“Oh, I love that song!” she exclaimed. “It’s so spiritual.”
They lay together, sharing a pillow, soaking in the
afterglow of slow, gentle lovemaking that capped the evening of a second date. Nondescript
instrumental music played in the other room, and only when she mentioned it did
he recognize the tune.
He was vaguely disappointed. Nothing wrong, actually, just
that earlier that evening he had been really high on her. When they had met in
the faculty lounge a week ago, she had struck him as sensitive and deep. They
had talked for a long time about how feelings dominate our decisions, even
those that seem completely rational at the moment. “I know,” she had said,
“that I’m a wuss. I let my feelings keep me from doing what I know I should
do.”
It had amused him at the time. She had such a sunny manner
about her, without seeming frivolous. Her admission made him protest. “I doubt
that. Maybe you’re just more conscious of the things you don’t have the nerve
to take on.”
They had dinner together last weekend, and became more
comfortable with each other after a couple of drinks, but agreed that sex on a
first date would be rushing things too much. Tonight he felt ready, and when he
suggested they go to his apartment after dinner, she readily agreed.
He’d heard the Leonard Cohen song, Hallelujah, so many times
sung by vocalists who seemed to have no idea what the lyrics were saying that
he got to tuning it out when another version was played. “Great tune,” he said,
“but I wouldn’t call the song ‘spiritual’. Some vocalists leave out the
meaningful verses.”
She chuckled, and looked over at him. “I admit I don’t
understand some of the lyrics.”
“Have you heard Jeff Buckley’s version?”
She frowned. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“’It’s a cold and broken Hallelujah,’” he quoted.
“But it doesn’t sound ‘cold and broken,’ when they sing it.”
“C’mon,” he said, getting out of bed and heading for the
living room.
Joining him as he rummaged through the songs on his
computer, she laughed. “Here we are, naked and unashamed, playing music.” She
wrapped a light throw from the sofa around her and sat down to watch him.
“Here’s Jeff Buckley on YouTube,” he said, plugging the
computer into the TV. “The video seemed harsh to me the first time I watched
it, but it fits the mood of the piece. Listen to the words.”
He began the video. After a guitar intro, Jeff Buckley
began:
I
heard there was a secret chord
That David played and it pleased the Lord
But you don't really care for music, do you?
Well it goes like this the fourth, the fifth
The minor fall and the major lift
The baffled king composing Hallelujah
Hallelujah,
Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Well
your faith was strong but you needed proof
You saw her bathing on the roof
Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you
She tied you to her kitchen chair
She broke your throne and she cut your hair
And from your lips, she drew the Hallelujah
Hallelujah,
Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Baby,
I've been here before
I've seen this room and I've walked this floor
You know, I used to live alone before I knew you
And I've seen your flag on the marble arch
And Love is not a victory march
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah
Hallelujah,
Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Well,
there was a time when you let me know
What's really going on below
But now you never show that to me, do you?
But remember, when I moved in you
And the holy dove was moving too
And every breath, we drew was Hallelujah
Hallelujah,
Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Maybe
there's a God above
But, all I've ever learned from love
Was how to shoot somebody who outdrew you
And it's not a cry that you hear at night
It's not somebody who's seen the light
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah
Hallelujah,
Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah
As he switched the video off, he turned to look at her.
Tears were streaming down her cheeks. “It’s so sad!” she said softly. “He
sounds so hurt.”
He put his arms around her and held her for a long time,
thinking that perhaps he had misjudged her after all.
. . .
The first time I really listened to the song “Hallelujah”
after hearing it on the air—I don’t know how many times—was k.d. Lang ‘s
version sung at the Vancouver Olympics, a track that iTunes sent me gratis a
few years ago. That got me curious, partly because of what seemed quite odd
lyrics and partly because the melody caught me—and still does. I googled the
lyrics, and then explored the original by Leonard Cohen, and listened to what
some reviewers considered the best covers (including Willie Nelson). Since
then, I’ve listened more or less carefully to hundreds of versions.
My reactions to those versions have been mixed. First,
Cohen’s early versions (his lyrics changed over time) were not “religious” as
most of the other singers have suggested. His was a lament addressed to a
lover, and the biblical references, to King David, especially with Bathsheba,
and other ancient situations, were all about personal relationships. The
interjection “Hallelujah” was pure irony. The version I like the most (because
Cohen mumbles and I can’t understand all he sings) is by Jeff Buckley, who
makes the most of the irony and the lamentation. Unfortunately, the only video
of Buckley singing it is visually unappealing. Nearly all of the other singers
I’ve heard leave out the sexual verses altogether, which negates the irony and
turns it into a curious kind of hymn. The ancient references don’t carry any
meaning except that they come from the Bible—so they (and the song itself) must
be religious.
The song is a little like “The Rose” with a melody
that is heartfelt and easy to sing, like most hymns. The lyrics of The Rose,
however, are suggestive of hope, even if the botany described leaves something
to be desired. Both songs have a great appeal these days. Personally, I’d be
happy to not hear either one for a long time. My first reaction to hearing another
one is “Oh, no, not that again!” But my ear goes right to it, the way it does
to the final aria by Madame Butterfly. (At least that’s usually sung in
Italian, so I don’t have to understand the words.) I’m pretty romantic in my
tastes.
A lot of young singers choose “Hallelujah” to show their
skills, and I guess I’ll tolerate them. Still, every time I hear the song
I’m disappointed. I miss the original meaning of the song. While I wouldn’t
want to hear it, as it was written by Cohen, so many times (his lyrics are not
exactly uplifting), they have meaning—which the popular covers do not.
With completely new lyrics, it could be a popular and moving
hymn. Or translated into Italian. I’m sure that many of the lyrics of famous Puccini
arias would grate just as much on modern ears translated literally from
Italian.
Might even elicit a “cold and broken ‘Hallelujah’.”
