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Like
father, like son? Jeff
started his career dismissing the influence of father Tim. But David Browne
discovers they were inextricably linked. “IS
THIS GOING TO BE ABOUT MY FATHER? BECAUSE I never knew him.” It was one of the
first things Jeff Buckley said to me after we took our seats on opposite sides
of a small table in a downtown New York restaurant. We were breakfasting
together on a September morning in 1993, although it wasn't a purely social
encounter. I had already seen him perform at Sin-e, a small East Village
coffeehouse, and had been captivated by his expansive voice and elastic
repertoire. Now, this soft-spoken 26-year-old with short, spiky hair and a red
T-shirt was sitting across from me, instantly on his guard. Although his query
about his father was surprisingly direct, I understood his concern. I told Jeff
that no, the article I was writing for the New York Times wasn't about Tim but
about the buzz that had been building around Jeff since he had left his native
Orange County, California, and moved to New York City nearly two years before.
Now he had signed a supposedly enviable contract with Columbia Records, was
about to begin recording his first album, and was being touted as a
next-big-something. I
did ask him a few questions about his family and upbringing; the topic was
unavoidable. He expressed disdain for the way his absentee father had run his
career but admired some of his albums, particularly Starsailor, the
wild-eyed 1971 tapestry many considered Tim's masterpiece. Speaking of his own
music and plans for the future, Jeff was the definition of enigmatic: cocky one
moment ("I'm doing this for me - there are no rules or precedents
for what I'm doing"), unsure the next ("I'm sick of the world... I'm
trying to stay alive"). When, 90 minutes later, he slouched away with a
wounded-deer gaze, I was more puzzled than I'd been when I arrived. He played Sin-e a few days later, and afterwards, as he forlornly stuffed his electric guitar into a black plastic case, I asked if he had a few minutes to talk. Gently but firmly, he shook his head; he seemed emotionally and physically spent. I looked around the club awkwardly, and when I turned back, he was gone. THE
NEXT MORNING, JEFF LEFT for Woodstock to begin recording his first album. When
the result, Grace, was released almost a year later it portended a
limitless future. On May 29, 1997, those hopes vanished forever in the waters of
Memphis, when Jeff drowned six months after turning 30. By that time, three
years had passed since that debut album, and he had been on the verge of finally
recording its follow-up after several abortive attempts with producer Tom
Verlaine. It was never to be, but something striking has happened since. Grace
had not been a massive commercial hit in either the US or UK, but its
influence has loomed larger than any chart placing could indicate. That ethereal
sound and desolate-angel voice has seeped into bands like Travis and Radiohead
and is heard in singer- songwriters like Duncan Sheik. Since his death, Jeff has
been the subject of songs by Sheik, Chris Cornell, Hole, Aimee Mann, P.J.
Harvey, and Juliana Hatfield. Still,
my mysterious first encounter with him lingered: who was he, and how did he
leave such an impression after only one album and an EP? For the last three
years, I've searched for those answers while researching and writing his
biography. That journey took me to the suburbs of Orange County, to the low-rent
Hollywood apartments where he scuffled in the late '80s, and to the church where
he watched rehearsals for the 1991 Tim Buckley tribute concert, where he made
his true New York performance debut. I wandered through the Memphis cottage
where he spent his last two and a half months and visited the banks of the Wolf
River, where my sneakers sank in mud when I tried to step where he had begun
wading. These journeys also led me deeper into Tim Buckley's world. Jeff
's ambivalence about any connection with his father was understandable; the hurt
of abandonment, of knowing his father had adopted another son (from Tim's second
marriage), was etched in his face and words. Yet from his journals and talking
with associates, it was apparent that Tim had left a larger footprint on Jeff 's
soul than anyone had imagined. Jeff 's world view reflected his deep knowledge
of Tim's life, music, and career train-wreck. Hence Tim's story had to be
explored in full: how else could one explain Jeff stating, in an interview at
age 16, that he didn't want to land a record deal right away because the only
place to go from there was down? My
search for Tim Buckley, included talks with friends, lovers, musicians,
producers, and record company employees scattered from Oregon to Arkansas to
Mexico. I read letters to friends and unearthed the military records of his
father - a mysterious, disturbed character who left his son feeling unloved. As
I read through the police reports of Tim's death, the elements of this separate
story became part of the epic, expanding from one man's life to a sprawling saga
that began in 19th century Ireland (the Buckleys) and Panama (the Guiberts),
wound through twists and turns in the music business from the '60s to the
'90s,ending on a damp 1997 night in Memphis. Jeff 's legacy now expands with Mystery White Boy as Tim returns to the racks via a career overview on Rhino and reissues of out-of-print albums like Blue Afternoon and Starsailor and a tribute album. Poignantly, we find ourselves in something close to Jeff's shoes. Just as he never knew his father yet was affected by him, we never truly knew Jeff yet his impact lingers to this day. |