Dream Brother: The Lives and Music of Jeff and Tim Buckley

374 Pages·2001·1.55 MB·English

by  David Browne

Dream Brother
The Lives & Music of Jeff & Tim Buckley
David Browne
Dedication
For Clifford Conklin Browne
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Preface
Prologue
In the South, they call it a shotgun shack: a…
One
As centuries went, the eighteenth was not a particularly desirable…
Two
The flat-topped boys and bob-haired girls dutifully filed into the…
Three
For Tim and his fellow Bohemians, the first weekend of…
Four
From the beginning, everyone was in awe of him. He…
Five
Two days after the birth of Jeffrey Scott Buckley, Elektra…
Six
In the fall of 1984, the intersection of Hollywood Boulevard…
Seven
Slouching on a fire escape overlooking Bleecker Street, Tim glanced…
Eight
No one working on the “Greetings from Tim Buckley” tribute…
Nine
“Look outside, man.”
Ten
Everywhere Shane Doyle turned on the streets of the Lower…
Eleven
Janie Goldstein wasn’t alone in her puzzlement. To most of…
Twelve
Wearing a black suit, white dress shirt, and a wide,…
Thirteen
On November 13, 1970, about a week after the release…
Fourteen
Hal Willner had grown accustomed to the sound of his…
Fifteen
The Tim who phoned Emmett Chapman early in 1972 didn’t…
Sixteen
It was almost as if they were departing for summer…
Seventeen
Once Sefronia was finished, producer Denny Randell played it for…
Eighteen
As soon as he walked into the house in Sag…
Nineteen
Mary and Jeff took the hour-long drive from Fullerton to…
Twenty
Northwest Airlines flight 779 touched down on the runway of…
Twenty-One
In the best tradition of the Irish, Tim’s casket was…
Afterword
Searchable Terms
About the Author
Praise
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
PREFACE
“T
his guy is a book,” one of Jeff Buckley’s friends told me in the summer of
1993. “Start taking notes.”
In fact, I already was. Throughout the preceding year, several associates
whose music tastes I respected had been urging me to venture to a coffeehouse
on the Lower East Side called Sin-é in order to see an embryonic talent named
Jeff Buckley. They all cited the same reasons for their enthusiasm: He had an
astonishing voice with an impressive range, he could seemingly sing anything,
and he was a rising star, having signed a contract with Columbia Records. That
he was the son of Tim Buckley, a ’60s cult figure with whose work I was
familiar, made less of a mark on me than did the startling realization that the
children of ’60s musicians were now old enough to begin their own careers.
On an August evening so stiflingly humid that pea soup would be humbled,
a friend and I finally made our way to Sin-é. As we walked down St. Mark’s
Place, I could already see a crunch of people spilling out onto the sidewalk in
front of what I first thought was an art gallery or clothing store. But no—it was
Sin-é itself, and unable to wedge ourselves into the tiny club, we were forced to
catch the performance outside and on our tiptoes. I could only glimpse the top of
the performer’s head and the pegs on the headstock of his guitar. But I heard the
voice and heard the songs, and it was obvious something important was
happening. Soon after, I was assigned to report on this phenomenon for the New
York Times, and one day in the middle of September I dialed Jeff Buckley’s
home number to set up an interview.
At first he was hesitant, asking me what section of the Times the article
would appear in. (When I told him it would be for the newly launched “Styles of
the Times,” he scoffed, “But nobody reads that!”) Given his age (twenty-six)
and his affiliation with a conglomerate, his wariness toward the media and its
coverage struck me as curious. I suggested we first meet informally at a local
bistro before we did a proper interview. He agreed—and then didn’t show up.
(As I later learned, this was far from the only time he had missed a meeting
during the course of his career.) He apologized when I called him back, and we
rescheduled for the following morning. This time, he appeared on schedule,
wearing jeans and a long-sleeved red T-shirt and sporting a summer-short
buzzcut. We ordered breakfasts and began chatting about music and the angle of
the interview. “Can I ask you one question?” he inquired at the outset. “Is this
going to be about my father? Because I never knew him.”
Unaware of the relationship between father and son, and more interested in
son than father anyway, I assured him the article was a profile of him and his
seemingly blossoming career. That out of the way, he began to talk—about his
background, his life, his musical tastes, our mutual knowledge of the music of
Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan. Eventually I asked if I could take notes, and he nodded
and gestured toward my pad for me to begin. For the next hour and a half, we
talked in what amounted to his first major press interview.
It was a fascinating but somewhat bewildering conversation. As he spoke of
his life, his future, and the upcoming recording sessions for his first album, his
mood veered from self-assured to glum, his tone from ethereal to wisecracking. I
had already learned that his contract with Columbia was an enviable one, and yet
this seeming novice to the business came across as skeptical and distrustful of it
all. Just when he seemed easy to understand, he slipped off into another,
completely different disposition. (“Looks like he could be wounded,” I scribbled
in my pad.) It was apparent that this was one of the most enigmatic performers I
had ever spent time with, and when we had to leave and he shuffled out with a
haunted, wounded-deer look in his eyes, I knew what his friend had meant:
Maybe there wasn’t a book about him at this point, but there certainly was a
story in there somewhere.
Nearly four years later—the late morning of May 30, 1997—I was in my
office at Entertainment Weekly magazine when a beep announced the arrival of
E-mail. It came from a coworker, and the subject header simply read “Jeff
Buckley.” My first thought was that there was finally a release date for that
overdue second album we had been hearing about, or perhaps it was an
announcement that he would be performing in the area. Instead, it was a terse,
two-sentence note: A report on the Internet said he was missing somewhere in
Tennessee, near the Mississippi River.
It was shocking and depressing news; his astonishing first album, Grace, had
become a best friend and comfort to me during the last few years. That weekend,
while everyone waited to see whether he would turn up in the waters of the Wolf
River in Memphis, I began work on an obituary, and our meeting in 1993—and
his friend’s words about a book—hung in the air. From what I knew about Jeff
Buckley’s life based on our initial conversation and from reading the interviews
he did to promote Grace, I now realized there was a book in there somewhere. It
was a poignant, sprawling story about a kid who grew up the son of a semi-
famous ’60s rock star who had died young, a child who strove to become his
own person—and then, in what seemed either a horrific twist of fate or just a
horrific accident, was now gone himself at an equally young age. That summer
and fall, I began my preliminary research, and a book announced itself to me.
It was clear that the life of Tim Buckley, the absentee father Jeff had barely
known, would have to be explored to some degree. Jeff resented, even hated, any
and all comparisons to his father, and for understandable reasons—Tim had left
Jeff’s mother, Mary Guibert, before Jeff was even born, and like most of us, Jeff
yearned to accomplish goals in life that would surpass those of his parents. But it
soon became apparent that the intense caution Jeff displayed to me had been
with him since childhood and underscored his entire career. And as my research
continued, it became vividly clear that Jeff did not know his biological father,
and that they were two very different people in many ways, but that Jeff was
painfully aware of the mistakes Tim had made in his life and career. But what
were those errors? What exactly had happened to Tim Buckley that left him dead
at twenty-eight and left his far-off son perpetually on his guard? The Buckley
family history, along with that of the Guiberts, would have to be fleshed out as
well.
All along, I was well aware that Jeff may have been skeptical of the
connection. Then, one evening I was speaking with one of his closest female
friends, and I told her how deep and far-ranging my research would have to be.
“That’s amazing,” she said. “Jeff wanted to know all that. It’s such a shame he’s
not around, because he could have hired you to be his detective.” With such
words of support, my journey in search of Jeff Buckley began in earnest.

This book is the result of more than two hundred primary-source interviews
conducted between June 1997 and June 2000. The conversations took place in
person and by phone and E-mail, and spread from New York City, Jeff’s home
base, to California (both Los Angeles and Orange County), Memphis, Paris,
Arkansas, Mexico, London, and Portland, Oregon. Mary Guibert, Jeff’s mother
and the executrix of his estate, was the first to offer her time and resources. At
the conclusion of our first informal meeting, she told me she would make herself
available for interviews, not ask to see the finished manuscript, and encourage
others to speak with me. Later she allowed me access to journals, unreleased
tapes, even answering-machine messages. For graciously enduring repeated,
nagging, and sometimes difficult questions and for opening up her world to a
journalistic interloper, I thank her deeply.
Of those who were particularly close to Jeff, Tim, or both, I extend the
utmost gratitude to Larry Beckett, Manda Beckett, Steve Berkowitz, Judy
utmost gratitude to Larry Beckett, Manda Beckett, Steve Berkowitz, Judy
Buckley, Dan Gordon, Mick Grondahl, Anna Guibert, Peggy and Kip Hagberg,
Matt Johnson, Dave Lory, Rebecca Moore, Jane Pullman, Leah Reid, Daniella
Sapriel, George Stein, Michael Tighe, and Joan Wasser. Despite the pain and
sorrow that surrounds this tale, each allowed me into their homes or offices for
extended interviews and the inevitable follow-up conversations, and they did so
with inordinate patience and generosity. Without them, this book would not be
possible, and I cannot thank them enough for their time and insights. Gene
Bowen and Jack Bookbinder at Fun Palace also set aside their bittersweet
memories in order to assist with fact-checking, tour schedules, and sundry facts
and documentation, and I offer them my heartfelt appreciation as well.
For helping me navigate my way through the complex life and thought
processes of Jeff Buckley, I also wish to thank Steve Abbott, Tamurlaine
Adams, Steve Addabbo, Penny Arcade, Carla Azar, Emma Banks, Glenna
Blake, Morgan Carey, Ellen Cavolina, Tom Chang, Irwin Chusid, Tom Clark,
Michael J. Clouse, Mitchell Cohen, Debra Colligan, Chris Cornell, Hod David,
Paul Derech, Patrick Derivaz, Michael Dorf, M. Doughty, Shane Doyle, Chris
Dowd, Doug Easley, Eric Eidel, Susan Feldman, Bill Flanagan, Keith Foti, Mark
Frere, Robert Gordon, Kathryn Grimm, Jason Hamel, Daniel Harnett, Juliana
Hatfield, Gary Helsinger, Robin Horry, Jerry Howell, John Humphrey, Kate
Hyman, Don Ienner, John Jesurin, Sergeant Mary Grace Johnson, Holly Jones-
Rougier, Brenda Kahn, Danny Kapilian, Lenny Kaye, Parker Kindred, Nathan
Larson, Laure Leber, Andria Lisle, Inger Lorre, Gary Lucas, Tony Marryatt, Tim
Marse, Joe McEwen, Melissa Meyer, Larry Miller, Corey Moorhead, Ron
Moorhead, James Morrison, Janine Nichols, Jared Nickerson, Clif Norrell, Dave
Novik, Pat O’Brien, Will Osborn, Nihar Oza, Paul Rappaport, Roy Rallo, Tom
Shaner, Dave and Tammy Shouse, Brooke Smith, Patti Smith, Gayle Kelemen
Snible, Randall Stoll, George Vandergrift, Tom Verlaine, Andy Wallace, Hal
Willner, and Jimi Zhivago. Nicholas Hill supplied not only reminiscences and
documents but gave me access to his estimable collection of concert and radio
recordings. Merri Cyr shared memories and contributed some of her superb
photographs.
Providing invaluable aid in unraveling the Tim Buckley saga were Stan
Agol, Corby Alsbrook, David Anderle, John Balkin, Maury Baker, Taylor
Buckley, Emmett Chapman, Herb Cohen, Martin Cohen, Carter C.C. Collins,
Pamela Des Barres, James Epstein, Joe Falsia, Jim Fielder, Danny Fields, David
Friedman, Linda Gillen, Zachary Glickman, Steve Harris, Buddy Helm, Judy
Henske-Doerge, Eileen Marder Hinchey, Jac Holzman, John B. King, Al
Kooper, Artie Leichter, Molly LeMay, John Miller, Denny Randell, Hope Ruff,
Clive Selwood, Jennifer Stace, Joe Stevens, Victor Stoloff, Danny Thompson,