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."
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."
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