HOLDING THE NOTE

Portraits of musicians who blossomed anew late in their careers.

Remnick, the intellectually nimble editor of the New Yorker, has lately been focusing closely on world politics, but he finds time to profile a number of artists who, having enjoyed early success, “were all grappling, in music and in their own lives, with their diminishing gifts and mortality.” The best way to grapple is to maintain “the spirit of sostenuto” that keeps one at work composing, performing, teaching, and spreading the word. “Sometimes, when I go to hear music, I feel like a weekend naturalist of the Anthropocene, feverishly trying to catch a last glimpse of some glorious species.” Regarding the venerated Leonard Cohen, Remnick finds the Canadian-born poet, novelist, and later Zen Buddhist priest in a moment of somberness wrought by grief, with one loss in particular the Marianne who had inspired so many of his most famous songs. “The depth of his voice makes Tom Waits sound like Eddie Kendricks,” writes Remnick of Cohen’s impressive rumble. Keith Richards, having improbably survived to the age of 80, remembers that his first job as a member of the Rolling Stones was to turn audiences on to the blues, work he continues to this day; the improbability of his survival, of course, hinges on his “heroic” consumption of drugs, now a thing of the past. Richards may trade on “roguish charm,” while Paul McCartney has assiduously built up a fan base that “is the general population.” There’s dish here—no love lost between Mavis Staples and Aretha Franklin—and plenty of astute observation, but the central point is that many older artists will go offstage only kicking and screaming—a little diminished, true, but full of fight, as a closing image of Patti Smith belting out “People Have the Power” suggests.

A perceptive pleasure for literate music lovers.