Bruce Cockburn slides up on his bike, emerging from the dark night into the circle of light around the Delta Hotel in downtown Montreal. He’s an apparition of recent promo shots, wearing a dark suit and a flashing red light to pedal across town. He’s five minutes early.
“An indulgence,” he says of the new bike — which is a funny thing to hear from somebody who’s sold 7 million albums over his thirty-three-year music career.
The parking-lot attendant eyes us curiously as we amble toward the Saint Lawrence Seaway, Cockburn pushing the bike. In the restaurant we talk over raw caribou and Italian red wine. The life of the man across from me is at once a mystery and an open secret, where radical politics, a complex Christianity, and platinum record sales converge.
