'Book' will thrill you. If you let it

In the 31-year history of Spoleto Festival USA, there have been any number of Events — yes, the capital 'E' kind.

Composer Philip Glass and poet Leonard Cohen's "Book of Longing" is an Event, and everyone in the Sottile Theatre audience Wednesday night seemed to know it.

Not in the least splashy, as the Zulu dancers, nor as sumptuous as "Tales of Hoffman" nor as breathtaking as the Parsons dance company, "Book" nonetheless engenders the same sense of wonder. Or it can, if you let it.

Both dedicated and longtime Zen Buddhists, Cohen and Glass collaborated on this 90-minute experience that, if nothing else, will remain with you.

While infinitely more sophisticated, this production is not too far removed from the 60s' Beat poets that read in dark coffee bars with some manner of musical accompaniment. Here, the music is rendered by an ensemble that includes strings, keyboard, winds, voice and percussion. The poetry is spoken, sung and projected, and the whole is punctuated with art.

High art this isn't. Cohen's representations, reminiscent of sketches Picasso might have made on a paper napkin, is as simplistic as his poetry. Neither could be more accessible, with most of the poems rhymed conventionally, or using free verse, all in language that is as ordinary as birds and sky and monk's heads.

Glass, no longer the iconoclast, has composed music that ideally complements the words and images. It might be termed post-minimalist, but is nothing if not tuneful, rhythmic, and, while you may think this is heretical, able to be appreciated by the masses. You can detect a little Bach, a little movie music (even if his own), a bit of jazz and minimalism instantly recognizable as signature Glass.

Some achingly beautiful solos for oboe, cello, violin, sax and bass are matched by the four voices, a soprano, a mezzo, a tenor and a bass-baritone. They had virtually no stage business, singing "straight" with pure tones and in superbly matched timbres.

Everybody was amplified, and very carefully conducted by music director/keyboardist Michael Riesman.

Cohen's honest, autobiographical material, both written and drawn, is projected on a screen surrounded by images. It is his voice on the tape. Lighting is varied and an important element: When the hand-written sketch included the words "red-checked shirt now lost," the backdrop went red.

I am not ashamed to admit that having the opportunity simply to see Philip Glass at the keyboards, watching him doff his jacket, cross his legs in a swivel office chair, constitutes a thrill. If you let it.