Jeff Buckley, Astoria 2

The Guardian: January 21, 1995

By Caroline Sullivan

  WHEN Jeff Buckley's debut album, Grace, was released last year, it received ferocious acclaim and spawned a resurgence of interest in Jeff's folk-singing father Tim. Had the elder Buckley not overdosed on drugs in 1975, aged 28, he might have been glumly amused that his progeny is already more commercially successful than he ever was. Touring Britain for the second time in four months, Jeff pulled a full house that screamed as if he were Take That.

  Mind you, the fans were almost as enthusiastic about support band Bettie Serveert, an ascending Dutch indie act of no great distinction. Buckley's music actually isn't all that different from Serveert's melodic, unfussy pop-rock, though Buckley also has blues and Led Zeppeloid heavy metal in his repertoire. But where Serveert are mousy, Jeff is a natural whose every quaver emanates star quality.

  In checked flannel shirt and pensionable jeans, he looked like Everyslacker, but after a bashful, "Gee, uh, glad to be back with you guys," he was transformed into a Bronte-like romantic troubadour. His eyes closed, his high volume ululated in its unique way and his entire body quivered. "I was so real! REAL!" he wailed, hacking at a guitar to keep his hands occuppied during this outpouring of emotion. It was as if Jim Morrison and Iggy Pop had met in the detox ward.

  Buckley was at fever pitch for over an hour, building songs slowly to explosive crescendos. During a power-chord jamboree called Eternal Life, he threw his malfunctioning guitar to the floor in rage, grabbed another and shoved onward. It was spellbinding. By the time he got to a simmering a cappella blues, What Will You Say When You See My Face?, the crowd was virtually silent with awe.

  If Buckley were to change one thing, it should be his habit of howling at the climax of every song. It's just a bit too much of a good thing, the last thing this lily needs is gilding.

Jeff Buckley: The Garage, London

The Gaurdian: September 5, 1994

By Andrew Smith

  As Jeff Buckley ambled lugubriously on to the stage, the faces of pretty much everyone in the capacity crowd betrayed the same thought-"How much he looks like his father!"

  Dad was Tim Buckley, who, although never rising above cult status in his lifetime, has, since his his death from a drug overdose in 1975, come to assume a mythic status in the annals of pop. His greatest legacy, the achingly beautiful Song To The Siren, which was introduced to a new generation by the Cocteau Twins in 1984 and has been covered by many others since, is widely regarded as one of the finest pop songs ever written.

  For a young singer and song writer such as Jeff, having to live with the Buckley name must at times seem a terrible burden. The surprise is that he appears able to pull the performing off so comfortably. His debut LP, the aptly titled Grace, is a consummate work, evincing a maturity and poise that Jeff's tender years really give him no right to possess.

  In a live setting, though, it is his extraordinary voice that impresses you first. It's reminiscent of Doors singer Jim Morrison in the lower registers, and it rises to the kind of liquid, slightly tremulous, falsetto that made Billie Holiday famous. The truth is that you don't get many of these to the pound. Backed by a traditional bass-drums-guitar line-up, Buckley makes good use of this God-given voice.

  Most of the songs are love songs, reflective and melancholic in tone, often rising to impassioned, Piafesque climaxes-the kind of thing that generally seems crude in the hands of rock performers. But there is nothing crude in the way Buckley sings. Only once, during the encore, an excessively long, free-form reading of the Big Star classic, Kangaroo, was there any hint of indulgence. Even here, if one stuck with it, there were pearls to be plucked. Anyway you listen to it, Jeff Buckley is an exciting and unexpected find.

Glastonbury Reviews

The Gaurdian: June 26, 1995

By Ed Vulliamy

  The main stage acts were cappped without question by the haunting, almost operatic voice and the winding, elastic tempo tapestries of Jeff Buckley. Son of the tragic hero of folk rock, Tim Buckley, he is probably a better balladeer. He was greeted by his devotees, but then found himself rousing the entire valley as he narrated the soft and harsh episodes in his stories of desolate love in a "world gone cold, no one cares about love any more."

***

Select Magazine, July, 1995

Pyramid Stage, Saturday 2:50pm
Only those with the foresight to bring high-power binoculars could salivate over his spectacular cheekbones, so it's all down to Buckley's music. But he plays all his grunge-beast songs, and not stuff like "Hallelujah" which is what usually gives Jeff his full kaleidoscopic spectrum of mood and magic.
Best Song: "So Real"
Best Onstage Ad-lib: "You're so quiet, we're so quiet together. We never talk anymore. Haha."
Worst Moment: Jeff invites on Ben Watt.
Best Moment: He and Watt launch into a version of the MC5's "Kick Out The Jams".
Overall Score: 3/10. AP

***

Melody Maker, July 1, 1995
Submitted by Sai

Jeff Buckley's too unsullied, too compassionate to really rub my lamp. I want fear and loathing, dread and desire, a stubborn, vindictive refusal to understand. Some HATE in his love songs. And isn't it time he wrote some new material? (JTC)