Toronto Sun- May 27, 1995 by Jamie Kastner.
Last night at the Music Hall was the night of the pipsqueak anti-hero. You can just imagine the non-argument that didn't go on between introspective troubadour Jeff Buckley and diminutive grungette Juliana Hatfield before the tour.
"Look...um, Jeff? I don't really wanna headline."
"Look, Juli, I'm like...no. You have to be at the head of the line because...I'm really short and I don't like people hearing my music."
"But, Jeff, I'm not exactly Big Bird either. I just really, like, play for myself and if anyone else wants to listen, that's their problem."
"Juli, I'm like, ditto."
It's a theory anyway. The supporting evidence: two apologetic sets that were painfully successful at under-doing one another.
First came Buckley, which didn't mean he was the opener, but at the same time, far be it for him to head anyone's line. He's still touring on the strength of last year's album, Grace.
Intellectually, his set was brilliant. With sophisticated rhythm, harmonies and counterpoint constantly meshing Buckley's soaring voice and jagged guitar to his three-man band, it had more in common with a chamber ensemble than a rock group. Bouncing freely around the stage, whenever the spirit so moved him, he kept as close a control over the dynamics as if he had a finger on a group volume knob.
But he remained aloof. Scarcely addressing the crowd between his punk/soul opus, he seemed to have chosen to forego human relations in hopes of establishing a spiritual bond with the crowd instead through the frank baring of his soul in song.
Didn't work.
Next, Hatfield's band trudged on, parading a particular slouch look best described as Golf-Caddy-On-Day-Off.
Kinda describes their tone too. From her opening squeaks-"Hi, my name is Juliana, this is my band...thanks a lot for, um...sticking around"-to their first of many guitar heavy romps, the pervading idea was still "I'm really not a rock star, not really."
This brand of anti-communication nevertheless built a certain rapport with the crowd while simultaneously undermining Buckley's silent vibe.
On the other hand, having such deft, if cerebral, musicians as Buckley's crew as your opening act-sorry, act who happened to go on before you-couldn't but make Hatfield's quirky but repetitive grunge trip sound like kindergarten.
The implicit question from both was: "Why are you listening to us?"
Next time we'll answer with our feet.
Last night at the Music Hall was the night of the pipsqueak anti-hero. You can just imagine the non-argument that didn't go on between introspective troubadour Jeff Buckley and diminutive grungette Juliana Hatfield before the tour.
"Look...um, Jeff? I don't really wanna headline."
"Look, Juli, I'm like...no. You have to be at the head of the line because...I'm really short and I don't like people hearing my music."
"But, Jeff, I'm not exactly Big Bird either. I just really, like, play for myself and if anyone else wants to listen, that's their problem."
"Juli, I'm like, ditto."
It's a theory anyway. The supporting evidence: two apologetic sets that were painfully successful at under-doing one another.
First came Buckley, which didn't mean he was the opener, but at the same time, far be it for him to head anyone's line. He's still touring on the strength of last year's album, Grace.
Intellectually, his set was brilliant. With sophisticated rhythm, harmonies and counterpoint constantly meshing Buckley's soaring voice and jagged guitar to his three-man band, it had more in common with a chamber ensemble than a rock group. Bouncing freely around the stage, whenever the spirit so moved him, he kept as close a control over the dynamics as if he had a finger on a group volume knob.
But he remained aloof. Scarcely addressing the crowd between his punk/soul opus, he seemed to have chosen to forego human relations in hopes of establishing a spiritual bond with the crowd instead through the frank baring of his soul in song.
Didn't work.
Next, Hatfield's band trudged on, parading a particular slouch look best described as Golf-Caddy-On-Day-Off.
Kinda describes their tone too. From her opening squeaks-"Hi, my name is Juliana, this is my band...thanks a lot for, um...sticking around"-to their first of many guitar heavy romps, the pervading idea was still "I'm really not a rock star, not really."
This brand of anti-communication nevertheless built a certain rapport with the crowd while simultaneously undermining Buckley's silent vibe.
On the other hand, having such deft, if cerebral, musicians as Buckley's crew as your opening act-sorry, act who happened to go on before you-couldn't but make Hatfield's quirky but repetitive grunge trip sound like kindergarten.
The implicit question from both was: "Why are you listening to us?"
Next time we'll answer with our feet.
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