This was in 1979 I had just quit the booze can biz and was transgressing into the Movie biz.
A Night with Leonard
ut
My usual haunt was Club 22 at the Windsor Arms, a spot where I always felt at ease, my own enclave of comfort and confidence. One evening, as I meandered into the familiar space, the faces that typically welcomed me were absent, so I settled for a drink at the bar. While scanning the room, a lone figure caught my attention—Leonard Cohen.
With uncharacteristic boldness, I approached and introduced myself. "Hey Leonard, I'm Gary LeDrew, a friend of Lesley McDonells. She often speaks of you." Leonard’s eyes immediately sparkled with recognition. "The lovely Lesley. Have you seen her lately?" he inquired. I mentioned that I hadn’t seen much of her since she married that St. Nicholas fellow. This exchange about our mutual friend quickly eased us into further conversation.
Being from Montreal, I shared my personal history with Leonard, a man whose own ties to the city ran deep. He told me he was in Toronto for an art gallery opening on Dundas Street, featuring artworks inspired by his songs. Though obliged to attend the next evening, he didn’t seem overly enthusiastic about it.
Our dialogue extended deep into the night as we drank and traversed topics ranging from local gossip to weighty philosophical ideas. Leonard revealed his discomfort in Toronto, confessing he had no close friends in the city. Despite his burgeoning fame, evidenced by three released albums and an ongoing tour, he was surprisingly humble and introspective. The evening proved splendid as we talked about shared friends, art, and life's eccentricities.
Close to closing time, Leonard extended an invitation to accompany him to the gallery event. His gesture was genuine, but I had a significant commitment—reuniting with my daughters for the first time in five years.
The next day unfolded with unexpected intensity. A surprise phone call from my ex-wife brought astonishing news—she had separated from the man who had been preventing me from seeing our daughter Sarah. She proposed I could pick Sarah up that very evening, along with her younger sister Shaleen. Overwhelmed with joy, I agreed without a second thought.
I recounted this unexpected development to Leonard. With a mix of gentle persuasion and insistence, he entreated, "Look man, I really need you there. I barely know anyone and could use the support; you're familiar with the art scene." Despite my protestations about reconnecting with my daughters after such a long absence, Leonard reassured me, "Bring them along. I'll manage it."
And so, I arrived at the gallery opening with Sarah and Shaleen in tow. The evening morphed into a heady mix of wine, laughter, and youthful chaos as my daughters roamed the gallery, supported warmly by Leonard. Despite a couple of formal interviews, Leonard quickly immersed himself in the relaxed environment, always with a glass of wine in hand. His warmth extended effortlessly to the children, culminating in an enduring memory of him holding Sarah in one arm and Shaleen in the other—a true vignette of tender generosity amidst artistic ambiance.
Eventually, I took the girls home, their spirits lifted by the unexpected adventure, and prepared for our Sunday plans. Before Leonard returned to Montreal, we managed another brief meetup for drinks. Reflecting my casual manner of the era, we didn't exchange contact information—I simply assumed our paths would cross again.
In the interim years that followed, my life took various turns, leading me to places like Uxbridge and back to Club 22. On my return visits, I learned Leonard had asked about me a few times, but fate kept us apart. Despite occasional efforts to reconnect—like trying to send messages when he toured through—I never heard back.
It was almost four decades later before any word about Leonard re-emerged in my life. The ephemeral yet significant night shared with him stands out vividly in my memory, shaped by deep conversations, an impromptu family reunion, and the serendipity that colored that extraordinary night unforgettable.
0 Comments