It is autumn of 2000, and Leonard Cohen is in Montreal for the funeral of Pierre Trudeau, with whom he had shared a mutual admiration and a few common traits. He visits the hospital bed of Irving Layton, his dear friend and poetic inspiration, who has been in frail health. They share an illegal smoke in the hospital lobby, and talk turns to their favourite game.
Irving: Leonard, have you noticed any decline in your sexual interest?
Leonard: As a matter of fact I have, Irving.
Irving: I'm relieved to hear that, brother.
Leonard: So I take it, Irving, that you yourself have experienced some decline in your sexual interest.
Irving: I have.
Leonard: When did you first notice this decline?
Irving: Oh, about the age of 16 or 17.

That's Irving, the poetic genius I am privileged to call both mentor and friend.
»Me, too,« opines Leonard Cohen agreeably, »except I think I might more readily consider Frank Scott or Louis Dudek mentors or teachers; but, even there, the lines often blur because of the enterprise in which we were all more or less willing participants and the fact it was happening then, in the '50s and '60s, in those days... (...) I feel utterly blessed by Irving's friendship and regard. During those days, it was quite magical. There was a kinship, a common ground, an atmosphere that, to my mind, was unique. Ours has always been a mutually rewarding friendship; we complement, support, like and generally listen to each other. That's why I wrote – well, I might or might not call it a poem – »Layton's Question« (for Irving):

Always after I tell him what I intend to do next,
Layton solemnly inquires:
Leonard, are you sure you're doing
the wrong thing?

You know, he confides without missing a beat, I've been rereading his poems a lot lately. I've even gone so far as to compose some music for a few of them. The gratifying thing about reading his work now is that it grows with you. The older I get, the more his poems reveal. I'm knocked out by the richness, the resonance, the generosity, the hard intelligence, the clarity, the passion and above all else, the great great aching tenderness which remains very much a part of who he is and what he means to me. I would say – adds Cohen – in some indescribable way, it's ultimately about an absence of cynicism. It has never been an attractive strategy, in my opinion. I never saw it as one, at any rate. I tend to find things more amusing or bemusing or perplexing or... But, such things do not reduce me to cynicism. We are all, after all, human beings. Irving can be acerbic, bombastic, vitriolic and ruthlessly lucid; but, he always maintains and even nurtures a generosity of spirit that precludes cynicism as a viable position from which to either write, teach or live. I think that may be where his greatness resides.«

The music for »Go No More A-Roving« was written completely by Leonard. He asked me to do an arrangement for it, so I went over, and he played it for me. We then talked about a possible feel for the arrangement. The relaxed shuffle was the direction Leonard wanted to try first. I recorded a reference cassette of him singing and playing the melody, and then went back to my studio to start on the track. This one didn't come quickly or easily. We worked on the arrangement off and on over several months, trying different tempos and feels, taking things out and putting them back, shelving and unshelving, changing keys, looking for a certain elusive quality. Sometimes I think I'm still working on it! Finally we ended up with something very close to where we started that everyone seemed to like. Bob Sheppard's sax was the icing on the cake on a track that we felt defied description, but just sounded good.