AMAZING GRACE Jeff Buckley Pt. 1

As 1993 unfolded the singer’s career was shifting from
cruise control to hyper speed. Within four years, he’d be dead.

 

BY JEFF APTER

 

Buckley
died 13 years ago this week, on May 29, 1997, in a tragic drowning accident in Memphis. We hereby pay
tribute to the late troubadour via this book excerpt from
A Pure Drop: The
Life of Jeff Buckley, written by Jeff
Apter and published in March of 2009 by Backbeat Books. This excerpt originally
appeared last summer in the second print edition of BLURT
. This is the first of two parts – Pt. 2 will
appear tomorrow. – The editors.

 

Jeff Buckley wasn’t a prolific songwriter. In fact,
throughout his all-too-brief career he suffered from a sort of creative
inertia, writing only a handful of great tunes – co-writing, in some cases –
and even they were along time coming. Many of his Sin-E peers doubted his
ability to create anything truly original, even though they had total and utter
respect for his heaven-sent musicality, on-stage charisma and humble
personality. Even Columbia staffers weren’t so
sure how many tunes Buckley actually had up his plaid-shirted sleeve: Leah Reid
spent one night at Fez,
sitting alongside Rebecca Moore, asking her after each song, ‘Was that a cover?
Or was that an original?’ Others suspected that the younger Buckley was always
comparing his few originals with those of his father, a prolific, freewheeling
artiste who pumped out nine studio albums in roughly the same time it takes Axl
Rose to hire a drummer. Lee Underwood, Tim’s guitarist, who’d had two
tumultuous ‘sitdowns’ with Buckley back in 1989, clearly felt that was the
case, but sensed there was also a deeper dilemma within Buckley.

 

‘Jeff felt uncertain of his musical direction, not only
after signing with Columbia,
but before signing, and all the way to the end,’ Underwood wrote in an email in
2007. ‘He did not know himself – which musical direction he might want to
commit himself to, because taking a stand, making a commitment to a direction,
or even to composing and then successfully completing the recording of a single
song, was extremely difficult for him. On the one hand, creativity was his
calling. On the other hand, any creative gesture that offered the possibility
of success terrified him. Hence, his creative inertia, his inability to write
very much or very often, his inability to make a commitment to any given take
in the studio; his inability to keep appointments, show up on time, respect
corporate officials, or even to complete a second recording successfully.’

 

Columbia’s
Mike Webb had a different, though equally valid, opinion. ‘He was a great
mimic, and maybe that came more naturally to him,’ he figured. ‘He could
perform someone else’s songs and you felt like he wrote it himself – he could
get all the emotions out. But if he’s doing it himself, maybe he was touching
places that were too painful.’ Buckley cast some of those chronic doubts aside,
and possibly said his goodbyes to Rebecca Moore, when he casually strode into
Sin-E on a spring afternoon in June 1993. It was the occasion of yet another
recording for Nicholas Hill’s ‘The Music Faucet’ program, broadcast live. Hill
had invited Glen Hansard, who was on one of his many trips to New York, and iconic, wheelchair-bound
singer/songwriter Vic Chesnutt. He also asked Buckley to turn up and play,
although, as he told me, ‘It was not a sure thing he would show’, which was
hardly out of character. ‘It was afternoon,’ Hill recalled, ‘and there were more
folks on the street than in the room.’ This was also the first time that WFMU
had broadcast from Sin-E, so it turned out to be an afternoon of firsts.

 

Hansard opened the show, followed by Chesnutt. Then
Buckley started to play, singing ‘Sweet Thing’ with Hansard, just as they’d
done during their one-night stand while moonlighting from The Commitments.
‘Glen’s harmonizing was not a real solid thing,’ said Hill, ‘but the idea was
nice.’ Buckley then sang ‘Lilac Wine’ before springing a huge surprise on the few
people in the room and gathered outside: he started strumming a completely new
song, entitled ‘Lover, You Should Have Come Over’. Hansard, for one, was
completely gobsmacked. ‘Back then Jeff was slightly weakened in my eyes,’ he
admitted, ‘because he didn’t write his songs fully.’ (Hansard told me that his
‘holy trinity’ of songwriters is Leonard Cohen, Bob Dylan and Van Morrison, all
hard acts to follow.) ‘I couldn’t understand why this guy couldn’t go off with
a guitar and write his own tunes. But when he sang “Lover, You Should Have Come
Over”, it was fucking incredible. That was the first time I went, “OK, dude,
you can write songs”. Maybe subconsciously I was measuring him against Tim, who
was amazing.’

 

Mark Geary, Buckley’s Irish buddy and fellow Sin-E
regular, had similar misgivings. ‘I always wondered about the quality of his
actual songs,’ he said. ‘But he was so good at what he did at Sin-E that it
took a long time to separate myself from that and recognise his songwriting
talent. One is being incredibly picky, though, to say, “unbelievable guitar
player and singer, but are the songs up to it?” ‘ ‘Lover’, at least for the
time being, dispelled any misgivings Buckley’s peers had.

 

Nicholas Hill knew that he was witnessing a moment of
history, because Buckley had been extremely reluctant to play any new tunes
since the derailment of Gods And Monsters. (It was also further proof, as Hill
says elsewhere, that Buckley ‘very much used the airwaves’ to his advantage:
what better way to debut a song than to a radio audience?) ‘The whole time he
was woodshedding at Sin-E, and throughout the whole courtship thing with the
record labels, he didn’t perform any of his own material, at least for a year,’
said Hill, who believed Buckley was using the music of others to find his own
voice. Hill was ecstatic about getting all this down on tape – he’d already
recorded the brief sets of Hansard and Chesnutt – but just as Buckley began to
sing ‘Lover’, he struck some technical difficulties. ‘Oddly, out of hundreds of
shows, this is the one that got away,’ he shrugged. When he saw that his
recorder wasn’t picking up a signal, he tried to record the song off a radio in
the café’s kitchen, but the reception was poor, with another station’s signal
bleeding through. Hill was ready to slash his wrists when Waterboy Mike Scott
then strolled into Sin-E, also with a tune to debut, a ‘really great topical
song’, according to Hill, called ‘Going Down To Waco’. ‘Mike wasn’t booked,’
Hill added, ‘he just happened to be walking by. These were very casual
affairs.’

 

As potent as Scott’s protest song undoubtedly was, the
debut of Buckley’s ‘Lover’, historically speaking, overshadowed everything else
heard that afternoon in Sin-E. Even in its bare-boned acoustic form, devoid of
the heavenly gospel choir and lush arrangement that can be heard on Grace, this was clearly a great song, a
bittersweet valentine, an outpouring of emotion, beautifully expressed and sung
in a voice rarely heard this side of, well, his father. Buckley, as always, would
be cagey when pushed for an explanation of the lyric. ‘I wrote this song while
lying [and] listening to the telephone in my apartment,’ he said on-stage in Italy during
1995, revealing very little. ‘But she never called.’

 

If the woman in question was Moore,
which certainly could be the case, maybe she’d caught wind of Buckley’s
nocturnal adventures in the East
Village. There was
definitely a heavy serving of guilt in Buckley’s lyrics, especially when he
sang: ‘Sometimes a man gets carried away/When he feels like he should be having
his fun/And much too blind to see the damage he’s done/Sometimes a man must
awake to find that, really/He has no-one.’ There’s enough pathos present in the
lyrics of ‘Lover’ to fill several Morrissey purges.

 

Yet when Buckley finally agreed to record something for
his debut Columbia
release, it was a flashback to his Sin-E woodshedding. July 19, 1993 was locked
in as the day that Buckley would return to the venue and try to recapture some
of the magic of his Monday night sets, for release as a live EP. The theory was
sound: as Berkowitz stated, it would ‘diffuse’ the expectations surrounding his
major label debut, and it would also (hopefully) document a key moment for
someone Columbia
believed would become the next Dylan and/or Springsteen. A live EP was also a
throwback to an era when ‘artist development’ meant more than a big budget, an
MTV-ready video and a hefty promo push; there was something authentic and
rootsy about the concept. According to Leah Reid, ‘It allowed us to tell his
story, you know, this is who he is, this is where he came from, this is how it
worked in New York. There was no commercial expectation, it was just a great
setup and in hindsight the only way it could have worked.’

 

***

 

Photographer Merri Cyr was one of the few Buckley
confidantes to know about the planned Sin-E recording. But Cyr was doing her
best to avoid getting involved with the project, despite repeated requests from
Columbia’s new
star. For several days, she’d come home to her apartment and find yet another
message from Buckley on her answering machine: ‘Merri, Merri,’ he’d implore in
a sing-songy voice, ‘you have to call me right away about this Sony thing on
Monday.’ She was pissed off at Buckley at the time, but finally caved after he’d
left something like 10 messages in a row, all with the same request: ‘Please
come to Sin-E’, followed by what Cyr described as ‘all this gooey shit’.

 

They’d known each other for less than a year, but already
their relationship was taking some weird turns. She’d photographed him for Paper magazine the year before; Rebecca
Moore, who had some connections at the mag, helped set up this very early
coverage of her then boyfriend. Straight away, Cyr was taken by Buckley, not
because he was a serious music talent – she hadn’t seen him play yet – but
because ‘he was a big ham,’ she laughed. ‘[At that first shoot] we had a lot of
fun, he was very energetic and was really engaged with me. He was sort of
challenging me in a way sometimes.’ This was unlike so many other musicians
that Cyr had shot. Typically, they rated being photographed with having a tooth
pulled or lugging their own gear. Cyr’s curiosity was piqued enough to go and
see Buckley play at Sin-E. She was totally overwhelmed by the intimacy of the
experience, especially when he crooned ‘Hallelujah’. ‘I’d never seen any
performance like that before,’ she said. ‘I had to stop myself from sobbing.’

 

But it wasn’t just this career-maker of a cover version
that impressed Cyr. Buckley was truly unique; he could move seamlessly between
musical styles and could also alter the mood in a room quicker than you could
say ‘Hello, Sin-E’. ‘In the course of one performance he could be soft,
accessible, angry – and sometimes his anger, which he had plenty of, would pop
up,’ she said. ‘I [also] saw a lot of performances where he wouldn’t try and
overpower rowdy crowds. Instead, he’d start with a just barely audible, really
light tone, and it would increase very slowly. I’ve never seen an audience shut
up so fast. They could hear this weird sound and they’d shut up trying to work
out what it is. Sometimes, within 20 seconds, a rowdy crowd would be turned
into this gathering where you could hear a pin drop.’ Buckley wouldn’t walk on
stage and start singing immediately; instead he’d scan the audience ‘and sort
of sniff them out, like a dog smelling the wind,’ Cyr said. ‘He’d pull you into
his space,’ she said. ‘That’s how he’d rein an audience in and take them where
he wanted to go.’

 

By the time of the Sin-E recording (and requisite photo
shoot), Buckley had alienated Cyr, for reasons that she’s long since forgotten.
By now she’d learned that he was volatile and provocative. ‘You’d have
conflicts [with him]; he’d have those in his personal relationships with
people. He’d piss you off and you’d be like, “Fuck off, I’m not going to talk
to you anymore, you dick”. That was how I felt about him at the time it came to
shoot the Sin-E cover: “Ah, fuck that guy, he’s an arsehole”.’

 

It’s not surprising that Buckley displayed the many sides
of his temperament to Cyr early on; the relationship between a ‘star’ and a
photographer can be both intimate and highly volatile. And, as Cyr admitted to
me, her friendship with Buckley was a little unclear, intimacy-wise. ‘I wasn’t
his girlfriend or anything, but that line was a little fuzzy sometimes. And I
didn’t want to be seen like a groupie.’ Buckley liked to challenge people,
pushing them until they either told him to go fuck himself (as Cyr had done) or
bend over and let him have his way. ‘You were being tested,’ Cyr said. ‘Then it
was a challenge for him to win you back. This was a process I went through with
him a lot.’ But Cyr admits that Buckley’s ample supply of charm and charisma
made him almost impossible to hate forever. ‘He respected you only if he
thought you’d stand up to him. If you rolled over he wouldn’t give you the time
of day.’

 

There was an additional complication with the Sin-E shoot:
Columbia had
already hired a photographer. When Cyr did return Buckley’s call, he told her
to get to the label’s office straight away. First up, Columbia staffers wanted to see her
portfolio, and if they were happy with her work, Buckley needed to get someone
at the label to ‘un-hire’ the other photographer. And quick. ‘I had to watch
this guy fire her over the phone,’ Cyr recalled. ‘That was on Friday and Monday
was the day of the shoot.’*

 

* Cyr was puzzled by her brief trip to Black Rock, Sony’s
imposing HQ: she spotted one of her images, framed and hanging on the art
director’s wall, yet he’d never bothered returning her calls until she started
working with Buckley. Like her subject, she was learning a lot about the
machinations of the corporate world.

 

It was a day of firsts: it was Buckley’s initial foray
into the world of a major label and it was Cyr’s debut shoot for a
multi-national. Sin-E owner Shane Doyle was bemused, to say the least, as
various Sony staff arrived in the morning, and a mobile recording unit was set
up in the bar a few doors down. There were cords and cable running in all directions,
as a few locals started to drift in, wondering what the hell was going on. ‘The
recording was never acknowledged,’ insisted Leah Reid. ‘It was more a case of
we press the buttons and you do what you do.’

 

At one point, Shane Doyle grabbed Buckley and asked: ‘How
does this work? I’m supposed to get paid for this, right?’ Quick as a flash,
Buckley replied: ‘Charge whatever you like, Shane, it’s Sony Records.’ When it
was decided that a second day of recording was required, Doyle put in a call to
Berkowitz. He said: ‘What’s the story with this? I guess I’ll have to charge
you the same amount.’ When Berkowitz challenged him, saying that the exposure
was surely worth far more, Doyle replied: ‘I don’t need it. You’ll have to pay
me for another gig.’*

 

* Today Doyle admits that he had no idea how significant
an artist Buckley would become, or how his name would be forever linked to
Sin-E. ‘In any event I never capitalised upon it, you know?’

 

Interestingly, Doyle had never considered recording any of
the Sin-E action before. The way he saw it, that ran contrary to the spirit of
the venue. ‘There was no playing for the camera or a recording device,’ he
said. ‘No one had any inhibitions; you could act the clown, you could be any
way you wanted, you didn’t have to think about it.’ In some ways, Live At Sin-E marked the end of an era
for Buckley and the venue. Both were now public property.

 

***

 

Even though Buckley had played enough shows at Sin-E to
sing the setlist in his sleep, something didn’t gel on the first day of
recording, which comprised an afternoon and an evening set. It may well have
been a simple case of jitters: after all, as Cyr recalled, at the start of the
day she was the only person in the room not employed by Sony. ‘He was scared of
the company, he was scared of doing this first project, there were a bunch of
business people there breathing down his neck,’ she said. ‘It was one of the
biggest days of his life. And he was really afraid of failing. It was a very
intense experience.’ (Leah Reid disagrees with this. ‘He wasn’t being pressured
to do anything,’ she told me. ‘At that point he realised it wasn’t so much
about a label as the people inside a label, people he could trust. It wasn’t
until later on that the pressure of Columbia Records became more of his
day-to-day. Back then they gave him the time to be nurtured.’)

 

During the first set the room was virtually empty, but by
the evening Sin-E was packed with Buckley friends and fans. ‘There were people
spilling out the doors,’ recalled Cyr. ‘At that point he’d developed quite a
following,’ added Leah Reid. ‘The afternoon shows were really just warm-ups, so
it wasn’t full by any means, just random people, but each night the shows were
packed. There were more Columbia
people than ever before, but there were also punters there, too.’ Between the
two sets, Buckley retired to Anseo, the bar two doors down from Sin-E, spread
himself across a couple of stools and duly fell asleep, with his head resting
in Cyr’s lap. ‘I remember feeling very protective of him,’ said Cyr. ‘I’m only
a year and a half older than him but he just seemed so young and vulnerable.’

 

All the time, Cyr kept snapping away, documenting
everything. During a break, the two walked to nearby Tompkins Square
Park, where Cyr shot some
images of Buckley that are now rated amongst the most candid portraits ever
taken of the man. (And around which Cyr has built a formidable photographic
career.) The one shot that summed up Buckley’s first attempt to document his
‘café days’ was the image eventually used for the EP cover, another clear
statement from Buckley that he was doing his best to stay in control of his
career: the shot was incredibly revealing and laugh-out-loud funny. Early in
the day, Cyr somehow found herself inside the venue, perched on a ladder – to
this day she has no idea where it came from – while cradling a panoramic camera
and a very wide lens. A soulful Buckley, strumming Janine Nichols’ Fender
(still on loan), appeared to be looking to the heavens for divine inspiration.
A huge Sin-E banner was positioned behind him. So far, so obvious. But on
closer examination, you can spot a Sin-E regular, within arm’s reach of
Buckley, flicking through his morning newspaper, totally oblivious to whatever,
or whoever, this skinny white guy was channelling.

 

‘It’s hysterical,’ Cyr said, ‘he didn’t give a shit. That
was very brave of Jeff to pick that shot, but it also reflected how he felt. He
saw himself as this dweeby guy. I think that changed later when he realised he
could manipulate people, and get what he wanted, sex and stuff like that, but
at that moment he was wide-eyed, a real goober, you know? He didn’t want to be
a Chris Isaak lookalike. He was this fucking goofball.’ (To Cyr, Buckley was a
mass of contradictions: he was a control freak, musical marvel, friend,
employer, and a constant source of frustration. ‘Musically, he was very mature,
but emotionally he wasn’t. That was confusing in relating to him because you
would assume a certain maturity that he didn’t possess.’)

 

Amongst the cuts Buckley attempted during those two sets
was a pair of originals – ‘Eternal Life’ and ‘Unforgiven’ – plus the usual slew
of covers, including ‘Strange Fruit’, Morrison’s ‘The Way Young Lovers Do’ and
Dylan’s ‘Just Like A Woman’ and ‘If You See Her, Say Hello’. The latter pair
were revealing choices for a guy at the end of his first ‘real’ relationship;
one a savage putdown, the other a heartbreaking post mortem of a dead romance.

 

In the liner notes for the expanded Legacy edition of Live At Sin-E, Berkowitz wrote how
Buckley was ‘in pursuit of a lot of things… the pursuit of beauty,
communication, sex, coffee, laughs, music, the pursuit of self.’1 But
Berkowitz didn’t necessarily feel that much of this wild beauty was caught on
the tapes from the original sessions. He convinced Buckley to return to Sin-E
and try again, on a Tuesday, August 17, just to see what happened, even though
the label – and Buckley, of course – was already many thousand production
dollars down the drain. But Buckley also knew something was amiss; he told Hal
Willner that he thought the Sin-E tapes stank. He said something similar to
Kathryn Grimm, his old Group Therapy bandmate. ‘Sin-E, well, he wasn’t really
thrilled about it,’ she said. ‘He was so critical of himself that he could hear
every note that was out of tune.’

 

***

 

It was a vastly more confident and assured Buckley that
was caught on tape the second time around. Barely taking the time to ‘smell the
room’, he launched into a driving, sexy version of Nina Simone’s ‘Be Your
Husband’, powered by nothing more than his mad-dog howl and stomping Doc
Martens. There was no chirpy hello, no nervous patter, no jokes – he truly let
his voice (and boots) do the talking.

 

Buckley proceeded to work through what could best be
called a Sin-E’s ‘greatest hits’ set, including almost all of the songs he’d
attempted three weeks back, as well as Dylan’s ‘I Shall Be Released’, and
‘Dink’s Song’, a hangover from his Gods And Monsters days, plus a much-improved
run-through of ‘Lover, You Should Have Come Over’, a lean, stunning ‘Mojo Pin’
and his reading of ‘The Man That Got Away’, ‘borrowed’ from Judy Garland’s
version first heard on the film A Star Is
Born
. He also produced a stark rendition of ‘Strange Fruit’ and dazzling
versions of Van Morrison’s ‘Sweet Thing’ and ‘The Way Young Lovers Do’. Led
Zeppelin’s ‘Night Flight’, a hidden gem from their Physical Graffiti album that Buckley had actually shelved a few
months back, was another standout, ditto ‘Calling You’, which now actually
sounded more like a valentine to Sin-E – ‘coffee machine that needs some
fixing/at a little café just ’round the bend’ – than a lift from a popular
‘fish out of water’ indie flick.

 

Once he’d set the mood, Buckley quite visibly relaxed, and
the ‘human jukebox’ switched on. He searched for a missing chord to a Duane
Eddy tune (helped out by an audience member), and experimented with reverb,
which led to a quick strum through The Doors’ ‘The End’, delivered Nico-style,
where he playfully swapped the ‘mother’ of the lyric with ‘Sony’ (as in ‘Jeff?’
‘Yes, Sony?’ ‘I want to aaaahhhhhhh you’).
This could have turned very ugly, but Buckley managed to avoid turning a cheeky
piss-take into a very public slap in the face. Possibly there was some
antipathy simmering under the surface, or maybe it was just another of
Buckley’s tests: how far could he push his new bosses until someone told him to
back off? This he’d find out soon enough.

 

Buckley also toyed with the faithful when he went into his
usual ‘Nusrat is my Elvis’ spiel. Initially, the crowd thought it was another
example of Buckley’s playfulness, but then he dropped into a near-flawless
impression of the almost-impossible-to-impersonate Pakistani. (The piece was
called ‘Yeh Jo Halka Halka Saroor Hai’, in case you needed to know, Buckley’s
first introduction to Nusrat.) When he finally stopped wailing, several
bewildering minutes later, you could almost hear the sound of numerous jaws
dropping to the floor. It was that powerful.

 

Columbia’s
Leah Reid, who was looking on, knew that the Sin-E recording, when it finally
reached the stores, was the ideal introduction to the label’s new signing – and
it would also provide the breathing space Buckley needed to write and find the
band that he was so desperately seeking. ‘We did get to capture the moment, but
we also took the pressure off [his first studio recording],’ said Reid. ‘We
were able to work more organically, more grassroots. It’s not like the radio
promo department [was going] to get a song from the Sin-E record on the radio.’ Sony’s president Don Ienner, however,
nixed Buckley’s plan to name the Sin-E EP Café
Days
, as a nod to a line from his beloved Joni Mitchell’s ‘The Last Time I
Saw Richard’. When a mock-up crossed Ienner’s desk, he put a large slash
through the proposed title, and declared that it should henceforth be known as Live At Sin-E. Clearly Buckley’s
creative control didn’t extend into marketing. (Incidentally, the round coffee
mug stain on the Sin-E cover is real;
it was scanned from a coaster saved by a Sony staffer who was at the show.)

 

Buckley held back ‘Hallelujah’, now the centrepiece of his
set, until the very end of that second recording. The version that would be
heard on 2003’s complete Sin-E, while
lacking the sonic bells and whistles of the ‘definitive’ Grace take, was near-flawless, Buckley wringing every last drop of
emotion from both his almost-spent voice (and a guitar that drifted in and out
of tune) and Cohen’s wise, witty, occasionally baffling lyric. It was the
perfect song with which to sign off his café days. ‘That’s all, man,’ he
managed to utter at the end. ‘Let’s go drink and sleep.’

 

***

 

Buckley may have struggled with songwriting and fidelity,
but he was always moving forward, seeking out new sensations and directions.
Cyr was amongst those who felt it confirmed Buckley’s suspicion that, just like
his father, he wasn’t destined for a life of ‘three-score-years-and-ten’. ‘I
believed that he felt he had a limited time. I think he was trying to shove a
lot of stuff into his short life, to get as much experience as he could,’ she
said. ‘He wanted to have all these relationships in a full intense way, but in
a short time, so I think when he was with somebody he was totally with them.’

 

With that in mind, and the Sin-E recording finally in the
bag, he started to seek out a band in earnest. After several months of
scratching around, Buckley was now operating in fast-forward. As Buckley
himself admitted in the EPK that helped promote Grace, ‘I was dying to be with the band, dying for the relationship.
You know, the chemistry, people, warm bodies, male, female, you know, bass,
drums, dulcimer, tuba, anything, anyway that the band would work out – marching
bass drum, whatever.’2

 

In June, he and Berkowitz had met with producer Andy
Wallace, who’d first broken through with his work on the 1986 Aerosmith/Run DMC
rap/rock crossover smash ‘Walk This Way’. He was best known for his mix of
Nirvana’s Nevermind, an album that
had transformed three straggly-looking punks into unlikely solid-gold
superstars (at Sin-E, Buckley had somehow managed to turn their ‘Smells Like
Teen Spirit’ into a qawwali chant – Nusrat Nirvana). But the bearded,
avuncular, 46-year-old Wallace was anticipating a Buckley record along the
lines of Sin-E; a vocal showcase, in short. As a solo act, he found Buckley
‘magnetic and magical’. But this wasn’t what Buckley had in mind, because he’d
just kissed his one-man-band days goodbye. Wallace confessed his uncertainty.
‘It was very tempting to say, “Yeah, it’s got to be all about that”, but Jeff,
thankfully, was very convinced about doing the band and moving to the next
place he had to move to.’3

 

To be continued.

 

[Photo Credit: Merri Cyr/courtesy Backbeat Books]

 

Notes:

1. Berkowitz, Steve: Liner notes, Live At Sin-E, Legacy Edition, 2003 Columbia Records

2. Fritz, Ernie: Columbia
Records: Grace EPK

3. See note 2

 

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