Impressive Buckley

Now magazine: February 17, 1994

By Tim Perlich 

Submitted by Karen Pace/Steven Bodrug

Jeff Buckley, opening for Wind May Do Damage, with Rory McLeod, at Ultrasound, Sunday, February 13. Attendance: 175. Tickets: Free. Rating: NNNN (highly entertaining)

  Without fanfare, a disheveled Jeff Buckley, in an oversized new coat, took the Ultrasound stage with a confident New York spring.

  The between-set chatter of the near-capacity crowd slowly dissolved, more out of curiosity than deference. As the spindly singer/songwriter started to twiddle his pick against the strings of his low-slung Telecaster, you could see a moan beginning to take shape in his throat.

  When he finally opened his mouth, a strange, weeping howl leapt out and filled the room. People stopped drinking in mid-gulp. The club became very, very quiet-so quiet that between Buckley's breaths the only sound was the air being sucked through the ceiling vents.

  The great care he took in building his song shapes made it known that this wasn't going to be Tim Buckley's son trying to use his good family name as leverage in promoting his debut "product." Nope. Those sounds belonged solely to Jeff Buckley, and he was excreting them because it's just a natural bodily function.

  His guitar playing technique is surprisingly accomplished. Buckley strikes chords with the self-assurance of a music school grad who no longer feels obliged to drop suspended sevenths and diminished ninths just because he can. The brief time Buckley spent alongside serious slinger Gary Lucas in God's And Monsters clearly served to set him straight.

  Yet you tend to forget he's even strapped in when that voice swoops up in a piercing falsetto, then comes crashing down in waves.

  Buckley is still stretching, still testing his limits. There are moments where he flutters with a grand flourish where a simple whisper might have conveyed so much more. His banter sometimes betrays a certain greeness. You could sense the entire house cringe when he noted with surprise that there was "actual Jamaican-style jerk children in Toronto." Fortunately, quickly sensed an impending brush back and acquitted himself admirably by pleading ignorance.

  For an encore, Buckley came back with an impressive 10-minute deconstruction of Sweet Thing. It's no small task to take on a Van Morrison song-they come so thoroughly marked with Van's own personal stamp-but Buckley stylishly delivered it like something he'd written on the cab ride over. Nice one.