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?
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?
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