Well, feck me. Is Jeff Buckley's Grace an
album of its time, an overplayed, over-gilded relic defining a
particular epoch like a prehistoric bug-wasp trapped in a prison of
glowing amber? Or is it for the ages, continuing to astonish those
savants that live in small towns like, say, Millsplat and who build
large sound levees to divert the flow of dross passing for contemporary
music?
Well, one of the perils of iPods is the ability to
mindlessly scroll past absolute gems looking for the next album to play;
and after some years Grace has hit the 'now playing' list at our house. After failing to match Buckley's soaring
vocals, I find that I make the grade on air-drums - this time with
devastating results. He put himself 'out there' like very few artists,
methinks; check out this clip. The fact that Buckley
generates such power and emotion in the very coldest of studios,
overseen by a woman who despite praising his 'vocal elasticity' and
'swooning passion' has obviously never listened to his record, demands
respect and cements his revered status in cement. Timeless cement.
I'm off for another drink.
-- Craig E. H. 2012 --
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