Daydreaming. I daydream too much. I’m not the greatest songwriter, yet; I daydream thinking about great songwriters. I was brought up with all these different influences: Nina Simone, Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, Patti Smith, people who showed me music should be free, should be penetrating, should carry you.
On a calm night, 19 years ago, Jeff Buckley gazed at the stars, gently floating on his back, singing Whole Lotta Love, as he floated further into the Mississippi River and out of this world forever. But his impassioned music, remarkable soul, timeless beauty, and most of all, his grace, live on in the hearts of those who are still listening.
You have not been forgotten Jeff, We love you, always.
My grandfather had a beautiful voice. Irish tenor. Beautiful. Too much of a military hardass to deal with his own and his son’s talents. I wish it were otherwise. I love you, you poor bastards…With a father like this man, it is no wonder that Tim Buckley was afraid to come back to me. So afraid to be my father. Because his only paradigm for fatherhood was a deranged lunatic with a steel plate in his head…I know that he must have been scared shitless to think that he might possibly become like his father. Scared shitless of treating me the way his father treated him and his family. Can you imagine the heartbreak? The useless, shitty torture day in, day out?
…I hadn’t known Jeff extremely well, but we kept bumping into each other here and there.
One night we met for a drink at a pub in NYC, and started writing messages to each other on a paper placemat that was there, instead of talking, because the music in the bar was really loud or something. An interesting effect of that was that we found ourselves writing things that we would never would dare to say to each other out loud. I remember thinking that he seemed to be sort of lost and sad although he outwardly was very funny and lively and confident, and wrote something about that, among another things.
I didn’t talk to him for a long time after that — I went to England to live for a while and we talked once or twice and then nothing for over a year.
Then one night I got a voice mail message from him that said, “I just realized what you were trying to tell me that night”. I tried to call him back but the number I had for him was old, and then I got his new number but I was out of town again and it was difficult to call, and then I heard that he was missing, and presumed dead…
People grow up repressed from the spirit, day by day by day. Cable TV, it’s fucked. It’s misogyny, it’s birth, death, work, it’s misery, it’s power. It’s fuckin’ hicks. And that’s what I grew up with. I was rootless trailer trash. Now I prefer the Lower East Side to any place on the planet. I can be who I am here. I couldn’t do it anyplace I lived as a child. I never fit in California, even though my roots are there