From the heart, to the heart.

In the late sixties, down every corridor, in every hall of residence, the angst-ridden voice of Leonard Cohen would be heard. I remember that the mournful sounds of Sisters of Mercy or the heart-wrenching Bird on the Wire would be particularly prevalent at exam times, or on Sunday mornings, when the state known as 'post-debauchery depression', had set in.

Following a 'Leonard Cohen Evening' (yes, all universities and colleges worth their salt, would have had one, in those days), I was fortunate to have a friend at Leeds University, who had tickets for a concert featuring the great man himself. In May, we journeyed north to the Leeds Students Union Refectory, a fairly soulless, sixties sort of space, but enlivened on this occasion by being packed to the rafters with devotees of the maestro. Never a comfortable performer, there was a feeling of unpreparedness and a reluctance, which today's pop idols would find cringe-worthy. No special effects, no dance routines, no big screens, just Leonard Cohen on a bare-bones stage with a few backing singers and musicians. However, the simplicity suited his style and we were riveted, as the enchanter cast his spell with songs, poems and well, just his presence. His classics, such as Bird on the Wire, So Long, Marianne, Lady Midnight and a personal favourite of mine, The Partisan, were interspersed with snippets of poetry.

He is known to today's generation for the spiritually deep and compellingly mystical, Hallelujah. It has been covered more than sixty times by everyone from Dylan to Shrek and took Cohen more than two years to write. In that time, he composed more than eighty verses, selecting four for the final album. I think that fact alone gives us a key to his personality: he was a perfectionist, who felt that his performances were not good enough. There were reports of his having to leave the stage, unable to offer his audience what he felt they deserved. It is true that he sang in what can charitably be described as a monotone, but his performances were electrifying, because he spoke a universal language: like all good poets, he was able to capture our hopes and fears, setting them down in words that were accessible. His style was lean and incisive. He spoke from the heart, to the heart.

From someone who has 'lines in her face', R.I.P Leonard Cohen.

Photograph: My old, battered copy of the Greatest Hits album. I did have 'Songs from a Room', but it was binned many years ago.