Leonard Cohen at Wembley: after 42 years, the old 'bastard' still mesmerises

Flashback to the August bank holiday weekend, 1970: it is about 2am and Leonard Cohen, after being woken from his slumbers, is ready to follow the electrifying Jimi Hendrix on to the stage at the Isle of Wight festival to play his first gig in Britain. After inexcusably sleeping through most of Hendrix, who would be dead within weeks, I am also stirring. And what an awakening it proves to be. A callow and wide-eyed 15-year-old, captivated by the beautiful idea of peace and love, man, I am about to have a transcendental experience that is nothing to do with the Afghan black we have been smoking. For the next hour and a half or so, I will be listening to one of the greatest artists to emerge from the sixties. That morning, before he begins his mesmerising set, there is a magical interlude, which I can still see in my mind's eye: Cohen asks each of the 600,000 of us, or at least the ones still awake, to light a match so that he can locate us in the dark; he wants to see us "sparkle like fireflies". Now, 42 years on, as he takes to the stage in the less romantic, antiseptic surroundings of Wembley Arena, to play the first of two nights in Britain as part of a tour to promote his album Old Ideas, countless lights flicker in the audience. This time, though, they emanate from mobile phones rather than Swan Vestas. The "lazy bastard living in a suit", as he self-deprecatingly describes himself on Going Home, one of his charming new songs, is 77, an old man now, and I am no longer a teenager, but what the hell. He practically runs on to the stage, elegantly dressed in a suit, of course, and a hat. And when, as the second song, he launches into The Future, I am mesmerised all over again. Give me back the Berlin Wall Give me Stalin and St Paul I've seen the future, brother: it is murder For me, the essence of Leonard Cohen is his ability to skewer the absurdities of the human condition and, increasingly, to do it with wry as well as mordant humour. Like all great performers, he has the power to transport. But, because he is first and foremost a poet, it is the words that grip you. Listening to him is emotional, uplifting and, yes, a spiritual experience, and not just because his songs are full of religious allusions. Hallelujah, a life affirming song covered by scores of artists, is not about God or religion: it's about love. (There are those that argue that God is love, but that's another story). Your faith was strong but you needed proof You saw her bathing on the roof Her beauty in the moonlight overthrew you She tied you to a kitchen chair She broke your throne, and she cut your hair And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah Hallelujah, Hallelujah Hallelujah, Hallelujah As Cohen begins to sing Hallelujah here, he is on his knees. And, indeed, he probably spends about a fifth of his performance in this position, which cannot be easy for a man of his age. Then again, he was ordained as a Buddhist monk in the 1990s so he must be accustomed to it. He gently mocks the effects of ageing in an inspired rendition of Tower of Song: Well, my friends are gone and my hair is grey I ache in the places where I used to play So do we all, Leonard, so do we all. But he remains sprightly and, despite the warm evening and the suit and hat, it appears that more than three hours on stage is no sweat. Moreover, Cohen is, and will remain, a ladies' man. And, it seems, the attraction is mutual: many women of a certain age virtually squeal with delight as he begins a rousing version of I'm Your Man: If you want a lover I'll do anything you ask me to And if you want another kind of love I'll wear a mask for you Obviously, the voice is not what it was, but then it was always more suited to poetry recitation; it never has been much of a singing voice. Cohen knows this, of course, and increasingly depends on the sublime voices of his two backing singers, the Webb Sisters, Charley and Hattie, from Kent and his long-time collaborator Sharon Robinson. He shows his appreciation by telling them, only half jokingly: "Without you, they wouldn't come to see me." After he skips back on stage for a second encore, including a singalong So Long, Marianne, still the audience craves more and, gentleman that he is, Cohen is probably inclined to give us what we want. But the "authorities", he says, have decreed that he must not break an 11.30pm curfew. Back in 1970, when we faux hippies were fighting the "authorities" on every front, a misty Monday morning dawn was breaking over the Isle of Wight by the time Leonard Cohen finally said so long ...