, real-life ex-Royal Marine hoisting a sledgehammer. From an iconography perspective, it was a striking statement — even if its intent had many layers.

In a documentary about the record, Martyn Atkins, a longtime Depeche Mode-associated designer who worked on “Construction Time Again,” said “The kind of political look of the things was more fashion than a specific statement. If you look back, you’ll see a lot of those kind of elements creeping in, of both fascist and communistic kind of iconography. It was exciting looking stuff. And I think that nobody had really plundered it to market an everyday product like a record.”

Yet in an interview with NME journalist X. Moore, the members of Depeche Mode were firm about their political awakening and how the concept of “The Worker” dominated the record.

“The general tendency of the album is very socialized and The Worker sums it up — it’s the obvious image to get across socialism,” said keyboardist Alan Wilder. “It’s like, the first thing you think seeing the cover is that the hammer is smashing down the mountain, but not to destroy. Because he’s a worker, it’s to rebuild it, it’s positive. That was the overall idea of the album, to be positive — that’s why it’s construction time, not destruction time.”

Later in the article, Gore was more explicit about the ways his lyrics dealt with greed and money, and the disproportionate way wealth is distributed. “The thing is, the people in power don’t care about someone with a low wage, they only care about their own power. But I think people should care about other people, y’know, ’cause from the moment we’re born we’re put into competition with everybody else.”

Going forward, that kind of direct commentary emanated from Depeche Mode’s catalog only occasionally, although these moments resonated. “People Are People” somewhat clumsily (but sincerely) addresses bigotry: “It’s obvious you hate me, though I’ve done nothing wrong/ I’ve never even met you, so what could I have done?” The murky “New Dress” criticizes tabloid frippery (“Princess Di is wearing a new dress”) that is focused on to the detriment of more important matters: “If you change points of view/ You may change a vote/ And when you change a vote/ You may change the world.” And uproar over the sexual overtones of “Master and Servant” obscured the song’s coded societal commentary: “Domination’s the name of the game/ In bed or in life/ They’re both just the same/ Except in one you’re fulfilled.”

Still, it’s not like the group was an apolitical entity the rest of the time. Mat Smith’s excellent essay about the band’s political nature points out how ’80s Depeche Mode reverberated “in places like East Germany or Russia that were divided and separate from the West by ideology. Depeche Mode’s music spoke to a generation of young people that felt betrayed by Communism, capturing the hearts and minds of a youth who heard something in this music that we’ll probably never fully appreciate unless we were living through it with them.” And Gore’s lyrics very much politicize personal matters: His vignettes about spiritual struggles, romantic turmoil and internal battles with the self are charged with divisive emotions.

Depeche Mode might have been seen as comparatively lighter, because ’80s synthpop tended to deal with surprisingly weighty issues. Industry’s “State of the Nation” condemns needless (and deadly) wars, as does Frankie Goes to Hollywood’s “Two Tribes.” The Human League’s monstrous “Dare” LP features “Seconds,” a song about the assassination of John F. Kennedy from the perspective of the shooter. Bronski Beat’s sociopolitical statement “Smalltown Boy” is about someone leaving home after being bullied about his sexuality. And nuclear war or nuclear apocalypse were popular thematic jumping-off points; Ultravox’s “Dancing with Tears in My Eyes,” OMD’s “Enola Gay” and even Modern English’s “I Melt With You” all fit into this category.

These topics might seem quaint or retrograde now, but as Depeche Mode cautions on “Spirit,” political backsliding is lurking around every corner. Speaking about new song “The Worst Crime” to NPR, Gahan says “The way we divide each other — you know, racial divides. [It’s] kind of calling out to really question that, to kind of check yourself — me included, everyone else included.

“Like, where do you really stand, what are the choices you’re really making? Do you really love thy neighbor, and are you willing to accept the differences? We just seem to be slipping backwards.”


Annie Zaleski is a Cleveland-based journalist who writes regularly for The A.V. Club, and has also been published by Rolling Stone, Vulture, RBMA, Thrillist and Spin.

Leonard Cohen’s impact: From the ’60s to indie rockers and beyond

The late, great songwriter was admired by folkies, noise-rockers and multiple generations for his sardonic work

Leonard Cohen's impact: From the '60s to indie rockers and beyond
Leonard Cohen (Credit: Getty/Evening Standard)

When Leonard Cohen died last week, at the age of 82, he became the latest in a cast of major figures — David Bowie, Prince and George Martin — who have made 2016 an annus horribilis for many music fans. Cohen never sold that many records, despite the recent ubiquity — in soundtracks or TV shows or high school glee clubs — of his song “Hallelujah.” But he provoked a deep love from listeners and exerted a powerful and wide-ranging influence on other musicians.

Appropriately, the impact of Cohen’s work predates his recording a single note of music. Judy Collins recorded “Suzanne,” his folk song about a deep but platonic relationship with a woman in Montreal, on her 1966 album. It took Cohen another year to record it for his debut, “Songs of Leonard Cohen,” a darkly luminous album from 1967.

Later that year, Collins asked Cohen, who saw himself as just a poet, and was ashamed of his voice and acoustic guitar skills, to play a fund-raiser with her. “He’d never sung [in front of a large audience] before then,” she told The Globe and Mail. “He got out on stage and started singing. Everybody was going crazy — they loved it. And he stopped about halfway through and walked off the stage. Everybody went nuts,” Collins recalled. “They demanded that he come back. And I demanded; I said, ‘I’ll go out with you.’ So we went out, and we sang it. And of course, that was the beginning.”

As shy and abashed as Cohen could be, other artists were finding his music and feeling much more enthusiastic about it. In London, where he was still unknown, a group of long-haired teenagers working to mix the style of Chuck Berry with centuries-old British ballads and Celtic reels, heard “Suzanne” and the crystalline “Bird on a Wire.” Fairport Convention’s electrified covers of these songs may have been the first in the U.K., where he would eventually become revered. “In Fairport, we just responded to the quality of his work,” Richard Thompson, the group’s former guitarist, told Salon via email. “He seemed to be writing as an adult, which wasn’t always a given in the ’60s!”

And while the very best rock songwriters in the 1960s — Bob Dylan, The Beatles, The Stones, The Velvet Underground’s Lou Reed — were using irony and metaphor and other literary devices at a pretty high level, Cohen’s lyrics brought a new intensity and clarity to the field. “The idea of great songwriters as ‘poets’ is a cliché that gets tossed around all the time,” said Alan Light, the author of “The Holy and the Broken,” a book about the improbable success of “Hallelujah.”

“But here you’re dealing with an actual poet — and a writer with the sort of precision and control and mastery of language that is a different degree of difficulty than people who can just, you know, write great songs,” Light said. “A lot of people found an ideal in that, but it didn’t mean they could go and do it.”

Cohen’s appeal, especially as time went on, had to do with his melodies as well: He was more than just a versifier who picked up a guitar, though he was that, too. In a New Yorker profile of Cohen that ran a few weeks before his death, Dylan himself broke down what made Cohen’s melodic lines so indelible. “Even the counterpoint lines — they give a celestial character and melodic lift to every one of his songs,” Dylan told David Remnick in a detailed assessment of Cohen’s style. “As far as I know, no one else comes close to this in modern music.”

Cohen, of course, was older than nearly all of the great figures in ’60s music: He was born the year before Elvis and spent his early career as a writer of poetry and prose. His original plan was to move to Nashville, Tennessee— he was an admirer of the concision of the tradition that country songwriter Harlan Howard described as “three chords and the truth” — but he got caught up in the New York folk scene. Cohen loved the great poets. Some ideas of John Donne, like his tendency to rhapsodize about sex and spirituality at the same time, are central to Cohen’s work. He remained a major fan of the more distilled style of Chuck Berry as well.

There was a hippie or folkie appeal to Cohen’s gentle, fingerpicked acoustic songs. But his music, especially the grim, sardonic, keyboard-driven songs that became more prominent in the ’80s, put a stamp on musicians in alternative and indie-rock movements.

On Sunday night in Los Angeles, Car Seat Headrest’s 24-year-old lead singer, Will Toledo opened his set with the late artist’s song “Field Commander Cohen” and called the Canadian poet his favorite songwriter of all time. (Toledo also sang a fragment of “Sweet Jane,” presumably in honor of Reed who died in 2013 and encored with Bowie’s apocalyptic “Five Years.”)

For Gen Xers — a group born into high divorce rates, frequent recessions, a sense of musical aftermath and a suspicion that the prosperity and confidence of the postwar boom would not last much longer — Cohen was a natural fit. In the early ’90s, tribute albums and cover versions by much younger, off-the-mainstream musicians became frequent. Cohen became a kind of cool, older uncle who told Xers dark bedtime stories in an impassive baritone. They responded to songs that blended devotional seriousness with gallows humor and spiritual aspirations with sexuality.

The title of Cohen’s final album, “You Want it Darker,” could have come from an unreleased B-side from Xer heroes like The Smiths or Husker Dü. And it didn’t hurt that, like Johnny Cash, another often-troubled major musician who became an Xer hero during his own Indian summer, Cohen was a cool, charismatic guy who wore a lot of black.

Nirvana’s Kurt Cobain was one of many indie rockers to fall for Cohen. On the band’s lovely and despairing 1993 song “Pennyroyal Tea,” Cobain sang “Give me a Leonard Cohen afterworld/ So I can sigh eternally.” (The song became a kind of anthem of Cobain’s suicide a year later, and Cohen said that he wished he had been able to meet the Nirvana frontman and talk him out of it.)

But while Nirvana was inspired by Cohen, the Seattle group didn’t sound terribly much like him. (He was covered by everyone from noise-rockers The Jesus and Mary Chain to ukelele virtuoso Jake Shimabukuro.) Other alt and indie artists — Nick Cave, Suzanne Vega, Tindersticks, PJ Harvey, Sparklehorse, Smog, Madeleine Peyroux, Jeff Buckley, Bright Eyes, perhaps even R.E.M. — have borne his mark more clearly. (In some cases, this resemblance includes a deep, deadpan male voice.)

Of musicians working today, the English-born, Western Massachusetts-dwelling singer-songwriter Lloyd Cole may be the most directly indebted to Cohen. His Cohen covers — like his bleak 1971 song “Famous Blue Raincoat,” for instance — are quite close to the originals, and his bittersweet body of work translates the Canadian’s virtues into a post-’60s, alt-rock style.

“If you want to write songs that are not throwaway songs,” Cole said via email, “then you should spend some time studying LC’s songs.” Cohen had a matchless attention to deal and an almost total allergy to lazy writing, Cole said, adding that “‘Famous Blue Raincoat’ doesn’t have a single imperfect syllable.”

Looking closely at Cohen’s songs, Cole said, made him a more taught, more rigorous songwriter. As for interpreting a song like “Raincoat,” he said, it didn’t take much. “I just do it straight,” Cole wrote. “I don’t add anything. It’s so strong it just needs singing.”

* * *

The problem with Cohen as an influence, of course, is that it’s not that tough to sing in a low voice or to combine sacred and profane imagery. But it is really hard to be brilliant and genuinely deep. As Light said, just because you admire it, doesn’t mean you can do it.

Cohen was a notoriously slow songwriter and talked about the pain and effort each song caused him. After 1992’s “The Future,” he didn’t release another album of new material until “Ten New Songs” in 2001. There was a similar gap between 2004’s “Dear Heather” and 2012’s “Old Ideas.”

This was not a guy who just churned it out. It may be why prose writers and intellectuals as different as Pico Iyer, Michael Ondaatje and Henry Louis Gates all admired Cohen: The good ones are all-too-familiar with how strenuous real thinking and writing usually are. He also inspired a kind of devotion in his friends.

What people who saw him onstage might not have fathomed was that he was even more down-to-earth, humble and unimpressed by himself in real life, and even more committed to tending to everyone around him,” Iyer shared via email. “The striking thing about him was that he never took short-cuts, in life or in art, and he gave himself with such amused seriousness to everything that mattered that others were inspired to attempt the same.”

One of the great lost possibilities in contemporary music is that Cohen and Richard Thompson, who would have had a lot to say each other, never met. “I think one of Leonard’s abilities was to write deceptively simple songs,” Thompson said. “As a poet, he could save the complex stuff for a poem, and work the simpler ideas for song, whereas some of us try to shove too much into the song format. But they are deceptively simple — by his own account, worked over and over until they’re polished.”

It’s symbolic of his complicate talent that Cohen’s most famous song, “Hallelujah” — which will be hard to escape for the new few weeks — took him five years to write and first appeared on an album (“Various Positions”) rejected by his record company as being noncommercial.

One of Cohen’s best songs, despite its annoying, synthed-out production, is a number called “Tower of Song,” from 1988’s “I’m Your Man.” In it Cohen sings about a sort of musical monument where the greats dwell: Hank Williams, he tells us, is there. “Now I bid you farewell, I don’t know when I’ll be back,” he says near the end.

It’s hard to figure out where Cohen — raised Jewish, steeped in Buddhist teachings and in some ways a questioning believer — imagined himself ending up after death. But the song may give us as good a hint as we’ll ever get: 

They’re moving us tomorrow to that tower down the track.

But you’ll be hearing from me baby, long after I’m gone. 

I’ll be speaking to you sweetly

From a window in the Tower of Song

Rest in peace, Leonard Cohen.