Jeff Buckley: Dreaming of Music, Drowning, and Eternal Life (Rewind)

DISGRACELAND - Exactly Right and iHeartPodcasts

This Disgraceland episode explores Jeff Buckley's life, artistry, and mysterious death, weaving in themes of legacy, identity, and the eternal nature of music. It highlights his tragic end in the Wolf River, Memphis, and reflects on his profound influence. His father Tim Buckley’s legacy looms large, yet Jeff sought to forge his own path. The episode blends personal stories, music, and myth, portr

Key takeaways

• Jeff Buckley died at 30, leaving behind a legacy of transcendent music.
• His father’s shadow haunted him, yet he refused to be defined by it.
• Buckley’s death in the Wolf River was likely accidental, not suicide.

Transcript preview

This is exactly right. identities. Who lies about being this sick? This was the last time I ever believed a word she said. Listen to betrayal weekly on the I-Heart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Your husband is not who you think he is. Your body is not what you thought it was. Your identity is formed by a secret history. I'm Danny Shapiro. And these are just a few of the stunning stories I'll be exploring on the 14th season of family secrets. me out of the way and said move and he went out the front door and he jumped in a car and drove off and that was the last time I saw him. Listen to season 14 of family secrets on the I-heart radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Joy is essential and it's also elusive but now there's a new and exciting way to start your journey toward a more joyful existence. Joy 101. It's a new podcast hosted by me how to copy. If you're craving inspiration to maximize your joy your joy, tune into these candid uplifting and moving on air chats. Open your free I heart radio app search Joy 101 and listen now. Joy 101 with Hoda Kapi is presented by CVS. Okay so we're dipping into the archive today to bring you a story about one of our favorite artists over here at Double Elvis. An artist that I fell in love with the first time I heard him sing in a tiny club in Somerville Massachusetts with about seven people in the audience. I'm talking of course about Jeff Buckley. whose death is still hard to believe. Jeff was a one-of-a-kind musician, a Jimmy Hendrix, a John Coltrane, an Otis Redding, a giant star who burned bright and fast and who would have went on to unprecedented creative heights had he lived. But that unfortunately did not happen. Here's Jeff's story in Disgraceland. Hope he dig it. Disgraceland is a production of Double Elvis. The stories about Jeff Buckley are insane. He was just 30 years old when he disappeared. Six days later, his body was he's achieved near icon status. His father, Tim Buckley, a singer-songwriter of his own, also died tragically and at the age of 28. But Jeff Buckley never knew his father. Jeff wanted to create his own legacy, so that's what he did. And in doing so, Jeff Buckley made great music. He made one of the greatest debut records of all time. Unlike that music I played few at the top of the show, That was a preset loop from my melotron called Snips and Snails and Puppy Dog Tails, MK2. I played you that loop because I can't afford the rights to M-Bop by Hanson. And why would I play you that specific slice of flaxen-haired brotherly cheese could I afford it? Because that was the number one song in America on May 29th, 1997. And that was the day that Jeff Buckley waited into a river in Memphis and never returned safely to shore. On this episode, floaters, Beel Street, a great debut, two tragic deaths, and Jeff Buckley. I'm Jake Brennan, and this is Disgraceland. Nusrat Fata Ali Khan was dreaming of music the sound harmonium, kuvale singer is entering a trance-like state, pure ecstasy, their throat stretching and vibrating like rubber bands. Music was constant, music was endless. Music didn't stop when he fell asleep. But Nisrat Fattah Ali Khan wasn't just dreaming of music. He was dreaming of his father, the great Kuvale singer. Nisraut's father never wanted a son to follow in his footsteps. change. Ten days earlier, Nusrut's father had died, and now he was here. And Nusrut's dream. So real, as realism in music that pulse throughout Pakistan. He had one request. He asked his son to sing. Father, Nusrutrut replied, I cannot sing. You must try, his father said. And then he put his hand on Nusrut's throat. Nusrutrut felt a tremor. It percolated there. of his neck. He felt something bubble up from his gut. It coursed through the blood in his veins. His father's warm hand guided the vibration through Nusratt's entire body. Nusratt opened his mouth and then he shot up in bed. His eyes wide open, his dream stayed a distant memory and he was doing something he'd never done before. He was singing. Jeff Buckley was singing as he waited into the Wolf River in Memphis, Tennessee. He was wearing black jeans, black boots in a t-shirt with the word Altamont written on it. A nod to the infamous Rolling Stones concert from three decades prior. But he wasn't singing a Rolling Stones song as he waited in deeper. He wasn't singing a song by Neusfrat fat to Ali Khan, either, even though Neusrat was it for Jeff Buckley. Neusrat was his guide, his Elvis. always in Jeff's voice, whether he was screaming like a heavy metal banche, cooing like as he once described himself a shantous with a penis, or scatting like a jazz singer venturing in the slipstream. Right now by the light of the blue moon hanging in the Memphis sky, Jeff was singing a song by his other idol, Robert Plant. Specifically, Led Zeppelin's whole lot of love. From the shore, Keith Foti called out to Jeff, who is now a knee. What are you doing, man? Keith, the musician and hairstylists, made the trek from Jeff's adopted home, New York City with Jeff's tour manager, all the way to Memphis where Jeff was busy recording his second album. Now he found himself here, down by the water, after he and Jeff drove around town for what seemed like an hour in search of Jeff rented rehearsal space to go bash on some instruments. They had time to kill. Jeff's band members weren't due back in town until later that night. into a boondoggle. Jeff and Keith didn't know Memphis all that well. This was the 90s. There were no smartphones, no standard issue GPS in the van. Navigation was analog and that means it was a bitch. Fuck it. They'd find the rehearsal space later. Jeff had a better idea. A spur of the moment idea. Those were the best kind. Let's go down to the river, he told Keith. Keith brought his guitar in a boom box from the van. Jeff, of course, had something else in mind. he was swimming out farther into the wolf, while Keith yelled at him to come back to shore. It made no difference, because no one told Jeff Buckley what to do. He did his own thing, followed his own muse. His label, Columbia Records, legally, couldn't tell him what to do. The contract Jeff signed with Columbia back in 1992 gave him complete control of his music. It also gave him space and time to develop. But nearly three years had passed since the release of his debut album, Grace. It was obvious that Jeff had too much space and too much time. With no real deadline, he procrastinated. He couldn't get the new songs right. He couldn't get the sound right. Tom Verlaine tried. Jeff hired the legendary television guitarist to produce, but the new songs weren't finished. Verlaine wasn't a mind reader. They moved the sessions from New York to Memphis in hopes that a change of scenery would lead to inspiration. It only led to Verlaine's patience running out. Same for the money. Verlaine went back to New York. Jeff stayed in Memphis. He played unassuming solo gigs at a small place called Barristers, as if he wasn't a major artist on Columbia Records, as if he was starting all over again. Who knew what would happen next? Maybe he'd buy the small house in Memphis that he was staying. Maybe he'd get married. Maybe get a job working with butterflies at the Memphis Zoo, which no shit is something he actually applied to do. Jeff Buckley was spontaneous. He was passionate about moments in life and about opportunities that needed seizing. He made impulsive decisions, like waiting out into a river in Memphis at 9 o'clock in the evening fully closed. He inherited that trait from his father, just like his 5 and a half octave vocal range. But Jeff Buckley didn't talk about his father. Tim Buckley wasn't even a memory. He was a dream. Just like his songs. All songs were dreams. Some dreams could be songs. Music was everywhere. It was endless. Nusrat Fata Ali Khan knew this and Jeff Buckley knew it too. People were divine and eternal. People were here even if they were gone. That last one rang all too true every time someone wanted to talk to Jeff about his dad. Tim Buckley was dead, but his memory wouldn't leave Jeff Buckley alone. Tim was one of the so-called New Dylan's of the 1970s, which was a ridiculous albatross, the press slum over any decent singer-songwriter for like a decade. But Jeff Buckley didn't want the albatross of his father on his shoulders. Tim wasn't even there when Jeff was born. Tim was barely there at all. In 1975, when Jeff was eight years old, he spent a few days with his dad. The only days they ever spent together. Just a few months after that, Tim Buckley, ever impulsive, and impulsive and impetuous. was dead from a heroin overdose. And although Tim's obituary made no mention of Jeff's existence, Jeff still had his father's legacy to contend with privately. My blood is cursed, he told his girlfriend. He knew he'd wind up like his father. So he was surprised when he turned 28, the age at which Tim Buckley died, and Jeff still found himself alive. And then he even outlived his father. And now he was 30 years old. But he still couldn't shake that. feeling. It never went away. You know, he invited to his girlfriend, I'm gonna die young. Maybe the Wolf River would get him out of his own head. Aqua Therapy or Carpe diem therapy or some shit. Jeff was still doing his best Robert