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2001-07-29 / 10:08 p.m. ~Jeff Buckley~ I knew of his death before I knew of his life, read about his music before I knew if I'd even heard it, so I had to watch a live concert performance from '95 on MTV2 tonight when I saw it was going to be on. Now I think I have heard a song or two of his, on the college radio station I listen to - it's really the only radio I listen to lately, all day at work. Watching him perform was a sort of hypnotic experience, gave me chills at times, and made me think of other male singer/songwriters with similar intensity, people like Jim Morrison and Kurt Cobain. I thought of how I feel when I see footage of them performing live, how I wish I could still see them, in person, still hear them sing, live. It's great to have the performances on tape to watch again and again, but it's so sad when talented people die young. I read all about Jeff Buckley's death, read the excerpt from David Browne's book on Buckley, in Entertainment Weekly, and his article before he decided to write the book. Clearly, Browne is a bit hypnotized himself. Buckley had decided to go swimming in a river near his home, out with his friend, and jumped in the fast running current, in his clothes, boots and all. The weight of his wet clothing, and the swiftness, the strength of the current, took him down, and maybe his lack of will took him down too. Another tortured, talented soul leaves this plane. It makes for great copy, it's a great story, filled with semi-sordid details, real tragedy kind of stuff, the kind that makes you want to read more. Buckley's father Tim Buckley was a singer/songwriter as well, and again I've not heard his music either. Both of them very lanky and handsome, dark, mysterious good looks. But now I've seen what Jeff had, at least, besides an amazing voice which seemed to travel up and down several octaves. A real presence. He sang with closed eyes, this concert, two years before his death by drowning. He was passionate and intense, his music was ethereal and mostly unclassifiable. Guitar rock, mostly, two guitars, a bass and drums, but nothing like I'd heard before. One song really rocked out, and I thought he would have made a great punk band leader. Sweating, standing in place, singing up and down the scales, words I couldn't always understand, but could tell meant everything to him, he was beautiful, and looked even younger than his 28 years. His shirt finally opened to reveal a hairless, boyish chest, playing two or three, or more different guitars, really beautiful and haunting melodies which rambled, went off in too many directions, only the final song had a tune one might remember. It sounded like a folk standard perhaps, and I wondered if it was maybe one of his father's, the way Loudon Wainwright III resurrected "Handful of Dust" that his dad had written, and played it sometimes to close a show. Another beautiful haunting melody. It just feels so strange to know about a person's death, then watch him perform live, like he's still here, like maybe one could go see him at a show in town some day. No, he tried to swim with his jeans on, his boots on, and wasn't he drinking too? Wasn't the water colder than he thought? What was he thinking when he went down? About his music, writing another song in his head? I'm glad I know his music now, I can put the details away and hear what he wanted to be heard. I plan to buy the only album he recorded. I want to hear it again, close my eyes and listen to what he had to give, what he left behind as permanence. Cost of the War in Iraq
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