Goodbye and Hello

by

Tim Buckley

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A prologue, to offer the novice Buckley-buyer some thoughts. Buckley the man and the artist was on the edge, his art a way out of his own skin, and he found peace in neither. In retrospect, destiny's path for an emotionally traumatized teenager possessed of great intelligence, a seeker's spirit and a voice the likes of which has probably seldom been heard on this earth, could not have been kind and led him toward balance and contentment, artistic or personal. The oft-derided last three albums of sex-obsessed R&B, full of celebration, still hid poetry, surprisingly good music and the pleas of a man feeling lost and looking for meaning, love and a home, amongst the funky-rhumba posturing, whisky swilling growls and a more seductive, soul-tinged croon. Sefronia, full of radio funk yet somehow still a good listen, has a title track whose melody and vocal interpretation stand with his best, and lyrics that, while derivative and cryptic, are evocative; Dolphins, over-produced to an enamel shine, still pulls at the heart and is sung powerfully and with a mature passion; this cover of the Fred Neil peace plea was part of Tim's early live set; the chorus of "Quicksand" is a gem set in tin. On his last, unfairly ridiculed album, Look at the Fool, after singing "I can't live without your loving me at night" like an imitation of Al Green, he sings passionately then gently, "I run into the sea, but the sea only sighs, look at the fool that love brings me". The hopeless poet of years before can't even stay away from an enjoyable funk album. You can hear the desperation. By 28 he was dead of an accidental overdose of a drug he had supposedly given up. Some friends reportedly predicted that he was self-destructing and fast, and the writing had been on the wall all along. Some say Tim was just having fun, knew exactly what he was doing and was working towards a new vision, with soundtracks, magnum projects and acting jobs in the works.

His first album, full of beauty, was a producer and promoters clay, but showed the world a vocal, melodic and poetic talent perhaps unmatched to that day in popular music and still exquisite. On Goodbye and Hello, there is a hybrid, still an obvious product of the producer and the year (1967) - but with Buckley and poet Larry Beckett letting loose with vivid, literate and riveting, if often youthfully over-ripe, lyrics and the former's beautiful melodies expressing the reaction to war, poverty, and the falseness of values. There is the further revelation of the subtle, painterly and balanced guitar work of Buckley's right-hand man, Lee Underwood, who came to grow in range throughout the many works to which he contributed. There is the ever-present desperation for lost love and meaning that never left Buckley's work, even if hidden (Song to the Siren is an otherworldly, gorgeous poem to the call of love in the night, leading the hopeful to the death of hope - "now my foolish boat is leaning, broken, lovelorn, on your rocks...should I stand amid the breakers, or should I lie, with death my bride?" - was plunked right into the middle of the wildly experimental and unique "Starsailor", my only 6-star album). By now, the note perfect, sailing voice, spanning bottom-baritone to the highest counter-tenor, gives full expression to Buckley's experiments, letting his instrument try to express far more than words-and-melody, giving itself to the idea, feeling and an inner inspiration at the moment of creation for which there is no name or category. The knowledgeable Buckley fan will hear the pitch wander freely, the breath, endless, turn from dulcet to scream with no break.

The album opens with bombs exploding and Tim's voice climbing into the sky as he straighfrowardly, almost weepingly, derides war - THE war - a protest song if there ever was one, but beautiful nonetheless. Anger never turns to noise. There is a touch of madrigal in Kight-Errant. Here, Tim tears through the heart as well as puts out some powerfully vivid lyrical imagery on "I Never Asked to Be Your Mountain", one of my desert-island 10 songs; maybe 5, if they make me pick. His voice, reportedy on the 16th-or-so take of a 6-minute burning coal in which he sings almost without break, flies in the stratosphere, then out of orbit, once breaking into ascending but still-in-tune sobs. He experiments with harpsichords on "Carnival Song" sung in the upper-most register without falsetto (either about a carnival or about the freeing of senses and sensibilities, or both) and hallucinations on the eerie and delicate song of that title. (Remember - this is the age of Sgt. Pepper and Pet Sounds - the studio and unusual instruments are all over the place - as are drug references). The title track is a courageous, long and rich experiment in which two separate songs are sung side by side, coming together in a single declaratory statement at the end of each parallel verse. He actually pulls it off, defiantly declaring the death of hypocritical old fashioned values and the birth of a new, love-based world. Easy-listening it ain't, and sometimes the lecture just isn't the thing one wants to hear. Self-appointed Nietzsche, driven by love.

This is not my favorite Buckley album. Sgt. Pepper (am I dissing a holy icon here, one I love?) and other breakthroughs of those years may mark the birth of a new pop and rock age. But, for all its forgiveable if sometimes annoying quirks, if there were one time capsule album to honestly and fully represent youthful 1967 to a future that really wants to know, THIS is it. Buy it, or there will forever be a hole in your personal time capsule.

Unfortunately, this is one of Buckley's most dated albums. From the obligatory war protest song that opens the album ("No Man Can Find the War") to the melodramatic closing cut ("Morning Glory") this album shows its age. The only note worthy track, and one that is so breathtaking that it almost redeems the album, is the six minute "I Never Asked to Be Your Mountain". Buckley is one of the few artists that can almost transport the listener with his wails, cries and hushed pleas. Truly Buckley is a member of the "Oh, what he could have been" cult. With this work Buckley shows he has incredible potential, but the fetters of Larry Beckett's overdone poetry and excessive production darken this promise. This album most clearly shows that Electra was attempting to make Buckley into a pensive poet/war protester. The problem is that it sounds so obvious that Buckley is uncomfortable being put in this constrictive box. Certainly worth listening to, but not a classic. This is the album I listen to least of Buckley's; however, there is no mistaking this man had an amazing gift.