Eighteen years ago I woke to find a musician had died. Not just any musician but one I was so enamoured with I still had pictures of him on my wall as a 26 year old. Music transcends time and it seems like yesterday his flowing blood-driven voice wrapped itself around so many open hearts.
I was a backpacker just settled into my first share house in London, my room not much larger than a walk-in robe, lit up with his beauty. At work that day I mourned in isolation, as the middle-class English girls had no clue who I was gasping about. Luckily the music journos of the day did and every major newspaper in London had full page spreads set aside telling of the untimely loss of Jeff Buckley.
Like so many that felt as though he had let them inside his soul, we cried at what we would no longer feel. Without him serenading us and understanding the depths of our hearts, they would ache restlessly. We cried because we felt his pain, we knew he’d been abandoned by his father, Tim Buckley, who’s own death at 28 meant they never knew each other and met only once for fifteen minutes. We knew his depth threatened to engulf him and fame overwhelm, but we never imagined that he would drown, we all thought he would float and keep singing.
He will always be my dream brother, and the lines in my head will remain for him, from him.
“So I’ll wait for you and I’ll burn
Will I ever see your sweet return
Oh, will I ever learn?
Oh, lover, you should have come over
‘Cause it’s not too late“
November 17, 1966 – May 29, 1997
Listen to him here pdora.co/JeffBuckley