jeff buckley in black and white

Things that make us feel alive- Reasons to live.
  1. knowing tomorrow becomes a memory
  2. stick around to learn the lesson for the mistake you made
  3. stargazing with the only person you truly care about
  4. celebrating your birthday after the year you tried to kill yourself and realising that every candle matters
  5. first dates that turn into weddings
  6. sightseeing in places that contain beauty
  7. watching sunsets fade
  8. watching sunrises
  9. holding hands in silly places
  10. watching old couples
  11. fireworks
  12. meeting your soul mate
  13. reading graffiti in bathroom stalls-  poetry in a restroom
  14. doing something dangerous and surviving
  15. the one look the person you love gives you that simultaneously means everything & nothing
  16. first kisses
  17. hickies that need covering
  18. waking up beside your boyfriend
  19. sharing the double bed with your best friend
  20. drunk nights with the only ten people you care about
  21. Tea
  22. trying really hard not to be stoned
  23. trains
  24. sociopathic best friends
  25. Green day sing-A-longs
  26. Drunk sing-A-longs
  27. Sober sing-A-longs
  28. road trips
  29. turning your music up really loud
  30. poetry by you
  31. poetry for you
  32. poetry you found
  33. new TV shows
  34. attractive people
  35. Gerard way
  36. movies you can quote from beginning to end
  37. old books that smell good and mean something
  38. VCRS
  39. tears of joy
  40. people you can cry in front of
  41. photos that make you go “ew”, “ah” & “aw”
  42. dancing around the house when no ones home
  43. dancing around the house when everyone is home
  44. being home alone
  45. hearing something from your childhood
  46. adventures outside
  47. noodles in bed
  48. awkward moments you laugh about later
  49. embarrassing your friends
  50. patting puppies
  51. running away from dogs
  52. falling in love more each day
  53. getting into trouble
  54. getting out of trouble
  55. late night walks
  56. early morning wake ups
  57. sleep ins
  58. 3am DNMS with your best friends
  59. cuddles
  60. movie marathons
  61. Tacos
  62. metaphors
  63. sarcasm
  64. getting back at someone
  65. standing up for yourself
  66. riots
  67. balloons
  68. meaningful thankyous
  69. hard goodbyes
  70. awkward hellos
  71. moments alone
  72. showers
  73. passionate hobbies
  74. 4:20s
  75. random acts of kindness
  76. nice strangers
  77.  creepy strangers that you laugh about later
  78. improvement
  79. songs that make you cry
  80. songs that lift you up
  81. songs that remind you of something
  82. people who change your mood
  83. laughter
  84. meeting parents
  85. nights you want to forget
  86. nights you never want to forget
  87. board games on quiet rainy days
  88. jumping In puddles
  89. pushing friends in the pool
  90. being ironic
  91. fights that sort things out
  92. drunk angry family members that make you laugh
  93. secrets & promises
  94. fading scars that remind you, you’re still alive
  95. stupid rumors
  96. people that you make fun of quietly with your friends
  97. plans that go horribly wrong but you still enjoy them
  98. being late
  99. being early
  100. not showing up
  101. falling over & laughing
  102. laughing & falling over
  103. primary school people that you never want to see again
  104. memories you cherish forever from grade one
  105. movie references
  106. song references
  107. movie moments
  108. religious jokes
  109. racist jokes
  110. (not sexist jokes)
  111. sexual references
  112. flowers
  113. getting lost
  114. barking dogs that don’t shut up but remind you that you have ears
  115. police officers that pass by & make you nervous even though you are completely sober and haven’t done anything wrong
  116. having your own thoughts
  117. realising you’re not alone
  118. funerals that make you cry & appreciate things more
  119. weddings that make you cry & appreciate things more
  120. sharing cigarettes
  121. stealing cigarettes from your older brother
  122. stealing wine from your parents  
  123. doing things that would make your parents angry if they knew
  124. making your parents proud
  125. feeling comfortable and sexy in your PJs
  126. black underwear
  127. 10 things I hate about you
  128. money well spent
  129. money well saved
  130. brotherly/sisterly love
  131. moments after you’ve been upset
  132. liking how you look
  133. cousins that you share the same hate for but you both put it behind you on new years eve dinners and Christmas parties
  134. evolving
  135. finding new music
  136. QUEEN
  137. finally understanding what something means
  138. not caring about how your parents treat you
  139. not caring what people think of you
  140. not caring
  141. awkwardly opening gifts
  142. kisses from grandpa
  143. kisses from your dog
  144. kisses from your boyfriend
  145. childhood toys you still hug when in despair
  146. laughing/crying when you can’t afford something
  147. talking loudly in cinemas
  148. singing along to musicals
  149. bailing friends out
  150. blankets
  151. nude runs
  152. hot nights with the air con on and one foot out of the blanket
  153. roof climbing
  154. spicy food you were not aware of
  155. painful but fun trips with the family
  156. story telling- real or not
  157. food you have to pretend to like to make your dad happy
  158. watching your dad get emotional to cold chisel
  159. your grandmas smile when you are talking to her
  160. being able to act like a child & like an adult when you want
  161. dreams & hopes
  162. donuts
  163. the Simpsons reruns
  164. sculling vodka and telling yourself that later the taste won’t matter
  165. trampoline DNMS
  166. joint passing
  167. swapping and sharing
  168. honesty
  169. finding money
  170. not going to prom
  171. wearing no shoes
  172. new shoes
  173. concerts
  174. feeling like an ice cream
  175. getting splashed by a car
  176. compliments
  177. playing competitive made up games with your brothers & friends
  178. beds
  179. “a pen is mightier than a sword”
  180. hangovers
  181. sunburns
  182. city lights
  183. colours
  184. sight
  185. smell
  186. touch
  187. taste
  188. hear
  189. arctic monkeys
  190. birth marks
  191. jumping fences
  192. sand everywhere
  193. making a fool of yourself
  194. laughing at yourself
  195. being romantic
  196. being cheesy
  197. footprints in the sand
  198. baby fingers
  199. the Rugrats
  200. I told you so arguments
  201. shot gun
  202. your friends & families happiness making you happy
  203. comics
  204. foo fighters
  205. sushi
  206. piercings
  207. tattoos
  208. tickling
  209. punching someone in the face
  210. expressions
  211. communicating with just expressions
  212. inside jokes
  213. family jokes
  214. being silly
  215. washing up with siblings
  216. that uncle
  217. when someone remembers something about you
  218. remembering something about someone
  219. new friends
  220.  old friends
  221. friends that turn into strangers
  222. strangers that turn into friends
  223. hugs
  224. love letters
  225. letters
  226. words
  227. yelling at waves
  228. swearing
  229. voices
  230. singing full heartedly a song you hate at a party because you’re drunk, sober or just having a good time.
  231. your brothers singing
  232. not getting caught
  233. getting drunk with your older brothers
  234. drunk happy people
  235. dancing at wedding receptions
  236. the grooms reaction when he first sees the bride 
  237. unexpected compliments
  238. feeling full
  239. message in a bottle
  240. odd socks
  241. longs socks
  242. hemp socks
  243. trolley rides
  244. roller-coasters
  245. being squished on the couch
  246. watching horrible movies
  247. a blink 182 song for every mood
  248. Jeff Buckley
  249. all nighters
  250. family guy
  251. SpongeBob square pants
  252. prank calls
  253. awkward phone calls
  254. pretending to be black
  255. pretending to be a white girl
  256. butterflies
  257. feeling butterflies
  258. butterfly effect
  259. bad hair days
  260. shaved legs
  261. no bra
  262.  photo bombing
  263. nicknames
  264. cartoons
  265. understanding the sexual references in the  cartoons you use to watch as a child
  266. crying
  267. dirty dancing
  268. carry on my wayward son
  269. silly faces
  270. bohemian rhapsody
  271.  punk rock
  272. rock n roll
  273. how I met your mother
  274. bubbles
  275. French love
  276. Doritos
  277. sneezing
  278. full moon
  279. wrestling with friends, brothers, your boyfriend
  280. cheesecake  
  281. throwing a glass bottle on the ground
  282. Shakespeare
  283. paint
  284. cider In bed
  285. physical contact
  286. serenading on guitar
  287. ball pits
  288. Ferris wheels
  289. perks of being a wallflower
  290. peanut butter jelly (and a baseball bat)
  291. baby pools
  292. accents & Impressions
  293. drinking wine out of the bottle
  294. handshakes
  295. connections
  296. reading
  297. jellybeans
  298. singing “500 miles”- the proclaimers
  299. getting what you give
  300. feeling infinite
Remember Me? - Extract from Dream Brother Part 1 of 2

Jeff Buckley drowned three years ago. He’d seemed on the brink of a brilliant rock ‘n’ roll future. Yet he had never shaken off his obsession, part anger, part yearning, with the father he had barely known - Tim Buckley, legendary singer-songwriter. David Browne on their lives and destiny

Friday 15 December 2000 19.17 EST

Although dusk was in sight, the moist, breezy Memphis air still felt mosquito-muggy inside and outside. It was May 1997 and Jeff Buckley, who had turned 30 about six months earlier, emerged from his bedroom in black jeans, ankle-high black boots, and a white T-shirt with long black sleeves and “Altamont” (in honour of the Rolling Stones’ anarchic, death-shrouded 1969 concert) inscribed on it. Though officially out of his 20s, he remained a rock'n'roll kid at heart. As he and his tour manager Gene Bowen stood outside on the front porch, Jeff said he was heading out for a while. Generally Bowen would accompany Jeff on expeditions while on tour, but tonight Bowen needed space. Some mattresses would be delivered shortly, and the last thing he needed was Jeff bouncing around the house when they arrived.

          


So, when Jeff told Bowen he would be leaving with Keith Foti, Bowen was mostly relieved. Foti was even more of a character than Jeff was. A fledgling songwriter and musician and a full-time haircutter in New York City, Foti had accompanied Bowen from New York to Memphis in a rented van, the band’s gear and instruments crammed in the back. Stocky and wide-faced, with spiky, blue-dyed hair, Foti, who was 23, could have been the star of a Saturday morning cartoon show about a punk rock band.

Jeff told Bowen that he and Foti had decided to drive to the rehearsal space the band would be using during the upcoming weeks. Bowen told them to be back at the house by nine to greet the band. Jeff said fine, and he and Foti ambled down the gravel driveway to the van parked in front of the house.

Suddenly it dawned on Bowen: did Jeff and Foti know where the rehearsal space was? For non-natives, Memphis’s layout can be confusing; it wouldn’t be hard to get lost or suddenly find one’s self in a dicey part of town. Bowen bolted through the front door, but the van was already gone. Oh, well, he thought, they’ll find the building. After all, they had been there just yesterday.

Cruising around Memphis in their bright yellow Ryder van, past weathered shacks, barbecue joints, pawnshops and strip malls, Jeff and Foti made for an unusual sight. Foti was in the driver’s seat, which was for the best; Jeff was an erratic driver. They cranked one of Foti’s mix tapes, and the two of them sang along to the Beatles’ I Am The Walrus, John Lennon’s Imagine and Jane’s Addiction’s Three Days. Foti and Jeff both loved Jane’s Addiction and its shamanesque, hard-living singer, Perry Farrell. It took Jeff back to the days in the late 80s when he was living and starving in Los Angeles, trying to make a name for himself.

It wasn’t Jeff’s fault that he shared some vocal and physical characteristics with his father and fellow musician, Tim Buckley. Both men had the same sorrowful glances, thick eyebrows and delicate, waifish airs that made women of all ages want to comfort and nurture them. It wasn’t Jeff’s fault, either, that he inherited Tim’s vocal range, five-and-a-half octaves that let Tim’s voice spiral from a soft caress into bouts of rapturous, orgasmic sensuality. In the 60s, Tim wrote and sang melodies that blended folk, jazz, art song and R&B; he had a large cult following himself, and some of those songs had been recorded by the likes of Linda Ronstadt and Blood, Sweat & Tears.

When Jeff had begun writing his own music, he, too, moved in unconventional ways, crafting rhapsodies that changed time signatures and leapt from folkish delicacy to full-throttle metal roar. None of this, he insisted, came from his father’s influence. His biggest rock influence and favourite band was, he said, Led Zeppelin. To his friends, Jeff talked about his bootleg of Physical Graffiti out-takes with more affection and fannish enthusiasm than he ever did about the nine albums his father had recorded during the 60s and 70s.

Tonight, for once, Tim’s ghost was not lurking in the rearview mirror. If anything, Jeff seemed at peace with his father’s memory for perhaps the first time in his life. Whenever Jeff had mentioned Tim in the past, it was with flashes of irritation or resignation. He sounded as if he were discussing a far-off celebrity, not a father or even a family member. In a way, Tim was barely either: he and his first wife, Mary Guibert, had separated before Jeff was born, and Jeff had been raised to view Tim’s life and music warily. But in the past few months, Jeff seemed to have begun to understand his father’s music and, more importantly, his motivations.

Jeff’s years in Los Angeles hadn’t been fruitful, but when he moved to New York in the autumn of 1991, a buzz began building around the skinny, charismatic kid with the big-as-a-cathedral voice and the eclectic repertoire. Many record companies came calling, and he eventually, hesitatingly, put his name on a contract with one of them, Columbia. After an initial EP, an album, Grace, finally appeared in 1994. A brilliant sprawl of a work, the album traversed the musical map, daring listeners to find the common ground that linked its choral pieces, Zeppelin-dipped rock and amorous cabaret. Certainly one of the links was Jeff’s voice, an intense and seemingly freewheeling instrument that wasn’t afraid to glide from operatic highs and overpowering shrieks to a conversational intimacy.

Beyond being simply one of the most moving albums of the 90s, Grace branded Jeff as an actual, hype-be-damned talent for the age. The record business was always eager to promote newcomers in such a manner, but here was someone with both a sense of musical history and seemingly limitless potential. Like Bob Dylan and Van Morrison before him, he appeared to be on the road to a long and commanding career in which even a creative misstep or two would be worth poring over. Comparisons with Tim were inevitable, and a disturbing number of fortysomethings had materialised at Jeff’s concerts to ask him about his father. But, much to Jeff’s relief, the comparisons had begun to diminish with each passing month.

Grace hadn’t been the smash hit Columbia would have liked, but worldwide it had sold nearly 750,000 copies, and it was talked up by everyone from Paul McCartney and U2 to Zeppelin’s Robert Plant and Jimmy Page. Fans in Britain, Australia and France adored him even more passionately than those in America. To his managers and record company, Jeff was a shining star, a gateway to prestige, money and credibility. A very great deal was riding on the songs he was testing out on the four-track recorder in the living room of his house in Memphis. Jeff didn’t like to think about those pressures, which is partly why he moved 1,000 miles away from New York. Here, he could think, write, create.

The drive from Jeff’s house to Young Avenue, where the rehearsal room was located, should have taken 10 minutes down a few tree-lined streets. But something was wrong. Before Jeff and Foti knew it, nearly an hour had passed and there was still no sign of the two-storey red-brick building. They found themselves circling around a variety of neighbourhoods, past underpasses for Interstate 240 and pawnshops. To Foti, everything began to look the same.

Jeff had an idea. “Why don’t we go down to the river?” he said. It sounded good to Foti, who had brought along his guitar and felt like practising a song he was writing. Having a talented, well-regarded rock star as an audience wouldn’t be so bad, either.

The Wolf River did not look particularly wolfish; it barely had the feel of a river. The city government had passed an ordinance banning swimming, but no signs indicated this restriction. According to locals, there didn’t have to be, since everyone in Memphis knew it was far from an ideal swimming hole. The first six inches of water could be warm and innocuous-looking, but thanks to the intersection with the Mississippi the undercurrents were deceptive. All day long and into the early hours of the morning, 200ft-long barges carrying goods from the local granaries and a cement factory hauled their cargo up and down the Wolf. With their churning motors, the tugboats that pulled the barges were even fiercer and had been known to create strong wakes. Local coastguard employees had once witnessed a 16ft flat-bottom boat being sucked under the water in the wake of a tug. Memphis lore had it that at least one person a year drowned in the Wolf.

Even if Jeff had heard these stories, he either didn’t care or disregarded them. Hopping over a 3ft-high brick wall, Jeff and Foti strode across a cement promenade strewn with picnic tables. Then Jeff hiked his black combat boots on to the bottom rung on the steel rail that ran alongside the promenade and jumped over. Foti, gripping his guitar, followed, and they found themselves barrelling down a steep slope, swishing through knee-high brush, ivy and weeds.

On the way down, Jeff shed his coat - just dropped it in the brush. “You’re not gonna leave it here, are you?” Foti asked, stopping quickly to pick it up. Jeff didn’t seem to be listening. Carrying Foti’s boom box, he continued down to the riverbank. The shore was littered with rocks, soda cans and shattered glass bottles, and it quickly sloped into the water just inches away. As gentle waves lapped on to the shoreline, Jeff set Foti’s boom box on one of the many jagged slate rocks on the bank, just an inch or so above the water. “Hey, man, don’t put my radio there,” Foti told him. “I don’t want it going in the water. It’s my only unit of sound.” Jeff didn’t seem to pay particular attention to that request, either.

By now, just after 9pm, Foti had strapped on his guitar and started practising his song. Looking right at Foti, Jeff took a step or two away, his back to the river. Before Foti knew it, Jeff was knee-high in the water. “What are you doin’, man?” Foti said. Within moments, Jeff’s entire body eased into the water, and he began doing a backstroke.

At first, Foti wasn’t too concerned: Jeff was still directly offshore, just a few feet away. He and Foti began musing about life and music as Jeff backstroked around in circles. “You know, the first one’s fun, man - it’s that second one … ” Jeff said, his voice trailing off as he continued to backstroke in the water.

With each stroke, Jeff inched more and more out into the river. Foti noticed and said, “Come in, you’re gettin’ too far out.” Instead, Jeff began singing Led Zeppelin’s Whole Lotta Love. “He was just on his own at that point,” Foti says. “He didn’t really observe my concerns.” Jeff had an impetuous, spur-of-the-moment streak. Many of his friends considered it one of his most endearing qualities; others worried that it bordered on recklessness. Like his father, he liked to follow his muse, to leap into projects passionately and spontaneously, even if they weren’t fashionable or appropriate. Take that night in 1975. Tim was on his way home from a gruelling tour. His record sales were in freefall, but lately he had tried to cut back on his drinking and drugging, and was attempting to get his music and even a potential acting career on track. On the way home from the last stop on his tour, he stopped by the home of a friend, who offered up a few drugs. What was wrong with a little pick-me-up after some exhausting road work? No one knew if Tim realised exactly what he had snorted that late afternoon, but it ultimately didn’t matter; he died that night of an overdose at the age of 28.

Although Jeff had experimented with drugs, he steered clear to avoid his father’s fate, both physically and artistically; he had learned from Tim’s mistakes in the matters of artistic integrity and handling the music business. Onstage, Jeff would often make cracks about dead rock stars, pretending to shoot up or breaking into spot-on mimicry of anyone from Jim Morrison to Elvis Presley. Once this new album was completed, he was planning to dig deeper into his family heritage and unearth the truth behind the seemingly ongoing series of tragedies that haunted his lineage.

Tonight, as he backstroked in the water, Jeff appeared to feel freer than he had in a while. The mere fact that he was in water was a sign of change. Although he had grown up near the beaches of Southern California, Jeff was never a beachcomber.

It was now close to 9.15pm, and Jeff had been in the river nearly 15 minutes. His boots and trousers must gradually have become more sodden and heavy. He began swimming further toward the centre of the river, circling around before drifting to the left of Foti. Then he began swimming straight across to the other side, or so it appeared to Foti. Directly across from them, on the opposite bank, was a dirt road that ran right up from the river. It looked so close - maybe Jeff felt he could reach it and take a quick stroll.

The tugboat came first, moments later. “Jeff, man, there’s a boat coming,” Foti said. “Get out of the fucking water.” The boat was heading in their direction, up from Beale Street. Jeff seemed to take notice of it and made sure to be clear of it as it passed. The next time Foti looked over, he still saw Jeff’s head bobbing in the water.

Not more than a minute had passed when Foti spied another boat approaching. This one was bigger - a barge, perhaps 100ft long. Foti grew more concerned and started yelling louder for Jeff to come back. Once again, Jeff swam out of its path, and Foti breathed another sigh of relief. In the increasing darkness, the speck that was Jeff’s head was just barely visible.

Soon, the water grew choppy, the waves lapping a little more firmly against the riverbank. Foti grew worried about his boom box. The last thing he wanted was to see it waterlogged and unusable. Taking his eye off Jeff for a moment, he stepped over to where Jeff had set the stereo down on a rock and moved it back about five feet, out of reach of the waves. Foti turned back around. There was no longer a head in the water. There was nothing - just stillness, a few rippling aftershock waves, and the marina in the distance. Foti began to scream out Jeff’s name. There was no answer. He yelled more. He continued screaming for nearly 10 minutes.

On the other side of the river, Gordon Archibald, a 59-year-old employee of the marina, was walking near the moored boats with a friend when he heard a single shout of “help”. Concerned, he looked out on to the water. But he saw nothing, nor heard anything more.

The folk singer Tim Buckley, who was to become Jeff’s father, married Mary Guibert in 1965.

It was spring 1966, Mary Guibert was three months pregnant, 18 years old, and Tim was out of town. Even before Tim left for New York, his wife suspected he was spending time with other women. “By no stretch of the imagination was this a marriage made in heaven,” she says. “He hadn’t been faithful to me for very long. And I thought that was perfectly acceptable because, after all, he was so wonderful, and I was so nobody.”

Mary says she told Tim about the pregnancy before he left for New York, but that he told her he had to leave town and that she should move back in with her family in Orange County, near LA, get a job, save money, and “maybe get an abortion or whatever you want to do”, she recalls him saying. Even then, Tim made no mention of another woman. “I just had no idea,” Mary says. “A lot of denial going on. Tons of denial on both sides, because he wouldn’t bring himself, to the very end, to say, ‘You know, I really don’t love you very much’.” She sent Tim letters to various addresses in New York; his replies came fitfully and were pointedly vague. Finally, a mutual friend gave her the news: Tim was in New York with a new girlfriend, and would be back in Los Angeles shortly.

Lee Underwood, guitarist in Buckley’s band and a great friend, recalls the situation being a topic of discussion while he and Tim were in New York that summer. Given the choice of returning to Mary and Orange County or following what Underwood calls “his destined natural way”, Tim “decided to be true to himself and his music, fully aware that he would be accepting a lifetime burden of guilt. Tim left, not because he didn’t care about his soon-to-be-born child but because his musical life was just beginning; in addition, he couldn’t stand Mary. He did not abandon Jeff; he abandoned Mary.”

Finally, some action had to be taken. Tim came to meet Mary at a coffee shop near her home. What exactly happened remains unclear. Tim never talked to his friends about it, while Anna Guibert, Mary’s mother, recalls Tim giving Mary an ultimatum: divorce or abortion. According to Mary, she asked Tim what they should do about the marriage and pregnancy, and he replied, “You do whatever you have to do, baby”, and hung his head.

Afterwards, Mary, who was by now many months pregnant, walked home, told her mother the news and cried. As Anna Guibert remembers, “I said, 'That’s the best thing, honey. If he doesn’t want you, be free.’ She was crazy about Tim. But he wanted his career. There was no place for a baby in his life.“Mary, however, did want her baby.

He was born on Thursday, November 17, 1966, at 10.49pm, after 21 hours of labour. The issue of identity loomed even before the child left the hospital. Mary named her son Jeffrey Scott - "Jeffrey” after her last high-school boyfriend before Tim (“my last pure boy-girl relationship, my last pure moment”) and “Scott” in honour of John Scott Jr, a neighbour and close friend of the Guiberts who died in an accident at the age of 17. Yet because Mary preferred Scott, the child was instantly called Scotty by his family. Tim was not available for consultation, since no one knew his whereabouts.

At school, Scotty was the eternal clown, making jokes, craving attention and being more interested in music (including cello lessons provided by the school) than grades. His second-floor bedroom became a rock enclave, his most valuable possessions being a Hemispheres picture disc by the prog-rock band Rush and all four of Kiss’s solo albums.

He had a guitar given to him by his grandmother, and although he hadn’t learned to master it, he would sit and cradle it, “like Linus’s blanket”, according to Willie Osborn, his childhood friend. Although Jeff had taken his father’s name, his music tastes reflected none of Tim’s influence. He was just eight years old when Tim died; they had had their only proper encounter just months before.

The meeting between Tim and Jeff Buckley, April 1975.

Mary Guibert was flipping through a local newspaper when she saw a listing for Tim Buckley’s upcoming show. It was, she says, “an epiphany”. It had been six years since she and her first husband had seen each other, and nearly as long since they had spoken. Mary and Jeff took the hour-long drive to Huntington Beach, an oceanside town 10 miles southwest of Orange County, and arrived at the Golden Bear just before Tim walked on-stage. They took a seat on a bench in the second row.

Jeff seemed enraptured, bouncing in his seat to the rhythms of Tim’s 12-string guitar and rock band. “Scotty was in love,” Mary says. “He was immediately entranced. His little eyes were just dancing in his head.” To Mary, Tim was still a dynamic performer, bouncing on his heels with his eyes shut, but she also felt he looked careworn for someone still in his 20s.

At the end of the set, no sooner had Mary asked her son if he wanted to meet his father than the kid was out of his seat and scurrying in the direction of the backstage area. As they entered the cramped dressing room, Jeff clutched his mother’s long skirt. It seemed a foreign and frightening world to him, until he heard someone shout out, “Jeff!” Although no one had called him that before in his life - he was still “Scotty” to everyone - Jeff ran across the room to a table where Tim was resting after the show.

Tim hoisted his son on to his knees and began rocking him back and forth with a smile as Jeff gave his father a crash course on his life, rattling off his age, the name of his dog, his teachers, his half-brother and other vital statistics. “I sat on his knees for 15 minutes,” Jeff wrote later. “He was hot and sweaty. I kept on feeling his legs. 'Wow, you need an iceberg to cool you off!’ I was very embarrassing - doing my George Carlin impression for him for no reason. Very embarrassing. He smiled the whole time. Me too.”

Tim’s drummer, Buddy Helm, recalls. “It was a very personal moment. The kid seemed very genuine, totally in love with his dad. It was like wanting to connect. He didn’t know anything personally about Tim but was there ready to do it.” The same seemed to be true of Tim; after years of distance from his son, he seemed to feel it was time to re-cement whatever bond existed between them.

Shortly after, before the second set began, Judy, Tim’s new partner, asked Mary if it would be acceptable for Jeff to spend a few days at their place: Tim would be leaving soon on tour, but had some free time. It was the start of the Easter break, so Mary agreed. Next morning, she packed Jeff’s clothes in a brown paper bag and drove him to Santa Monica to spend his most extended period of time with his father.

Tim and Judy lived a few blocks from the beach. As Jeff remembered it, the following five days - the first week of April 1975 - were largely uneventful. “Easter vacation came around,” he wrote in 1990. “I went over for a week or so, we made small talk at dinner, watched cable TV, he bought me a model airplane on one of our 'outings’ … Nothing much but it was kind of memorable.” Three years later, he recalled it with much more bitterness: “He was working in his room, so I didn’t even get to talk to him. And that was it.”

Mary recalls Jeff telling her that he would dash into Tim’s room every morning and bounce on the bed. At the end of his stay, Tim and Judy put Jeff on a bus out of Santa Monica, and Mary picked him up at the bus station in Fullerton. When Jeff stepped off, she noticed he was clutching a book of matches. On it, Tim had written his phone number.

By his teens, Jeff was exhibiting impressive musical skills, as another school band member, drummer Paul Derech, discovered when he visited Jeff in the Guibert home in early 1982. Sitting on his bed, Jeff played songs from Al Di Meola’s Electric Rendezvous and the first album by Asia. Even though Derech had to listen closely to Jeff’s guitar - Mary couldn’t yet afford an amplifier for her son - his dexterity was so apparent that Derech literally took a step back.

Once, Jeff pulled out a picture of Tim from his closet and softly said, “I’ve spent a lot of time looking at that picture”, before moving on to another topic. Derech, like other kids, sensed immediately that his father was a sore point. Instead, they talked music. Although punk and new wave were the predominant rock styles of the moment, Jeff had little interest in them. He preferred music that challenged him and transported him to imaginary worlds. In the late 70s and early 80s, that music was prog (short for progressive) and art rock - bands such as Yes, Genesis and Rush that revelled in complex structures, science-fiction-themed lyrics and virtuosic, fleet- fingered guitar parts that only a few teenagers could hope to master. In a friend’s garage, Jeff and Derech soon began jamming on versions of Rush songs. Jeff declined to sing, though; he told friends and family he wanted to be a guitarist, plain and simple.

The reason, some felt, was because he didn’t want to be compared to the musician father he barely knew. “He had exactly the same speaking voice as Tim,” recalls Tamurlaine, the daughter of Herb Cohen, Tim’s one-time manager. She befriended Jeff when he and Mary would visit the Cohen family for dinner. (Cohen and Mary kept in touch after Tim and Mary’s break-up.) During those meals, Jeff’s vocal and physical resemblance to his father led Cohen often to mistakenly call Jeff “Tim”.

Jeff moved to New York City in 1990.

Often sporting his black Hendrix T-shirt, Jeff immediately took to New York, hauling his guitar into the subway to play for change and roaming the streets. “I talked to him right after he got to New York and he was loving it,” recalls his friend Tony Marryatt, a fellow student at Musicians Institute in Hollywood. “He said it was just like a Woody Allen movie.” To support himself, he took a series of day jobs, from working at an answering service (for actors such as F Murray Abraham and Denzel Washington) to being an assistant at a Banana Republic clothes store.

© David Browne 2001. This is an edited extract from Dream Brother: The Lives And Music Of Jeff And Tim Buckley

I was tagged by @way-beyond-wildest-imaginations and @louder-than-love thank you!<3

 A song you like with a color in the title: Blue Orchid- The White Stripes

A song you like that is a killer cover of a famous song: Hallelujah- Jeff Buckley (Leonard Cohen cover)

A song you like with a number in the title: 1,000,000 -Nine Inch Nails

A song that reminds you of summertime: Universally Speaking -RHCP

A song that needs to be played LOUD: War Pigs - Black Sabbath

A song that makes you want to dance: Give It Away- RHCP

A song to drive to: Lexicon Devil- Germs

A song about drugs or alcohol: Heroin- The Velvet Underground

A song that makes you happy: I literally can’t pick one haha

A song that makes you sad: Gonna name a few here: Nirvana- Do Re Mi, Amy Winehouse- Love is a Losing Game, The Police-Every Breath You Take(idek why, it’s so random),Pixies- Where Is My Mind?

A song that you really like that is so far from mainstream that it would get you funny looks: Honestly,most people I know would give me very weird looks if I played Niandra LaDes

Your battle song: Hole- Violet (maybe idk?)

i tag: @fru-strated @freakyfrusciante @inside-a-break @takingitontheotherside and @the-fiction if you want/haven’t already done it :)