Jeff Buckley: Music is God

Musica, July, 1995
By Giuseppe Videtti
Submitted by Ananula
Translated by me

Correggio - "Everybody goes to the Unity Party here", says the diligent waitress at the bar in the center of Correggio, while making meticulously perfect hot sandwiches filled with all kinds of gods. "Did you come for that American singer?". Already for him. The Saturday night star at the party. Jeff Buckley: the only Italian date at the end of a tour that has lasted for months and which is coming to an end. The Padana is motionless under the July sun. Perfect. The sheaves of straw, what remains of the recent harvest, are lined up in the fields. Poplars draw shady avenues in the meadows. No sign of life at two o'clock in the afternoon. Too hot: even the elderly of the country have abandoned the game of cards. The ranks of the cafés under the porticos of Correggio (province of Reggio Emilia, about 25,000 inhabitants) are empty. A few kilometers away, in the small cemetery of Canolo, where the writer PierVittorio Tondelli (1955-1991) rests, a fly does not fly. Not a breath of wind. The only sign of life, the chirping of cicadas.
  The young Buckley rests in the shadows, shirtless, with the mark of a tank top designed on the frail body. A silver circlet with a naughty black bead hangs from the navel. His eyes are small, lively and deep like those of Geraldine Chaplin. Of his father Tim he has the high cheekbones, the bony face and, above all, that "metallic" and desperate "howl" that gives life to the voices inside, gives body to the ghosts, does not care about the styles, makes a mockery of perfection. The artist, who described himself as a voracious consumer of psychedelic mushrooms, devours apricot sized strawberries and grazes with mineral water. Take a look at the enormous empty space where, under the rising sun, the stage stands out: "Even in Glastonbury it was hot as hell, I still have the marks," he says, pointing to his "farmer's tan." "It was bizarre to play for all those people, but good. The organization was good. Except for the bathrooms. They were already seated at three in the afternoon. We've performed in better places. In Denmark, for example. A fantastic festival, in a magical place, that brought charm to our music."
  The album Grace has been released for some time, but Buckley does not seem to be in a hurry to record another one. "I wrote a few new songs, I did not have the time, I'm never home. I live in Manhattan, the best place in the world, I moved from California in 1990. I was 23. Now I live on the edge of the Lower East Side. I go out a lot. I'm never at home, even when I'm in town. I do not like cooking, so I have to go out to get food, like a hungry animal that is forced out of the den. I need too much concentration to cook. I prefer to wash the dishes. It relaxes me". Patti Smith said, "Momma, I will not wash your dishes anymore..."..."It was at the end of Piss Factory, I think, that single has never been published in America. It can only be found as a single. Extraordinary Patti Smith, she has poetry in her voice, even when you can't understand what the poetry says: She's been through terrible years-her brother's death, her husband...She says, "My best guys are gone" alluding to Fred "Sonic" Smith (Jeff closes the concert with a devastating version of Kick Out the Jams, a tribute to the late MC5s and Detroit guitarist with whom the rock poet had two children), and Robert Mapplethorpe." In Florence, in 1979, he sang in front of 80,000 people. Buckley almost does not believe it: "In New York, at the time, he still played at Bottom Line, for 300 paying".
  Rock'n'roll has some crazy cycles, every ten years or so. Patti Smith resurrected it. You could be next. "I don't know, I dont think so. I know artists who have returned to their roots in a much more radical way. Sebadoh, for example (the group of Lou Barlow, the bassist of Dinosaur Jr., which plays a direct and primitive rock). They have their own magic. Perhaps you now say these things because you're sitting here, in front of me. Sebadoh less magical and less poetic than me? It flatters me that you believe it, but it's not like that."
  Buckley loves beautiful songs, but prefers sad ones. They struck him as a child, when he rummaged in his mother's record collection. "I listened to Lilac Wine for the first time from Nina Simone, not from Elkie Brooks, as they wrote. The song is perhaps a little stupid, but she gives it that sense of extraordinary and sensual suffering. Only a few have this interpretative originality. She and Ray Charles. Aaah...the first, great Ray Charles. Nina Simone is an indelible artist, no one should leave this world without ever having heard her. The songs... Sometimes they are better than books. More direct. They enter the bloodstream more easily. Although I still believe that the written word is still the most accurate and complete way to communicate. People's letters. People who write their dreams. Your thoughts. Writing is the last remaining art form. Although, I know, this is certainly not the generation of letters, but computers. But the written word remains a sublime form of art. A letter more than a fax. No, I do not have a fax at home. Only a cordless phone. I have nothing against computers, mind you. Like how we were addicted to the typewriter. Although I have always preferred to write with a pen in hand to beating on the keys with ten fingers.
  "She's coming back, you know." Who? "Patti (Smith). I knew it. She's making a new record. Lenny Kaye will also be with her. An artist like this to return must be close to madness. She must feel completely in the open. (Imitating her) "I'm Patti Smith, I'm an American artist and I'm not guilty". She would be the right type to redo her Birdland. "I thought about it too, you know..." The beginning was shocking: "His father died..." "The father of each of us is dead". I show him a fanzine dedicated to Tim Buckley, his father, a newly-known father, bought in Paris in 1978, in the same little shop that sold Piss Factory by Patti Smith. "You can keep it, it's more fitting that you have it. At that time, we fans did not know that Tim had a son," I tell him. His hands tremble. His eyes are shiny. He stares at a photograph of his father in concert, absorbed in the guitar. "Here he must have drank," he murmurs. Pats the photo with immense tenderness. He is far away with thoughts, in a different place than this world, like the child of Birdland.
  Are you a believer? "Who is God? I don't know. On a subliminal level I grew up Catholic. Catholicism and voodoo. They are the same thing. My mother's family was Panamanian. They believed in voodoo. No difference between the Pope and a sorcerer. I do not believe in organized religion, with a God seated on a throne, in the clouds. Jesus will not come back. He's dead. We just have to live alone. Music is the only thing left to us. Music contains all religions. It exists even without man. Music is."

The Troubadour of the Western World

Rock Sound, February, 1995
By Yves Bongarçon
Submitted by Ananula
Translated by me

He is the only new artist to have been really acclaimed this year and especially almost unanimously by the public and critics. Jeff Buckley began his European tour in Dublin, Ireland this mid-January. The opportunity to see firsthand, on site and on stage, the strong impression left by the album "Grace" this summer. A moving report between the scent of beer, impressions of Ireland and the revelation of an immense talent. All just before the French performances of the artist in February.

Baile Atha Cliah

Dublin, the Cité Du Gué Aux Claies, unrolls its British geometry through the taxi window. Saturday, January 14th, half past four, it's dark and raining. As often in Dublin. No problem. It's just as if a few green Victorian doors, yellow or red come to cheer up this particular atmosphere that, elsewhere than here, would automatically be called cockroach. But by making a detour through literature, from Joyce to Henrich Böll through Anthony Burgess, we see that from generation to generation, the city retains its mysteries, its appeal, its charisma itself and acts instantaneously on the mood of the traveler or the native. Those who attended a rugby match in the pouring rain in the stands of Landsdowne Road know what it is about. Of love, of passion, of warmth, of the spark that only provides the well-being of a rare moment. From an Irish moment. Yet, difficult to ignore the misery, there, next door. Kids with snotty noses begging on the bridges over the Liffey, the Tinkers from the north-west, confiscated in utter destitution and whose wives sell flowers on the sly in old children's carriages in front of the General Post Office on O'Connell Street. The old ones too, dry as branches, with admirable dignity, cased in tweed, dark cravat on checked shirts with moiré necks of grime. These old men, who sit under the porch of some Betting Office, spend their days reading and rereading the "Turf" pages of the Irish Independant always dreaming of the ideal nag. Black Beauty or something like that...When the universe of Delly unceremoniously telescopes that of John Ford, sorry, Sean Aloysius O'Finney. So, it seems that since Liam O'Flaherty or Sean O'Casey, things and time are frozen. That Ireland will be Ireland forever. Red fire. On the palisade of a construction site, some colorful posters, half-glued flapping in the wind, Foreigner and Doobie Bros at the Point Depot, no thanks; Ian Dury & The Blockheads at Olympia, must see; Richard Thompson also at Olympia, yes, surely. And then the new Irish attraction, the group everyone is talking about, Pet Lamb, both protected and direct competitor of Therapy? No doubt soon on our decks...The taxi driver inquires about the reason for our presence in Ireland: "Jeff Buckley?", he does not know, but in a surge of kindness and sincerity, assures us that "he must be very good." Normal, according to him, since we have come to Dublin to see him...It's called hospitality and, after the Stout, it's Dublin's other specialty. And it starts as soon as you have your ass on the moleskin of a taxi seat. In short, not like in Paris.

Take That

At the Westbury Hotel on Grafton Street, just steps from the famous Trinity College, the atmosphere is buzzing with excitement: five hundred girls have taken over the street in front of the hotel, protected by a cordon of police since they learned that the four twinks from Take That, a kind of British New Kids On The Block, have elected residence there. Whenever someone appears at a window, hysterical cries fill the street. Exit the Dublin immemorial, that of Parnell and that of Easter 1916, that of Leopold Bloom and Swift, poor us! The record company had warned: no interview with Jeff Buckley, no pictures, the man is tired, he is coming out of an exhausting American tour. Perhaps there will be a quick meeting after the show in the middle of the night and a few snapshots at the beginning of the show. Procrastination. Wait and see. A few hours to spare while waiting for the scheduled concert in Tivoli around midnight. Quick, go out on the street. And first buy the press, including Hot Press, excellent city magazine that skillfully combines music, politics and society with great writing quality. As many dailies as the Irish Independant and the Irish Times do not care about rock and thus Jeff's concert, so much Hot Press is the event of the week, photos in support (on the sidelines of a long paper on Pet Lamb!) Hot Press will be the companion of the weekend even if Time Out, the London newspaper, draws a little more attractive with a beautiful photo of Adjani on the cover with this title "The ice queen finally melts". Obsession. A detour by HMV on Grafton and Virgin on the docks to realize that the two stores are broadcasting at the same time "Grace", the album of Jeff and announce with much support of PLV the evening concert. Good augury. Back to the hotel after a beer at O'Donoghue's and impromptu meeting on the steps with the three Human Leagues visibly in full promo for "shamrock" off their new album "Octopus". Not heard it yet. Too bad, we could have talked five minutes and had a drink. In memory of "The Lebanon", nothing else.

The Tivoli

The Tivoli, 135 Frances Street, five minutes drive from the city center is a funny place. First, you do not access this old theater and cinema by the main entrance (typically Irish!) but by a stealth entrance on an adjacent street, two hundred yards away. A dark and rather dirty porch, a long and tortuous open-air trip between walls covered with posters of concerts which seems to take pride in the place and finally the right entry. Admittance. The ticket is reasonably priced, £ 7.50. A competent and energetic girl scrupulously verifies the accreditations, escorted by a bouncer, fat and bearded, sort of a cross between Carlos and Philippe Seguin to locate. Which does not make you want to bring him back anyway. The room, finally. Crowded is a weak word. How many people have piled in here tonight? Hard to say. Entering this vast shed converted into a forum, a beer in hand, quickly, is impossible. The audience, half female, is quiet and in a good mood, there to spend an evening with friends rather than emptying some cans. Students for the most part, with an average age of around twenty-five. T-shirts and jeans de rigueur, little or no leather. Jeff Buckley has already sorted out his Irish fans, it's clear. 11:30, the first part accesses the scene, it is provided by The Mary Janes, a local trio of bass, electric guitar and a dreadlocked leader perched on a bar stool with an acoustic guitar. The set is good and organized, strangely layered, songs quite relevant, skillfully combining neo-folk fighting and noisy temptation. They are on the track for an album (Setanta?), Which on the strength of their performance tonight is well deserved. The reception that the public offers them is in any case extremely warm.

State Of Grace

We do not really know what it's all about. The magic of a moment, a stylistic brilliance, a second of weightlessness or eternity. Or, finally, just an attitude. Simple, determined. Like the unique way that Jeff Buckley casually enters the stage. White shirt with long sleeves, bright green, short sleeved shirt, scrupulously crumpled, ad-hoc jeans, chain and biker wallet, ivory Telecaster worn very low, messy hair, an outfit seen thousands of times in the rock scene but which, on Buckley, adds to the authenticity of the character of the artist. This is probably what is called natural elegance or, to borrow from Buckley himself, grace. He appeared on the platform with guitar, cables, beer, the room still lit, Buckley immediately shows he's far from artificial. Following his band, he sets his Marshall amp, tunes his Tele, tests his pedals and returns. The surprised public did not immediately notice but give him a standing ovation as soon as they realize that the guy over there is not a roadie like the others. A rudimentary approach to the public that appears spontaneous but shows Buckley has good knowledge of the stage and almost controls his own character, his own image. Impressive.

Instant Karma

He approaches the microphone, makes a few grimaces and in response to a girl who shot out a warm "We love you Jeff!", He answers in a deep, sensual, broken voice, able to capsize the heart of any horde of Huns, "Thank you, I love you too". That's it! Buckley has won the game before it even started. A tour de force. A natural charisma that will allow him to start his concert with "Dream Brother", an almost intimate title and continue with "So Real" his radio hit of the moment. Almost chained entirely to his art without a word, without a look. For Buckley, that's what it's about, art, artistic creation, performance in the 'plastic arts' sense of the term. Of a Herculean combat that the artist delivers to the material, body-to-body, with bare hands. In the space of ten minutes, the old Dublin theater is thus transformed into an arena where the life of a man will play out, in the Brechtian sense of the term. "Last Goodbye" and his slide guitar, bass and oriental effects, diabolical zeppelinizims, and above all the charming voice, a muscular version of "What Will You Say", and Jeff takes to the microphone to finally address the audience. To do what? Present and showcase his musicians, Mick Grondahl (bass), Michael Tighe (guitar), and Matt Johnson (drums)! Smart, Buckley, over-mediated prodigal son, hides behind the group. Nobody is fooled but it works, we want to believe in the humility of the man. A likeability that this one will hurry to exploit while gently playing. The very grunge "Eternal Life" followed, as to definitively thwart any attempt at classification, the very delicate "Lilac Wine", "Listen to me / I can not see clearly..." is almost a profession of faith.

Vampire

From the first chords of "Grace"-title song-the audience roars with pleasure, shows its excitement but also, one feels it releases the tension accumulated during the first part of the show. Because if Jeff Buckley gives himself without reserve to his audience, going so far as to put into play and sometimes in danger his status as artist, abandoning all modesty, he also asks a lot to the people who listen to him, a lot of focus and their attention, monopolizing for their exclusive benefit their emotional state. This guy is an emotional vampire and sucks the blood, the energy of every human being fallen under his spell. In this context, the familiarity that is already in a song like "Grace" is a happy fall in pressure that has become for many (deliciously?) unbearable. And it is not "Lover, You Should Have Come Over" with its fits of fever and moments of appeasement is a perfect example the sexual intensity of this New York musician. End of the show. A panting audience takes a few seconds to react to the disappearance of the young Adonis. Especially since Jeff returns almost immediately on stage to perform alone with the Tele, his magnificent cover of "Hallelujah" by Leonard Cohen. "I've seen your flag on a marble arch/Love is not a victory march...", every word is weighed, felt, lived with a prodigious sense of dramaturgy and surrender. Upsetting. A version so intense, so personal, so haunted that it definitely puts the public on their knees before he superbly jumps into the crowd.

Fucking Good Concert

 Fionna, Twenty-three-year-old biology student, her eyes on the wave in the direction of the stage, lost in the middle of the empty room, triturated her empty Holstein Pils box. She has just received the Buckley concert right in her face. She stammers "He is so...He is so...generous, so intense! I discovered him just a week ago, a friend lent me his record, I cracked. He is even better in concert...". Anne-Marie,  twenty-one, a fan of Therapy? she wears a beautiful T-shirt but is disappointed: "He's doing too much on the cursed poet side, we do not believe it. I find that he can not manage his image of the tortured romantic along with the energetic rocker. He's trying to play both games, it's risky." Eamon, twenty-seven years old, architect student, a beautiful red beard carefully cut is downright charming, he explains: "Given his age, Buckley is astonishingly mature, juggling his image, his music, and the emotions he inspires as an artist already at the top of his game. It's magic. We had been waiting for someone like him for a long time. He is very involved, how far can he go? That is the question. To give so much, we'll ask him more next time, that's for sure." The analysis is relevant, the concept of risk taking seems not to have escaped the public. Janine, Liz and Moira, twenty-eight, twenty-four and thirty years old respectively, bank employees on a night-time outing, have failed by a little luck, to drink a beer. Jeff Buckley left them mixed impressions: "He's handsome, very natural but his songs get boring after a while, he puts too much stuff inside. We'd rather it be simpler sometimes. The last one (Lenny Cohen's cover) was superb." The Tivoli finishes emptying discovering a floor littered with hundreds of crumbled plastic cups and almost as many empty beer cans. Gilbert, red giant, leader of roadies, forty years old, a respectable belly, lights a Silk Cut, puts his hands on his hips, solemnly adjusts his black Metallica T-shirt before putting his gloves back on and asserts with the definite assurance that belongs only to earthy men: "Fucking good concert, huh?! This guy is really impeccable." Finally, the last bit of recognition that was missing for Jeff Buckley, that of a roadie. Three o'clock in the morning, the night is icy and wet. Dublin tries to fall asleep. The taxi driver is in great shape. He turns around, red-faced with sparkling eyes, looking at our bruised faces and asks, with a mischievous eye: "A last drink before bed?" Always the famous Irish hospitality. How to resist?

Mood Swing Whiskey Alt. Take

An alternate take on the wonderful Mood Swing Whiskey 

Jeff Buckley

Rhythms, July, 1995
By Christie Eliezer
Submitted by Gabby

  If you're one of those whose copy of Jeff Buckley's Grace is still In the CD player a year after it's release, you'd already know about that stunning, gorgeous voice, the heart-pounding melancholy of the ballads and the grittiness of thevrock-out tracks.
  Onstage, Buckley is much more than that. With songs like "Dream Brother" and "So Real" (which, incidentally, have been opening his shows in Europe), it was accepted Grace was the sort of album that really come alive in the live context. After touring nnon-stop with his band for almost a year, the set is crackingly good.
  "The Last Goodbye", for instance, is just a bundle of intensity, as Buckley dissolves into a loud "kiss me, ooh, KISS ME!" while the on-stage renditions of "Grace" and "Mojo Pin" acquire a beauty only hinted at on record. A recent addition to the show, "What Will You Say" (written by good friend Chris Dowd, former ivory tinkler and trombone player with Fishbone, who incidentally, was the real inspiration behind "Dream Brother", not father Tim as commonly assumed) breaks away from his image as the good loking angel les chique tragique.
  You ain't heard nothing yet till you hear ol' Jeff take high vocals on "Lover You Should've Come Over", or the way he and his band gleefully punch holes into the lyrics of Big Star's "Holocaust" and come up gasping for air, mouth turned down in junkie chic while dripping with blood. For the final song, Buckley stands alone, turning "Hallelujah" into more of a melodramatic opus than its writer Leonard Cohen intended it to be Buckley clings to rock music for the simple reason Lennon or Dylan grasped at it. It allowed him to reinvent himself and claw himself out of life's claustrophobia. Being part of a band has given him a family for the first time. If you heard the themes behind "Grace" and "Eternal Life"-how music makes him feel so goddamn good-you'd know that anyway.
  "Do you know what it's like when you're having sex and you're about to have an orgasm, and your entire mind and body are concentrating every single molecule on that one thing?" Buckley murmurs. "That's what music is for me. It's a white light, it's my mother and father, it's my best friend, it's my blood.
  "Nothing else matters. When I'm working, I'm thinking music. When I'm resting, I'm thinking music. People say I bend my body into the weirdest shapes when I'm performing onstage. I can understand that. When I'm singing, I can feel that force just push my face, my body, everything into all kinds of shapes."
  Does that explain the amount of people who've written to him saying how Grace saved them from suicide?
  "Is that such a big deal? I don't think my music attracts weirdos. The people at my shows are pretty normal. They're not coming because they want to see some rock god-which I'm NOT!-they enjoy playing Grace in their homes and they want to see the songs delivered in person.
  "Maybe if they're feeling kinda down, maybe it's hearing the songs and realizing that they're not alone, that other people-a lot of other people-are feeling those things too. Everyone feels like shit. I certainly have. I spent most of my teenage days feeling real empty inside, feeling I had nothing to offer anyone. A lot of people think angst is something to revel in. It's not. You have to contend with it. You can either be self indulgent and boring. Or you can create a masterpiece."
  So how would he react if someone in the audience told him they'd come to see a rock god or, travesty, the spirit of Tim Buckley revived?
  "Yeah, well, the joke's on them. I hardly knew my father. He left my mum when I was six months old. I never saw him again until a week or so before he died. My mum gave me the name Jeff Scott Moorhead. Moorhead was the name of my stepfather. Until my mid-teens I actually was known as Scott. I changed my name when I was old enough. I don't really know why. Or maybe I do."
  It may be significant that Grace made Buckley a star at 28, the same age as when Sr died of an overdose. Jeff spent the last year explaining to people that, no, aside from the name, there's no connection with his father. Now he's changed his tack. At a recent press conference in Milan, when hit with a question about his father's death, he replied, "I dunno, man, maybe I should give you some phone numbers in America and they could help you answer that."
  Ma Buckley was a hippie who turned him on to "that real post-Dylan acoustic stuff, marvelous to listen to even today." She was a bit of a gypsy, and the young boy's childhood was spent being the perennial "new kid in class" at yet another Californian school. He made a deal with music: it would become his best friend, and he in turn would listen to everything from the Beatles to Joni Mitchell to classical to '40s soundtracks.
  Life was no swing through the Fun House for Buckley. He remembers as a teenager he was "dead inside", writing "endless poetry and stories, real shit stuff". It didn't alleviate his feelings of worthlessness. One day he raged, burned all his writings. Symbolically, two weeks later, the riots broke out in L.A.
  So nowadays, New York-based Buckley is a bit of a '90s teen idol and "rock icon". He once jammed with Chrissie Hynde and John McEnroe during a visit to London, and is rumored to have had a fling with Liz of the Cocteau Twins. In interviews, he admits to having some horrific nightmares. Like doing his homework while listening to the radio, and being grabbed by the music and smashed into the floor until he screams. Or being invited back to an artist's studio to see his work-which turned out to be displays of living things with their vocal cords cut out. So is working on his next album a similar nightmare?
  "No. It'd be interesting to see if having to project to a large group of people at shows will change the style. You always have this...uh, fear, that people might hate it or the ideas might not come when you're making it. But I figure I'm gonna be doing this for the rest of my life, so I might as well try and enjoy it now while I can."
  Does continually being on the road disillusion him?
  "No, I was always on the move as a kid. I enjoy it. It can be a bit hard at times, but, hey, the concerts make up for everything. If I get some backlash, that's OK. The more you're attacked, the more you're forced to defend this thing you love."

Grace Under Pressure

Cleveland Scene, October, 1994
Written and submitted by Pete Chakerian

  The sounds of Pakistani singer Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan drift in between the relaxed words of Jeff Buckley as he begins one of his last phone interviews of a two-day press marathon. Checking in with the SCENE from the Sony offices in midtown Manhattan, Buckley doesn't sound like an artist who's wrestled with the press for two straight days.
  "(The press schedule) was my wish actually, to get it done in two days and actually achieve the illusion of having spare time," Buckley admits. "It's just an illusion."
  Another illusion, in Buckley's opinion, are all the Next Big Thing kudos he hs been receiving from critics. From the release of last year's debut EP, LIVE AT SIN-É, to his first long-player, GRACE, Buckley has been swimming through a sea of these common, critical declarations. Or, what he refers to as "a cop-out to thinking.
  "Next Big Thing votes are like when Boy Scouts first learn how to ejaculate," Buckley says, obviously grinning. "They just keep on doing it and doing until it gets all sloppy and stupid and your balls hurt. Boring! If that's me, then I have achieved my worst nightmare.
  "Everybody's been looking for Christ since the Beatles hit America," Buckley reflects, "The kind of art that I make could never take over anything, except for maybe somebody's bedroom. Or maybe their heart. People don't know what to make of (my music), so it can't possibly be a revelation...It's a really treacherous area to interpret something that doesn't really have a language.
  "My oniy advice to people," adds Buckley of the hype, "is just to ignore it. Let's see if we can have a good time together." Buckley will give his fans that opportunity when he plays Wilbert's this Tuesday, November 1; labelmate Brenda Kahn will open.
  To the media's defense, Buckley’s surreal sense of honesty would have any music aficionado-writer or otherwise-blowing a fuse. His approach is unique and revealing, yet somehow, he still remains secretive within the context of his compositions.
  "Everything I need is right here in my kneecaps and in my breastbone and in my head," offers Buckley. "I guess the by-product is revealing, but the object is not to reveal. It is simply to express, but everybody's revealed when they express themselves, you know? Everybody walking around, wether they like it or not-even the most covert-is completely exposed for what he or she is by their actions."
  Buckley’s not interested in turning his art into a confessional. "I don't want (my music) to become a forum for me, pouring out my inner most secrets," Buckley admits. "That's something I would never do. I don't divulge secrets to the public. I divulge them to my friends, and only when it's appropriate."
  Since Buckley’s first appearance on the New York music scene back in 1991-during a tribute to his biological father/troubadour hero Tim Buckley-comparisons to legendary figures like Robert Plant, Freddie Mercury and his father Tim have cropped up everywhere. With little provocation, Buckley shudders at all the comparisons.
  "(It's) lazy journalism and a lazy culture and lack of courage to describe originality," he counters matter-of-factly. "Or maybe, I'm just not a good enough artist that I can buck all those things. I'm sure it's high praise, you know? Freddie Mercury was f**king brilliant."
  According to Buckley, the comparisons make "easy copy" for writers. "I've read rock journalists describe my friend Craig Wedren (from Shudder To Think) as a young Robert Plant," he says. "He's about as close to Robert Plant as Doris Day is. It's just stupidity left and right."
  It's not that Buckley doesn't have influences. "I grew up listening to all those people. I grew up  ensconced in an era that was polluted with that music," he admits. "So be it. My own choices are evident. I just don't think that people know me or listen to me deeply enough to write rock reviews to really know the real me. But that's OK, there's time. And maybe I am totally derivative and unoriginal. Maybe the next album will determine that. I feel I'm making my own statement."
  When focus narrows to the comparisons made with his father, Buckley’s tranquil voice becomes melancholy and pensive.
  "Another shortcut to thinking," Buckley says. "He never taught me anything. He had another son that he taught to be a good person and he had another wife. I just wasn't included. It's journalists playing Ken and Barbie with me and Tim Buckley. It used to hurt. It used to hurt a lot. Now it's just boring. Painfully boring. It's quite an oddity, this whole situation."
  It was such an oddity to Jeff at first, that he was reluctant to participate in the 1991 memorial show for his father. After struggling with his emotions, he acquiesced when "I realized that I'd never have another chance to pay my respects. I didn't make it to the funeral. I wasn't invited. So I decided to do it on my own terms. I don't think I really sang very well (that night)," he adds, "(but) it was a matter of life or death."
  "Do you know what a 'kaddish' is?" he asks. "It's what the son or daughter does for the dead parent. Nobody sang a kaddish for him, and, if I didn't, I felt like that part of him wouldn't rest. And a part of me wouldn't rest."
  Buckley made great strides in building his own separate identity when he joined Gods & Monsters-a band centered around ex-Captain Beefheart guitarist Gary Lucas-a short time after the tribute show. Rather than follow the circling industry vultures who attended, Buckley felt that if his notoriety was to build, it would build at his own pace, on his own terms.
  Buckley’s shortlived tenure with the underground supergroup didn't provide that slow build. He split with the band-which also featured the Bob Mould, WORKBOOK  rhythm section bassist Tony Maimone and drummer Anton Fier-less than a year after he joined. To Buckley, it seemed like each musician was strictly interested in what they were doing as individuals on the stage. The band cohesion Buckley wanted wasn't there, so he left.
  "But not because ot was a difficult situation or an unworthy situation, but precisely because it had so much potential," Buckley clarifies. "It could hsve been very, very, very fruitful. I just didn't feel I was in the right situation. It was galvanizing to not start a whole situation, but to stop all situations possible and just start from zero."
  Buckley began playing the NYC coffeehouse circuit as a solo artist, which eventually garnered him a devoted following. Before Buckley knew it, noted Sony A&R guy Steve Berkowitz had become one of his fans. Berkowitz eventually signed Buckley to the Columbia label and arranged for a live recording of one of his performances at the Cafe Sin-e. A small smattering of the three recorded hours became Buckley’s debut, LIVE AT SIN-É.
  Having released his first long-player GRACE earlier this year,  Buckley now fronts his own band and couldn't be happier with his bandmates-Mick Grondahl  (bass), Matt Johnson  (drums) and Michael Tighe  (guitars)-and the direction they are headed in together.
  "It's a perfect band for me," Buckley says. "It's just an unsaid understanding that we like being together. And I need their views on music and their untapped potential to make music. We're different and we come from very different backgrounds, but being as old as we all are, we sort of have the same exposure to American life and American music...to the impossibilities of love and loss.
  "So, we do have many things in common," Buckley finishes. "It's the differences that keep us together."