The Man With The Golden Voice. Another Music Story With a Moral by Charles K. Ribakoff No, this is not another Springsteen column. Writing about how great The Boss is, much as I love him, is kinda like shooting poodles in a barrel. (OK, just wanted to see if you were paying attention). Not all that obvious, but there’s not all you can say that’s new. And it’s been…done. Enough. For today’s music fable, boys and girls, we’re going to have to return to the great folk music scare of the ‘60s, when all that fiddle and banjo crap nearly caught on. It was powered by the beginning of the singer / songwriter phenomina, the hip to be miserable scene. The old, “I’ve suffered for my music, and now it’s your turn,” routine. In that group, which likely was propelled by some guy named Dylan (who, in truth, had his moments), there was a singularly depressed and depressing Canadian (no redundancy intended) named Leonard Cohen. You’ve likely never heard of him, and there’s not a lot of reason why you should. He had the voice of a man who gargled regularly with razor blades, and he had mastered, I think, 3 whole ...