Jeff Buckley

The first time I heard him sing

I'll start with a confession. There was a time in my life when I was a habitual dropper-by'er. Now, I know what you're thinking. Hush, Chris. Don't say another word till you lawyer up. But I have to get this out. On more occasions than I care to count , I—I would drop by a friend’s house... completely UNANNOUNCED—with one unmistakable desire. 

To chill.  

Can you blame sixteen-year-old me? What with no digital means of notice, freshly frosted tips, and nothing else to do if the waves were flat and my mom didn't need her car? 

Of my many victims, the most frequented was a household on Summerset Court. In this townhome lived four dudes who were old enough to drink. (That's not what I remember them for; it's just that in the mind of a tenth-grader, someone old enough to get into a bar is basically old enough to retire and get into matinees for half off.) These guys were the benevolent gatekeepers to all things art, philosophy, and, most importantly to me, music. 

The tenants:

Jamie. A Young Life counselor who somehow bridged the gap between the at-times clumsy nature of Christian youth programs and genuine friendship by being thoroughly relatable and generous. If I had to blame anything for my habitual dropping-by, it would be Jamie's generosity. He had a way of making everyone feel welcome in any space. 

Rich. The stud. The drummer with great hair. I recall him constantly raving about Carter Beauford. I didn't get it yet—how could it be SO challenging to play "Crash?" 

Damion. The first real troubadour I came to know and admire. Sometimes, he'd practice his set in the living room, and I'd watch in awe on the couch—trying to remain invisible. 

And then, there was Byron. It's hard not to sound whimsical when describing Byron. He sported baggy pants, long dreads, and a profoundly esoteric disposition that he could evaporate with a smile. He would talk about God like music and music like it was God—my sophomoric brain constantly hitting the ceiling of its capabilities when he mused. Byron was the first singer with a capital S I knew in the flesh. I still have his band's tee shirt--black with one sentence written in small print, "Prepare yourself for the love I give."  Watching Dialect perform at the Hustler is in my top three "what made me feel I had to play music" moments.  

Now, the premise for all this confession and deification: The moment I was introduced to Jeff Buckley. 

It was a sunny Florida Saturday when I DROPPED-THE-FUCK-BY. Rich let me in and hurriedly motioned me around the kitchen. All the roommates crowded around the shared desktop computer, each with their contrasting tastes holding a unified deference to what they were watching. 

I peered over their shoulders to see a video of Jeff Buckley plucking the opening notes of "Hallelujah." The sepia-hued black and white film--candles burning on a Fender amp. The sound of that Telecaster—stark, haunting, and surprisingly bare—as big as a cathedral. 

Then, the voice. 

I watched their reactions as much as the video. When it ended, Byron paced around the kitchen, trying to articulate what it had stirred in him. He circled back and said with reverent Byron cadence, 

"If aliens came to earth and we had to explain humankind in one song, it would be this." 

Now, he may have been quoting Bono for all I know, but there was a way I felt about music before that day and a way I felt about it after. 

Fast-forward a lot of years, and I find myself in a big city, living a life spun by a dedication to music. While I'm wholly aware that "Hallelujah" has become as much a music bro/Shrek meme as it is the holy grail of song, it is woven into the fabric of my devotion to the form, and every once in a while, if I'm surprised by hearing it at random and not in some overly dramatized tent-pole superhero scene, I'll bow to its majesty. 

This majesty has been prodding me lately, as I've been invited to sing at a Jeff Buckley tribute night in Hollywood. ("Hallelujah" was already taken, thank God.)

Full transparency, this is daunting. I've actually had multiple stress dreams where I don't remember the words. But after a few days of bumping against the ceiling of my limitations, I realized that the honor of performing at this event is forcing me NOT to compensate with some inflated Hollywood machismo; instead, it is a reminder that we all deserve a touch of grace from time to time—even if it is from ourselves. Suppose Buckley, seraphic spirit above, tunes into Grandmaster Recorders on Wednesday; chances are he'll be tickled by the efforts of a bunch of grown men feigning castrato falsettos.

When I left the Summerset house that day, Jamie gave me a freshly burned disc to take with me. I can see the silver and white CD-R design so clearly in my memory—around the mirror band in tiny handwriting, Jeff Buckley, "Grace." I carried it like the eucharist to mom's Camry—this flimsy disc—as small as my hand—as big as a cathedral. 

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<3

A poster of this album cover hung above the computer at the Summerset house.

Also, just a note—I do realize I didn’t mention Leonard Cohen, the original writer of “Hallelujah” in the piece. But yes, anyone who knows me knows, he is my North Star.

Below — my first attempts at getting down the tune for Wednesday. “So Real”

(Thanks for the woo of encouragement, Mel.)