Jeff Buckley, Borderline, London
Melody Maker: March 26, 1994
By Joy Press
His voice is both a godsend and a millstone.
Swooping and melting in muezzin arpeggios, Jeff Buckley's voice is a genetic remnant of his father, Tim Buckley. But that's not why so many people are here tonight. Second-generation saplings rarely inherit the genius of their famous parents ( think of Julian Lennon, Ziggy Marley), but Buckley is a 27-year-old songwriter coming into his own, transcending potential comparisons with a blindingly good London debut.
Jeff's been the darling of the New York music industry for a few years now, the name every A&R man loves to drop. His work with the band Gods and Monsters, a turbulent haze of experimentation, has given way to the stripped down, sensuous sound of his current solo material-a sort of jazzy, bluesy "cosmic folk". His songs are nimble and diffuse; they branch off and loop skywards, returning to earth before overreaching themselves.
Though it's just Buckley onstage, he makes an epic noise. On "Mojo Pin", his guitar is blurry and frenetic as it pulls away from the vocals, scattering in several directions at once. Buckley looks like a teenager, thin and gangly inside his white T-shirt. His speaking voice is boyishly high, and the enraptured audience laughs and applauds as he chugs down a pint of Guinness with a mock-manly gesture. I'm told that he chooses a different persona for every gig, he was "raunchy" in Sheffield apparently.
Tonight it seems he's opted for "guileless and angelic' as evidenced by his take on Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah" as a ballad that cultivates pious delicacy with its cradling guitar and choirboy chorus. "Eternal Life" is a more cynical, harder edged number, and the final song gives way to melancholy, wallowing in vocal excesses (though just the right amount) and lyrical weariness: "I feel too young to hold on and too old to break free and run'.
By taking such vocal risks, Buckley occasionally steers towards overwrought blues cliche, but he always soars clear again. Mostly, he radiates an incandescence that's too unassuming to be called "star quality". But for lack of a better word, I guess that's what I'd call it.
His voice is both a godsend and a millstone.
Swooping and melting in muezzin arpeggios, Jeff Buckley's voice is a genetic remnant of his father, Tim Buckley. But that's not why so many people are here tonight. Second-generation saplings rarely inherit the genius of their famous parents ( think of Julian Lennon, Ziggy Marley), but Buckley is a 27-year-old songwriter coming into his own, transcending potential comparisons with a blindingly good London debut.
Jeff's been the darling of the New York music industry for a few years now, the name every A&R man loves to drop. His work with the band Gods and Monsters, a turbulent haze of experimentation, has given way to the stripped down, sensuous sound of his current solo material-a sort of jazzy, bluesy "cosmic folk". His songs are nimble and diffuse; they branch off and loop skywards, returning to earth before overreaching themselves.
Though it's just Buckley onstage, he makes an epic noise. On "Mojo Pin", his guitar is blurry and frenetic as it pulls away from the vocals, scattering in several directions at once. Buckley looks like a teenager, thin and gangly inside his white T-shirt. His speaking voice is boyishly high, and the enraptured audience laughs and applauds as he chugs down a pint of Guinness with a mock-manly gesture. I'm told that he chooses a different persona for every gig, he was "raunchy" in Sheffield apparently.
Tonight it seems he's opted for "guileless and angelic' as evidenced by his take on Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah" as a ballad that cultivates pious delicacy with its cradling guitar and choirboy chorus. "Eternal Life" is a more cynical, harder edged number, and the final song gives way to melancholy, wallowing in vocal excesses (though just the right amount) and lyrical weariness: "I feel too young to hold on and too old to break free and run'.
By taking such vocal risks, Buckley occasionally steers towards overwrought blues cliche, but he always soars clear again. Mostly, he radiates an incandescence that's too unassuming to be called "star quality". But for lack of a better word, I guess that's what I'd call it.
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