Jeff Buckley, Astoria 2

The Guardian: January 21, 1995

By Caroline Sullivan

  WHEN Jeff Buckley's debut album, Grace, was released last year, it received ferocious acclaim and spawned a resurgence of interest in Jeff's folk-singing father Tim. Had the elder Buckley not overdosed on drugs in 1975, aged 28, he might have been glumly amused that his progeny is already more commercially successful than he ever was. Touring Britain for the second time in four months, Jeff pulled a full house that screamed as if he were Take That.

  Mind you, the fans were almost as enthusiastic about support band Bettie Serveert, an ascending Dutch indie act of no great distinction. Buckley's music actually isn't all that different from Serveert's melodic, unfussy pop-rock, though Buckley also has blues and Led Zeppeloid heavy metal in his repertoire. But where Serveert are mousy, Jeff is a natural whose every quaver emanates star quality.

  In checked flannel shirt and pensionable jeans, he looked like Everyslacker, but after a bashful, "Gee, uh, glad to be back with you guys," he was transformed into a Bronte-like romantic troubadour. His eyes closed, his high volume ululated in its unique way and his entire body quivered. "I was so real! REAL!" he wailed, hacking at a guitar to keep his hands occuppied during this outpouring of emotion. It was as if Jim Morrison and Iggy Pop had met in the detox ward.

  Buckley was at fever pitch for over an hour, building songs slowly to explosive crescendos. During a power-chord jamboree called Eternal Life, he threw his malfunctioning guitar to the floor in rage, grabbed another and shoved onward. It was spellbinding. By the time he got to a simmering a cappella blues, What Will You Say When You See My Face?, the crowd was virtually silent with awe.

  If Buckley were to change one thing, it should be his habit of howling at the climax of every song. It's just a bit too much of a good thing, the last thing this lily needs is gilding.