Prince Patrick Hotel review
The Age, September 4, 1995
By Dugald Jellie
Submitted by Sai
A CONFESSION. I first heard Jeff Buckley only several months ago, early on a Sunday morning on the car radio. The Triple J announcer, Francis Leach, I think, was talking about an evangelical New York singer by the name of Buckley. The song was Hallelujah.
I heard there was a sacred chord/That David played and it pleased the Lord/but you don't really care for music do you?
On Saturday night at the Prince Patrick Hotel, Jeff Buckley, and his music, were alive. From the moment he started crying-his voice transformed into the sounds of a sitar as if to tell the audience: "if you want me to, this is what I can do"-everyone knew that tonight, in the bowels of a pub somewhere in Colingwood, they were in for something special.
Buckley, squeezed into a pink top with the words "take that, love you" across his chest, mesmerized the audience for an hour-and-a-half with his visceral voice, playing the hymnal tunes from his debut album Grace.
At times, with songs such as Lover, You Should've Come Over and Last Goodbye, his body writhing and contorting to each lyric, it was as though rock music was merging with the ecclesiastical.
Was it that the lone spotlight shining down on the singer, guitar slashed across shoulder a halo?
But between moments of haunting elegance, Buckley's voice and music also divulged, as with So Real, a hard and dirty realm, immersed in anguish.
When I first heard Buckley's voice on the radio I didn't know it came from the son of the venerated late-1960s Los Angeles fringe folk singer, Tim Buckley; that the song he was playing, Hallelujah, was penned by the post Leonard Cohen.
And it's not a cry that you hear at night/It's not somebody who's seen the light/It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah.
I didn't know that Jeff Buckley only met his father once, aged eight, before he died of a heroin overdose. Or that he grew up singing with his mother, a classically trained pianist and cellist, in the car, bundled around southern California.
All I knew was that his was an exquisite voice. It was as though an angel was singing for us.
The highlight of the show was a mournful solo rendition of Morrissey's I Know It's Over, perhaps the saddest song ever penned. The audience, many of whom had queued for tickets (which sold out in two hours) for this small venue tour, were breathless.
The only lowlight was the background clinking of drinks being served, and the sing-along vocals of over-exuberant fans.
When it was all over, the audience exhausted, my companion turned and asked: "Did I just die and go to heaven?" Such was the mood of the room.
The Age, September 4, 1995
By Dugald Jellie
Submitted by Sai
A CONFESSION. I first heard Jeff Buckley only several months ago, early on a Sunday morning on the car radio. The Triple J announcer, Francis Leach, I think, was talking about an evangelical New York singer by the name of Buckley. The song was Hallelujah.
I heard there was a sacred chord/That David played and it pleased the Lord/but you don't really care for music do you?
On Saturday night at the Prince Patrick Hotel, Jeff Buckley, and his music, were alive. From the moment he started crying-his voice transformed into the sounds of a sitar as if to tell the audience: "if you want me to, this is what I can do"-everyone knew that tonight, in the bowels of a pub somewhere in Colingwood, they were in for something special.
Buckley, squeezed into a pink top with the words "take that, love you" across his chest, mesmerized the audience for an hour-and-a-half with his visceral voice, playing the hymnal tunes from his debut album Grace.
At times, with songs such as Lover, You Should've Come Over and Last Goodbye, his body writhing and contorting to each lyric, it was as though rock music was merging with the ecclesiastical.
Was it that the lone spotlight shining down on the singer, guitar slashed across shoulder a halo?
But between moments of haunting elegance, Buckley's voice and music also divulged, as with So Real, a hard and dirty realm, immersed in anguish.
When I first heard Buckley's voice on the radio I didn't know it came from the son of the venerated late-1960s Los Angeles fringe folk singer, Tim Buckley; that the song he was playing, Hallelujah, was penned by the post Leonard Cohen.
And it's not a cry that you hear at night/It's not somebody who's seen the light/It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah.
I didn't know that Jeff Buckley only met his father once, aged eight, before he died of a heroin overdose. Or that he grew up singing with his mother, a classically trained pianist and cellist, in the car, bundled around southern California.
All I knew was that his was an exquisite voice. It was as though an angel was singing for us.
The highlight of the show was a mournful solo rendition of Morrissey's I Know It's Over, perhaps the saddest song ever penned. The audience, many of whom had queued for tickets (which sold out in two hours) for this small venue tour, were breathless.
The only lowlight was the background clinking of drinks being served, and the sing-along vocals of over-exuberant fans.
When it was all over, the audience exhausted, my companion turned and asked: "Did I just die and go to heaven?" Such was the mood of the room.
No comments:
Post a Comment