Listen Here, Bucko!

I know you don’t want to hear this, but it has to be said: I wish Jeff Buckley was still alive so I could tell him to get over himself. He actually emits a sigh before singing Halleluiah. It’s not something accidentally caught on mic before the song, it’s deliberately put there. That’s unforgivable. He may as well have told us that we needed to take the song seriously. ‘Treat it with gravitas;’ the sigh tells us, ‘my emotions are important.’ I wish that was the only blemish of maudlin self-indulgence, but the whole Grace album is full of it. It’s hard to imagine a faggier or more pretentious line than, “My kingdom for a kiss upon her shoulder.” ‘Oh, you’re so literary and tender, Jeff.’ says the college student who listens naively to his whiney voice. To her, he’s not dead; he’s more alive than ever. His spirit wanders sorrowfully forever, as it laments the heartbreak caused by some temporary lover, or some other minor problem that would just cease to trouble him if he preoccupied himself with a real job. She longs to find such a man, but the stirring melodies and poignant sentiments of Grace have misinformed her expectations, and she doesn’t realise that she’s already met such a person. He’s her clinging friend, desperate to be inside her naked body, and trying in vain to bed her through the long and futile friendship route. He wards off all new males, and sweats pure jealousy when she’s out without him. He stains his pillow with thoughts of other men making love to her; he stains elsewhere when he imagines himself with her. She doesn’t want him. She can’t hear his inner turmoil, and he can’t fully express the urgency and power of his emotionally entangled libido. He longs to cry in her arms, to be redeemed in her eyes. This is the sort of man that she wants, but can’t see. If she could, she would realise that she has longed for a complete wiener man. The disgust would hurt for a while, as it would be difficult to delude herself with impossible ideals of men. She would pursue a cad in an attempt to deny her poisoned dreams. Her cynicism would be somewhat diluted by the realisation of how much better sex is with men who aren’t dependent wet blankets (who sleep in wet blankets, funnily enough). He would be better off with his heart smashed. And not for the last time. He would toughen and become world-wise, stowing away his powerful, radiant fantasy romance. Perhaps in years to come, he would experience other women and grow in confidence. No longer pining for her love and attention, he would become fun and attractive Having exorcised his demons with positive experiences, he would swagger confidently down the street. And perhaps – just perhaps – she would be walking the other way, meandering through her disappointing life. Life would bring us together again. Both free, we’d agree to sit down in a café and talk about the years since we last saw each other. She would see me for the first time. The old lyrics would play upon her heart. She’d see a man full of tenderness and an emotional capacity for a true passion. Excitement would tingle within her, as she began to see the twist in the plot. I’d bravely seize the transient opportunity and hold her hand tentatively, before she reassured me with her grip. Walking out together, we wouldn’t be entirely sure what direction we were taking, but we’d know it was leading to a bright, golden destiny…