Over the past few months, a handful of the glittering stars of the firmament of rock have been forever dusted and dimmed. From Bowie and Lemmy to Glenn Frey and Keith Emerson, reminders that an age is passing are growing in strength and number, although there will always be the document of song to capture the age and make it ageless.
Loss hangs in different ways over two new releases -- You And I by the late Jeff Buckley, and SVIIB by School Of Seven Bells, who lost their founding guitarist Benjamin Curtis to illness during the making of the album. In my days along the fringes of the music industry, I was able to meet both Buckley and Curtis, so it's easier for me to feel sorrow for their absence than it would be otherwise.
You And I is a collection of demos that Buckley recorded upon signing with Columbia in the early '90s, and as such, it's a stripped-down affair that would likely have not seen the light of day had Buckley not tragically passed away, unwisely wading into the Mississippi River at midnight, almost two decades ago. The demos show that voice in search of material to fit it, a voice transitioning from a coffee shop artist to an international talent.
I saw a bit of this transition first-hand, at a backstage meet-and-greet in 1995 as Buckley opened for Juliana Hatfield. As we went through our record-company-mandated dance of feigned intimacy, downstairs at Saint Andrews Hall, I watched the women surround him and pin him with stares of awe and lust. As the only guy swimming through this sea of estrogen, I couldn't remember seeing people that transfixed in person; the only time I saw anything like it was meeting Bowie, but Bowie was blithe and jovial and disarming in ways that Buckley wasn't. And Buckley never got the chance to be otherwise.
From an embryonic version of his own song "Grace" to a trip through '90s Coffee House Influences 101 (Dylan, Led Zep, The Smiths), You And I offers the beauty of his instrument and the haunting promise of where he might have chosen to navigate. His mother has done a solid and tasteful job curating his catalog after his death, but I can only imagine her sorrow, especially as the last thing we hear is the refrain captured by Morrissey and Marr in "I Know It's Over" -- "Oh Mother, I can feel the soil falling over my head." Beautiful and harrowing, with promises left swirling like dead leaves in the autumn breeze.
SVIIB wasn't supposed to ever come together, as lymphoma claimed the life of Curtis in 2013. But thanks to the efforts of Alejandra Dehaza, his partner in all things, SVIIB stands as an epitaph, a document that pulls off the tricky balance of conflicting emotions, of grief and pain and uplift, without being too obvious or treacly. Much of this balance is on the side of the lyrics, as the music (midwifed by multi-instrumentalist Justin Meldal-Johnsen) and the clear alto of Dehaza rarely betrays the brave front, like a stricken relative forced to forge a false smile and a stiff upper lip. The result is cathartic, if not always transcendent, but the fact that it even exists is a miracle onto itself.
Before he joined School Of Seven Bells, I met Curtis when he was in Secret Machines, a rock-oriented project with his brother Brandon Curtis and Josh Garza, the closest thing I've heard to what John Bonham must have sounded like on the drums. As always, our conversation was mostly one of one-way shouted accolades, but he was friendly and courteous, if a bit shy, and was happy to divert the attention to his talented band mates. That temperament never left him, even in his passing, as SVIIB is a showcase for Dehaza's talent and transition, as she now begins her life without Curtis.
As, I suppose, do we all.
Loss hangs in different ways over two new releases -- You And I by the late Jeff Buckley, and SVIIB by School Of Seven Bells, who lost their founding guitarist Benjamin Curtis to illness during the making of the album. In my days along the fringes of the music industry, I was able to meet both Buckley and Curtis, so it's easier for me to feel sorrow for their absence than it would be otherwise.
You And I is a collection of demos that Buckley recorded upon signing with Columbia in the early '90s, and as such, it's a stripped-down affair that would likely have not seen the light of day had Buckley not tragically passed away, unwisely wading into the Mississippi River at midnight, almost two decades ago. The demos show that voice in search of material to fit it, a voice transitioning from a coffee shop artist to an international talent.
I saw a bit of this transition first-hand, at a backstage meet-and-greet in 1995 as Buckley opened for Juliana Hatfield. As we went through our record-company-mandated dance of feigned intimacy, downstairs at Saint Andrews Hall, I watched the women surround him and pin him with stares of awe and lust. As the only guy swimming through this sea of estrogen, I couldn't remember seeing people that transfixed in person; the only time I saw anything like it was meeting Bowie, but Bowie was blithe and jovial and disarming in ways that Buckley wasn't. And Buckley never got the chance to be otherwise.
From an embryonic version of his own song "Grace" to a trip through '90s Coffee House Influences 101 (Dylan, Led Zep, The Smiths), You And I offers the beauty of his instrument and the haunting promise of where he might have chosen to navigate. His mother has done a solid and tasteful job curating his catalog after his death, but I can only imagine her sorrow, especially as the last thing we hear is the refrain captured by Morrissey and Marr in "I Know It's Over" -- "Oh Mother, I can feel the soil falling over my head." Beautiful and harrowing, with promises left swirling like dead leaves in the autumn breeze.
SVIIB wasn't supposed to ever come together, as lymphoma claimed the life of Curtis in 2013. But thanks to the efforts of Alejandra Dehaza, his partner in all things, SVIIB stands as an epitaph, a document that pulls off the tricky balance of conflicting emotions, of grief and pain and uplift, without being too obvious or treacly. Much of this balance is on the side of the lyrics, as the music (midwifed by multi-instrumentalist Justin Meldal-Johnsen) and the clear alto of Dehaza rarely betrays the brave front, like a stricken relative forced to forge a false smile and a stiff upper lip. The result is cathartic, if not always transcendent, but the fact that it even exists is a miracle onto itself.
Before he joined School Of Seven Bells, I met Curtis when he was in Secret Machines, a rock-oriented project with his brother Brandon Curtis and Josh Garza, the closest thing I've heard to what John Bonham must have sounded like on the drums. As always, our conversation was mostly one of one-way shouted accolades, but he was friendly and courteous, if a bit shy, and was happy to divert the attention to his talented band mates. That temperament never left him, even in his passing, as SVIIB is a showcase for Dehaza's talent and transition, as she now begins her life without Curtis.
As, I suppose, do we all.
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