Jeffrey Charmer

Select: March, 1995

By Gina Morris

Submitted by Ananula

Jeff Buckley, Bristol Fleece & Firkin: son-of-who-cares materializes as a celestial whore...

  At a glance, this could easily be 1969. There are several large, old, bearded hippies standing at the bar, mumbling and smoking fat roll-ups. Some five feet away, two long-haired women in flowing, floral-patterned smocks quaff lively halves of cider. Onstage, a lithe young man with a chiseled face, thick eyebrows and long ruffled wavy hair is attempting to play his own style of folk-rock music...it isn't quite going to plan.

  "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck." Stroppily, the youth picks up yet another guitar, which eventually slides out of tune like the others. He loses patience, throws it back and grabs another. Catching sight of the hundreds of anxious, horrified faces before him, he presses his lips to the microphone, smiles wryly and turns on his best Beavis and Butthead voice. "Y'know, this sucks in a way it's never sucked before...so it's still kinda cool."

  Aside from those drawn here to ascertain if the fruits of Tim Buckley's loins are as brilliant as his cruelly curtailed career was, the majority have come to watch Jeff Buckley, son-of-who-cares. He's now in the middle of his first proper average-sized UK tour, and every night is sold out. You can forget your Julian Lennons and Ziggy Marleys, Jeff Buckley is a marketing man's wet dream in his own right; with undeniable good looks, a perky sense of humor, genius guitar playing (often simultaneous lead and rhythm, widdly fans) and a screeching voice like some celestial whore.

  Tonight, tthough, he's up against appalling sound, unbearable slow-bake heat and an un-rock-worthy 10:30 pm curfew. Worse, there are rumors that he's losing his voice. Any half-pelt untogetherness would be understandable, but his years spent touring ruthless, seedy New York backstreet clubs as a solo artist, make his current afflictions trifling in comparison. It makes you wonder how the barflies reacted to his passionate, 20-minute freeform falsetto warbling (something he does much less of these days). No doubt his boundless charm spared him too many beatings. Now, with a proper, steely band behind him, he's less unnervingly intense-bordering-on-uncomfortable. He rocks. In fact, the once spectacularly grungy "Eternal Life" is now a thrash/punk onslaught worthy, almost, of Black Sabbath. The fairly funky "Grace" has also been given a rather severe haircut and a pair of skin-tight leather strides.

  Although apparently not as frantic as last night's Dublin gig, when even the oldsters at the bar were screaming "we love you, we fucking love you" and Jeff ended the set by stagediving and disappearing for several hours, people are still shouting for the song that has him at his very best. Saved, of course, for last, he encores with his acoustic, solo and completely overwhelming cover of Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah."

  All over and and finally spent, Jeff Buckley stands before the shrieking mass, removes his shirt and hurls it into the crowd, eyeing it as it's ripped to pieces. He gently, reassuringly, strokes his unscathed naked torso and strolls offstage.