The second time I went to see Courtney Love live, she played a cover of this song - dressed in petticoats, surrounded by roses, her voice cracked; she was some kind of thin gypsy queen. the first time I saw her, she was triumphant, brilliant, greater than I had dared to hope, at the culmination of years of waiting on my part. Magnificent. Vindicated, as she occasionally is.
But this was the second time. The time I wished I hadn't gone at all. The time I had to look away. Because she was too broken. And I couldn't stand to watch it and, worse, I couldn't stand the crowd, who were willing it to happen. Who had paid for a show and wanted a story.
I don't know what Mr Cohen thinks of Ms Love - or, for that matter, her husband's afterworld - but, that night, this song was perfect for her.
It reminds me of secret assignations of my own, too. Things I don't want to - shouldn't - think about. It's the saddest refrain I can think of - "like you would do, for one you loved" - because the inference is always the same: it will never, ever be you.