Jeff Or Glory

NME, September 17, 1994
By Paul Moody
Submitted by Ana

JEFF BUCKLEY

LONDON THE GARAGE

IT'S ONLY natural. Being cautious, that is. I mean, do we really need another late twenty-sumfink son of the '60s turning up on the doorstep; 'tortured' by having a legend as a father and foisted upon us by lazy fatcats in American record companies like some sort of 'classic' rock comfort-blanket?
  Thought not. Especially when you consider that our own singer-songwriters usually have all manner of trials before we finally accept them on their own terms (the recently resurrected Paul Weller springs to mind). So imagine how astounding tonight must have been then then.
Because somewhere along the line this evening, in a sweaty, sold out Garage, Jeff Buckley actually manages to be marvellous. Pure and simple.
  There's plenty to grumble about, of course. There's the rich kid nonchalance to start with (his between-song mumbles are in-jokes dedicated to absent friends; his stagewear comprises of a bare chest and, erm, bright red braces).
  But when the thin man sings, the whole place becomes hushed in a jazz-club like reverence; silenced by the power of that voice.
  He never really bellows either; just leans away from the mic and sings until something utterly unearthly comes out-like Billie Holiday re-incarnated as a full-on, lung bursting Robert Plant. With just a touch of a strangled cat thrown in.
  Yeah, that weird.
  There's songs aplenty too, amidst the vocal gymnastics. 'Grace' is a rumbling, feline thing, slinky and understated; 'Lilac Wine', despite being an Elkie Brooks tune, is exquisitely low-key, drifting off in a shimmer of cymbals and a jangle of discordant guitar notes.
  It's as though Jeff, having discovered that his own voice sounds as if it's freshly arrived from another planet, has constructed a band around it as other-worldly and unpredictable as he does.
  It only really wears thin when Buckley opts out of doing what he does best (heartstrung choons with whopping great show-off choruses) and starts displaying his personality
  When a wag imitates one of his histrionic howls at the close of 'Hallelujah' Jeff studiously ignores it; when someone suggests that he speak a little louder between songs so that everyone can hear, he appears to take it as an opportunity to point out that he can do whatever he likes.
  Alas, such warning signs are little preparation for the encore. Having received a rapturous reception, Jeff decides it's time for his interpretation of Alex Chilton's 'Kangaroo'. The guitarist chugs out a staccato riff. Jeff, pop sensibility left backstage, pogos gently round the stage, waiting for exactly the right moment to hit us with the vocal.
  This goes on for ten minutes.
  Finally-after a full twenty minutes, the highlight of which is Jeff railing against the world in full 'Bullet The Blue Sky'-era Bono-mode-the whole thing ends. And with it, sadly, goes a large amount of the goodwill he'd built up earlier.
  There are people clapping until their hands bleed, but there's just as many headed for the exit, eyes rolled to the ceiling.
  Jeff leaves, convinced that his own genius can let him get away with anything. And maybe he can in cosy music biz soirees like tonight.
  But not out there, where there's a world to win over.
  Couldn't somebody just tell him that?