EVENTUALLY everything, no matter how tarnished by the slings and arrows of outrageous music criticism, can be repackaged for a new generation.
Take Leonard Cohen.
Once, the prince of misery's career reached such a dramatic nadir one scathing reviewer branded him a "boring old drone".
That was 1970 and poor Len had every reason to book himself a lengthy single-room stay at the Chelsea Hotel.
Twenty-five years on, indie darlings were yapping around the curmudgeon's back catalogue like ravenous hounds with a whiff of fox in their nostrils, his renaissance climaxing with Jeff Buckley's majestic version of Hallelujah.
Dear Heather features Cohen songs inspired by literary wild child Byron (Go No More A-Roving), poet Frank Scott (Villanelle For Our Time) and September 11 (On That Day).
Initially Cohen's bleak baritone vocal - there's no singing, just his trademark uncompromising conversational drawl - paints a barren, unrewarding landscape. Further listens, however, reveal a rich tapestry of influences, from the deep, mournful soul of The Letters to the joyous gospel of Because Of, all the way through to the country twirl of Nightingale.
Thankfully, Cohen's laborious gravelly wheeze (less Tom Waits, more a 70-year-old lead weight) is softened by female co-singers who introduce pop's grumpiest pensioner to alien concepts such as tune and harmony.
Every breath sounds like his last, making tales of love and loss echo with Johnny Cash-style Old Testament realism.
Consequently Dear Heather is a hugely emotional, captivating album.
Who's having the last laugh now?
Updated: 09:11 Thursday, November 11, 2004
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