He did them his way
IN A 2003 BBC documentary, Jeff Buckley’s drummer Matt Johnson testified to the effect of Grace upon its fans. “He could awaken people’s sense of who they were… you feel like doing something you never do when you listen to music like that.” I was at the Garage in Islington during Buckley’s first UK visit when Radiohead, then working on The Bends, came to see if they could believe their ears. We all know where that evening took Thom Yorke’s voice and, by extension, Coldplay, Muse et al. Buckley had enough stuff to fuel a generation. One record was all it took. And yet here is another. On each of the posthumous releases there is music that shouldn’t have been made public, being either too sketchy, too clumsily performed or, in the case of one of the lures here, Dream Of You And I, not even a song, just a fragment of music with Buckley describing a dream he’d had. “As long as you got that on tape I’ll remember that,” he says when it’s over. We’ve just listened to a voice memo. That became You And I, notable for its opening line about the “calm below that poisoned river wild”, whose own trial run was issued on Sketches For My Sweetheart The Drunk. It doesn’t appear on this album named after it. Which is the kind of irritating editorial decision that has marred these releases. The material here, covers of Bob Dylan, Sly Stone, The Smiths, Led Zeppelin and Bukka White, came from a session cut shortly after Buckley signed to Columbia, to capture the atmosphere of his electrifying solo performances at the Sin-é cafe on St Mark’s Place, New York. On this evidence it’s safe to say it didn't work, so they recorded him in situ and the Live At Sin-é EP became his debut release. In that documentary, Buckley admits to perfectionism, because he knows an album is forever, not fleeting like a live performance. He didn’t live to see the age where everything a musician does – soundchecks, rehearsals, shrugged off cable TV interviews, you name it – is caught in the amber of YouTube to eternally chip away at the magic. Dream Of You And I would be interesting in a podcast, but, other than as a bonus track, doesn’t belong on an album by a man who had the power to unnerve his idols.
Like Jimmy Page and Robert Plant, who loved Grace and also went to witness him live. “It was scary,” said Page. Though he might admire the faithful Bukka White cover, Poor Boy, I can’t imagine Page being scared by the scrappy version of Night Flight – nobody’s favourite Led Zep song – or indeed anyone thinking of it, “Wow, the world’s gotta hear this.” Grace was a word of mouth classic, passed on by people who listened awestruck to nothing else for a while, a practically flawless work. This is a record of someone clearing his throat. Someone gifted, obviously, but still finding his path. Upside? There’s an intense first crack at Grace itself, sounding impatient to be born. A cover of Calling You, from ’80s cult movie Bagdad Café (another version appears on the expanded Sin-é EP), that’s pretty shiversome. And I prefer Buckley singing Smiths songs to Morrissey, though Jeff pays homage to Mozza’s excruciatingly flat ad libs at the close of I Know It’s Over by leaning out of tune himself, unable to shake off his skill at mimicry. I’ve no doubt that had he lived, Buckley would have made albums of hard rock, soul and, er, Pakistani devotional music by now, veered all over the place like his dad, not in tribute but because he couldn't help himself, the changeling who adapted to his associates and his surroundings, his head filled with so many musics. I’m sure his trajectory would have been akin to that of Bowie, starward then across the universe at will. Yes, like every fan, when he died I wished there was more music to enjoy, but it would have been way cooler if Grace had been the final word, leaving his reputation unsullied by ho-hum affairs like this. Anyway, it’s done now. Worth a listen, but not game-changing.
A promising young singer makes debut recordings for his label with one guitar, one original song and eight cover versions. By Jim Irvin.