. artist : tim buckley / jeff buckley .
. album : copenhagen tapes / sketches for my sweetheart the drunk .
. year : 1968 / 1998 .
. label : strange fruit / columbia .
. grade : a plus .
Has anyone seen “Greetings From Tim Buckley” yet? While father is the title, titleholder, FPS Doom Shadow Pixel Address Unknown File title, and the tits; son Jeff Buckley is the main character (existing in physical form, granted), in the events following a prodigal performance at Saint Anne’s Church, NYC, April 26, 1991. Legend has it he broke a string at the end of his set having to capture the last few notes a capella, soaring ‘setto; also around the craft services table he hummed a leaden rewrite of blushing lilac lyrics to “If I Had a Hammer.”
Lousy numerical reviews online, but it is nice to see what realities were captured in the scope of the artists who touched and would continue to fondle the familial find over that short span within the nineteen nineties (CONNOR SEZS: Lookout, Belle Epoch, looks like there’s just a numerical necessity there).
Nothing carves the archways and keystones quite like the family fungus, and as the history etches itself moistly, moss mows over massive memento and ties together possibility for connection, missed orbitals and otherwise. The sons of the father in this instance have documentation awareness and the other as subject matter (“I Never Asked to Be Your Mountain” for the tall-to-small Buckley, notably absent in direct confessed association the other directional, but freebasejumps “Dream Brother,” “What Would You Say,” “Eternal Life,” and “Thousand Fold”), Jeff furrowing furtive falsetto father’s footsteps in conceivably hungry with the fossils beneath the soundwaves of various quality. (Legend has it that Buckley previewed a release of a Concert in London of 1968, emanata energy eruption of guarded ebullience; this legend is provided by record company executives, though, so call me Ishmael)
The most daring vocalists within the modern floor of music have tended feminine sections, experimentation and range being something that rests within style. (All apologies Mike Milosh, I haven’t delved.) Powerful women’s voices with ability to key off locksmithing set a stage, and so with the Buckleys this is what I find most often. Soft steel stabbing, slick and shining at surroundings; Tim Buckley carved for persona a winking troubadour, vocalist as main instrument and a practiced, haunting tenor. (Hello, Goodbye [Elektra] boasts from the cover, “He will sing you his ten tales and then wander till Spring.”) Jeff notably grew into this mythology and ethos of the musician. The touring and travel, the wear of a bohemian and unplanned lifestyle was justified in the search and upkeep of an artistic calling, a need to practice and perfect: all these philosophies merged father and son, passing profound genome and providing yet another parasitic similarity in the early ending of their careers (and the acquisition of the small recorded echoes they made during).
Taking these two from a wonderful songbook; I continue to digress all over, (reader, pray over and over and over and over):
“Gunshot Glitter” is throttle. The recording quality has the warmth crackle of a roaring vinyl, and after-reminder (there is only one person doing all of this work) only adds to the mystique and fascination. A tapped microphone for percussion and layers of guitar only give a typhoon for Buckley’s obtrusive art school graffito: “So I just came from Hick’s town / Left my coins behind / Maybe some poor clothes pony will buy himself a life.” This demo song sounds wonderful finished and yet was only at the stage of scrap paper in Buckley’s feeling. All of Sketches shows the album he was about to junk in various session incarnations. When the members of his touring band met up in Memphis to re-record what was raw on the album (the 4 track shotgun shack roomtones of “Murder Suicide Meteor Slave”), Buckley’s death in Wolf River had already occurred.
Tim Buckley’s sprawling après deluhoegaze shuffle (that retains some lighthearted tones from the vibratophone, or whatever that marimba thing is) in “I Don’t Need It to Rain” captures ambling at its finest sole worn soul crush survival stasis. I must say that his Copenhagen concert (just pop the keys into youtube and it’ll show) hums in a warm painted desert bliss (the compilation released as “Once I Was” in 1999 has an edited version of the full from “The Copenhagen Tapes”), a plains calm storm overcast breeze, momentary relief coming with a burst symptomatic foreboding. Buckley’s use of double bass and vibraphone adds to the dynamic and sound aesthetic, and the quality of the record betrays an ancient find, a treasure buried.
Concert recordings without a board certification, known in vernacular as “bootlegs” offer a window into an artist. Live performance versus Studio performance has been debated as a somewhat new medium enters digital pubescence, but regardless these are the only evidences that are left. I could write all day long about subjects I subject myself to constantly and over time, but I have yet to accurately portray my relationship with the Mario Brothers. While I have been playing Mario All-Stars for Twenty Years, some of the Mario games within fall Twenty Plus years, much like google plus. Am I right or am I write deadline? (CONNOR SEZS: Oblivious Peninsula, Aye.)
by Perkus Tooth