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| Dear Jeff...
Happy Thanksgiving. It's Turkey Day 2000, a few short years since you passed on May 29, 1997. It seems only fitting that on a day when almost everyone in the country stops what they are doing to share good fortunes with loved ones, I write to you for the first time to express all that your music means to me. You once said that your interest in music was to give back to it what it gave to you, and that you wished for your audience to take from it whatever they wanted. This letter is my attempt to document just what that was for me while adding yet another acknowledgement to a growing archive that you more than served your debt to music with the body of work left to us. You may rest easy. I've been a fan since 1995, when I bought your full-length debut, Grace, a year after it came out. But I didn't consider myself "devoted" until relatively recently. I'd heard "Last Goodbye" a couple times on the radio while driving between home and school back in New Jersey. That was six years ago now, but the memory is vivid. The first time was while emerging from beneath the overpass at the intersection of North Ave. and Central in Westfield. It was unlike anything else on the air at the time, but sounded strangely familiar nonetheless. The jerky-syncopated rhythm guitar (did you ever listen closely to the bass line of The Cure's "Fascination Street"?; you must have) beneath a meandering, dynamic melody fit perfectly in my ear. And hearing you sweetly beg for a final kiss allowed me to imagine, at long last, the sound of which I dreamed was possible, but until this point couldn't quite put the pieces together in my mind: Morrissey with a libido and American sensibilities. Amazing. Around that time I began, after years of growing up adoring Queen, The Smiths, and The Cure, to finally understand why it was that a man who could pour his heart out in falsetto would automatically command my respect and full attention. Not only did I share similar emotions that you so eloquently expressed, but deep down I knew that if I was ever going to be able to fully embrace those feelings of my own, I would need to do it through musical expression. Reluctantly, I began to accept that there was no other way for me, just as you accepted there was no other way for you. But as I'm sure you know, when you're a casually self-taught guitar player whose reticence at times seems cavernous, the path to realizing a dream of honest expression through music (a quest that I now know is imperative for me and most definitely beyond my control) appears dark and labyrinthine. In Grace I found a map. It would be five years until I found a candle. I listened to Grace for a few months and the rest of the album didn't immediately get under my skin as easily as "Last Goodbye". This is most likely the same reason why widespread recognition escaped it then. I was confused by the music's texture, the complex arrangements, the unexpected, esoteric cover songs and the slow developing dreamscapes that together were simultaneously beautiful and disturbing, foreign and familiar. I listened to it until I could sing along with most of the songs. But my impatience won me over, and Grace fell out my stereo's rotation. I didn't even tape it for my Walkman or car. I suppose I just wasn't ready for it (I imagine the same was true for many who brushed off Hendrix or Bowie when they got started). And I wouldn't be until one day earlier this year when I saw you perform live at the Noe Valley Ministry in San Francisco. It was September. Your Mom, your fan club, and ChangeMusic San Francisco were sponsoring a night to honor your life and music by showing, for the first time ever, the French documentary Fall In Light, as well as a new DVD of your performance at the Cabaret Metro in Chicago in 1995. I read about the event the day before in a pamphlet handed out at the ChangeMusic Conference. It was barely promoted around town, but when I saw the listing my curiosity was piqued. In the four years since I put Grace on the shelf, my guitar and overall musical confidence had improved tremendously, thanks in large part to following through on a plan that included working out songs in cafes and open mic nights, and surrounding myself with musician friends. All the thoughts and feelings that used to be scattered across journals, drawings, and photographs were now channeled through song, and it was working. This progress reinforced a notion I had been developing that an ideal honesty with myself could in fact exist through musical expression. But the progress, while substantial, wasn't quite enough to wipe away lingering doubts. So naturally, when I realized I had a chance to get to know you again I knew I wouldn't pass it up. As the day approached, I could sense something big in store, but I couldn't quite put a finger on it. You're getting a lot of hype these days, so maybe some of it was seeping in. Or perhaps I sensed larger forces at play. In either case, I was excited by the unexpected opportunity, a second chance, to get to know you. Considering the lack of promotion for the event, I took my time, grabbed a burrito and strolled down to the venue 20 minutes before show time. I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw a line formed around the block — all to catch a concert DVD and documentary on a big screen TV in a church! No, the screen wasn't that big. Curious. While waiting in line I met a local guitarist who eagerly detailed his bootleg collection, going off on nuances of various performances, one night to the next, from around the world. I simply nodded, feeling ill-prepared to add anything worthwhile other than, "Nice! Yeah, I can't wait." Pretty weak. We proceeded inside after buying two of the last tickets on sale and luckily grabbed two seats. Just then a blond girl sits in the solo seat next to us, out of breath and obviously relieved. Her name is Stefanie and she drove up from L.A. that day just to watch the videos. My God, I thought, where am I? Who are these people? And what did he do to them? More importantly, what am I getting myself into? Not much later, the guy who had booked the venue (as well as San Francisco's Slim's Club) for the past 20 years introduced the films by admitting that the time you played there live several years ago was the best show he has ever seen. In 20 years of booking shows! The lights dimmed, the last of the fortunate few to crammed into the back for a standing room snuggle, and I settled in. For the next three hours I was overwhelmed by your life and music. First, the French-produced documentary, "Fall In Light" recounted the events that led to you establishing yourself as nothing short of the successor to the throne of rock and roll left vacant by Kurt Cobain's death. Found footage, interviews, live performances, and news clips told the tale from your days getting started in L.A. to your solo explorations on the Lower East Side of New York City; the intimate moments coming to terms with the relationship with your father, Tim Buckley, and his music; the realization of your musical genius as your career finally began to take off after recording Grace in Bearsville Studios in Woostock, NY; and finally with your tragic and untimely death at the hands of a hidden, violent undertow on a tributary to the Mississippi River. It portrayed you as a fragile, brilliant, sensitive, powerful, quirky, at times lonely and others funny, altogether beautiful person. To your Mom's displeasure, it was quick to play up and continually revisit the tragic accident that let you slip from this world on the same day that your bandmates, arrived in Memphis to record what was to be your second album, My Sweetheart The Drunk. To me it was an enlightening experience, which laid the foundation for the truth to come: your music.
There was a brief intermission during which your Mom fielded questions from the audience. Still interested in the learning process that helped you realize your potential, and by this point dumbfounded by your divine talent, I raise my hand to ask a simple question, "Did Jeff ever have formal musical training?" Your Mom, curtly said, "No, he was playing Al DiMeola at age 15. Next question." OK. Sorry. The full concert at Cabaret Metro was next. And it is an amazing performance. While watching it I couldn't help but wonder how many skipped heartbeats you were responsible for. How many atmospheres of lost breath? The images come to mind as I try to describe your performance are the that of either a holy wind blowing through you or an axis mundi on the stage where you stand (a place/moment where/when the sacred and profane open up to one another). It simply must be experienced because apparently in life, as on record, you were all about the nuance and detail surrounding the magic present in any given moment in time. I was floored. I left the venue pretty much unable to contain myself until I got my guitar in my hands. Even then I wasn't quite sure what to do with it. A flood of thoughts about how much I just learned about myself from watching you perform your songs rushed over me. They continued to flow as I picked up from where I left off back in '95 by listening to as much of your music as I could get into my ears by learning to sing and play your songs, and by digging to feel the depth of your expression. That night I realized that I had the candle in the form of your subsequent and live recordings with which to read the map I originally found in Grace. The next day I went and bought all of your released recordings to compliment my copy of Grace: * The debut EP, Live At Sin-e (1993) I've been orienting myself almost daily since that night, and have found a new, infinite world even in the same songs that I've known now for five years. Some of the ways that I use your music: Vocals: I find that warming up my vocal chords and working on my vocal range is best served by singing "Mojo Pin." Sometimes "Last Goodbye," but the former song's melody is slower to develop and allows for hanging on notes longer, which works well getting started. The vocal range on both pushes mine to its limits, and I'm continually amazed by what is possible when you have a good example to look to. Crossover: I often wondered whether it was possible for a white boy to successfully pull off R&B on the level of Prince or Al Green. "Everybody Here Wants You" suggests that it is. With the genre bending going on these days between rock and hip-hop, and hip-hop and R&B, it's time to pick up from where you left off and explore avenues that have been, until now, somewhat restricted access to us. Songwriting: When I'm looking for inspiration, I marvel at the maturity of "Lover, You Should Have Come Over" in both lyrical expression and chord progression. Trajectory: If I need an example of what type of dynamic range a song is capable of, I struggle, but attempt to imagine the breadth and angle of trajectory taken by your energy on "What Will You Say". It's wider, steeper and further reaching than anything in it's class. Expression: And when I struggle to let go of the inhibitions that hold me back from truly communicating my feelings through my own music, I put my headphones on and let "Hallelujah" wash over me. Each listen is like a fresh start. Well, it's getting late and I'd like to close this letter by thanking you for everything you have given to me as an aspiring musician, to others like me, to music in general, and the world at large: For being the first legit reason I've heard in a while to consider paying a subscribing fee for music; For producing records that only get better with time; For bringing back the well-crafted, dramatic finale to rock and roll — not since Freddy Mercury and Queen have we seen it done as well; For a guitar solo that redefines the phrase for today's standards (DVD version of "Kangaroo"), while in the process tossing a bone of credibility to rock guitar's roots; For making "Hallelujah" your own and making Leonard Cohen proud; For showing young men that, with good reason, it is O.K. to cry in public; For trusting us with your delicate interior; For giving your life to the endeavor of sharing your music with the world; And, lastly, for being living proof that living forever is a real possibility. You were high beams all the way. You existed in the truest sense of the word, and you placed no barrier between your audience and your deepest inner self. Now I understand why in your videos there are often ethereal beams of light descending upon you from above, and why the photo on the back of Grace depicted you floating above the staircase. I know because I feel. And I've never been so sure that I truly spotted an angel. May you rest in peace. Sincerely, |
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