The List: March 10, 1995
By Fiona Shepherd
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?
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