By Dan DeLuca, INQUIRER STAFF WRITER
Bad career move, Ms. Hatfield.
At the Trocadero Saturday, Jeff Buckley opened for Juliana Hatfield. The Chinatown theater was sold out, and though there were Buckley loyalists in the 21-and-over balcony, Hatfield was the draw. But if people came to see the alterna-tomboy most likely to succeed, they left talking about the waifish opener with the luminous voice and charisma out the wazoo.
In terms of a supporting act blowing the headliner off the stage, this may not have been quite as extreme as, say, Bruce Springsteen opening for Anne Murray. But though Hatfield's squeaky-voiced performance would have cone across as mildly engaging under normal circumstances, her 80-minute set seemed pedestrian and too long by half after Buckley ravaged the room.
Hatfield has a way with a gritty guitar riff and a slyly put-together pop tune that speaks well the language of adolescent angst. But neither of her major label albums-Only Everything (Mammoth/Atlantic) is the latest-has delivered on the promise of her 1992 solo debut Hey Babe. And at the Troc, she knew she knew she was in trouble. "That Jeff Buckley Band is a tough act to follow."
You can say that again. Buckley possesses a gloriously lush vocal attack and a gamin-like presence that's full of surprises (And humor: "Yeah, I know, I know: sit-ups," he said, standing at the mike with a shirt open to the waist.) But mostly, he's got a whole lot of nerve. He started off the ready-to-mosh crowd with a wordless, whispered incantation, then built ever so slowly to the bombast of "Dream Brother." And he controlled the ebb and flow masterfully, with a rip-roaring version of the MC5's "Kick Out the Jams" and the full now-hushed, now-raging range of last year's Grace (Columbia).
By the time he left the crowd pleading for an encore that never came with "Last Goodbye," it was clear that Hatfield didn't have a prayer.
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