Queen's Hall Review

The List: June 30, 1995

By Alastair Mabbott

JEFF BUCKLEY

Queen's Hall, Edinburgh, 20 June.

  With a mere one-and-a-half albums behind him, Jeff Buckley is casting a gargantuan shadow-even if it is only on the back wall of the Queen's Hall and comes courtesy of an ankle-level spotlight. Until you realise how much work he's still got to do before he fulfils his potential, it can seem like Jeff's already a towering colossus. There's tremendous raw talent here, presence and power. But there are also a lot of opportunity missed, others pursued beyond decent limits and, beneath his easy-going and likeable stage presence, a sense that he's still looking for the coontrol and hair-fine judgment he needs before he can be truly great.

  Which is not to say that he doesn't have fleeting moments of brilliance. These usually occur in his own songs-anything from the first half of Grace and a few new ones unveiled tonight-though even they sometimes suffer from an overdose of Buckley's flamboyant self-expression.

  He tells us a joke that suggests he's aware of at least some of the pitfalls of his position. "How many Jeff Buckleys does it take to change a lightbulb?" The answer goes something like "No problem, Jeff, I'll fix it, you just sit there. Want some peanuts? A Coke?"

  Perhaps to break out of that trap of fawning indulgence, or to piss off the punter who yells for his dad's "Song To The Siren", he leads his band into two gnarly grunge-outs. They're shit. And the cage remains unrattled. At the end, he struggles with "Hallelujah", forgetting the words and visibly straining to put across a song that remains just out of his grasp. But, like Tinkerbell, he's carried through it by the audience, who see a victory not a messy draw. Closing with Chilton's "Kangaroo" is a risky move, too-the original was so bent out of shape that there's little for Jeff to do but dick around with it in slightly different ways.

  The thing is that there's enough evidence that Jeff Buckley will mature into a brilliant performer, and it's hard to leave here tonight totally disheartened. This man's shortcomings hold as much promise as most people's highlights, but it's going to be a long-if interesting-slog.

The Garage (Glasgow) Review

The List: March 10, 1995

By Fiona Shepherd

JEFF BUCKLEY

The Garage, Glasgow, 28 Feb.

  Already, after Jeff Buckley has been less than one year in the public arena, it seems that We Are Not Worthy. Any lost souls taking a wrong turning at Charing Cross and ambling into The Garage would have been forgiven for thinking they'd walked into the middle of a church service, with the willing flock lending the firebrand preacher their undivided, submissive attention.

  Obviously, some of us just belong to a different denomination. See that cynical dissenter? That was me, that was. The one that dared to have a conversation while Jeff (that's Mr. Buckley to us riff-raff) tortuously wrestled with his Muse. The one that yawned while Jeff changed guitars in such a talented way. Pardon me for not joining so readily in the mass genuflection.

  Well, it's easy to scoff at Buckley's over-indulgence, but it's also easy to see why he's accorded such reverence. In a world where (slot in personal mediocre bugbear) can be given the time of day, we're unaccustomed to expecting 24-carat emotion from our musical heroes. But Jeff gives it 110 per cent, Brian. Not Whitney-Houston-belt-it-out-and-call-it-emotion emotion, but the feeling of being swept along, even manipulated, by the total sound emanating from the stage. Guitars swell, then fall away to a spare, clear chime and the Voice really is something potentially awesome, ebbing and flowing in harmony with the rest of the band.

  At their best-and there are some powerhouse moments in among all the fudge-Buckley and band have a thrillingly instinctive, organic feel, like Led Zeppelin when they weren't too busy being rock pigs, and the quavering vocals have the power of a Robert Plant or an Ian Gillan. But there are whole chapters with no plot where it seems Buckley is just skating along, relying on the audience's frequently-articulated heckles of goodwill, and, the empty aftertaste of these moments is as enduring as the memory of his howling passion. So let's hold the canonization for now, eh?

Mercury Lounge announcement

The New York Daily News: December 26, 1995

By Jim Farber

New Year's Eve isn't only about revelry. It's also about prayer-a time to mark the change in your life with hope.

  The holiday's second meaning finds its perfect voice in a New Year's concert by Jeff Buckley at Mercury Lounge. With his glistening falsetto and daring range, Buckley sings like a troubled angel, a fallen figure of romance.

  In concert, Buckley rates as one of the few pop singers to offer elaborate vocal improvisation, the kind more common to jazz singers. While his far-flung vocals impress on his 1994 debut album, "Grace," onstage he goes much further, fusing the wildness of Robert Plant and the tragedy of Edith Piaf with the hypnotic religion of Van Morrison.

  Look for Buckley to serve up most of "Grace" in concert, plus some surprises. Along the way, you can expect Buckley to offer something more than a holiday toast. You can also expect a clear expression of faith.

  10:30 at the Mercury Lounge, 217 E. Houston St. 212-260-4700. Tix: $20.