Grant Lee Buffalo
Jubilee

When - young and penniless - I wandered through the wide and hostile streets of London, and my most immediate future was represented by the tables of a spaghetti-house in Queen’s Park, I was allowed to buy very few CDs and had even less time to listen to them. It was the time when one fell in love easily, the time when by listening to the same CDs over and over, one ended up learning them by heart: it was the time that never returns.
And I remember a day when - wandering through the aforementioned streets - I found myself with 12 pounds in my pocket and an unbearable desire to have my heart pierced by something. When this happens - increasingly rarely, alas - it almost becomes a mission. What I need is: a record store, imposing if possible; a day at my disposal, whole if possible; an idea, which I can't grasp immediately, but which I know will take shape during the search. That day, that idea didn't reveal itself immediately, but it took time; and it pressed on me, and pushed me, and eventually, faced with my inability to grasp it, began to scream in my ears. “Shiva Burlerque, Shiva Burlesque..” What on earth was it trying to tell me?
Then, suddenly, illumination lit up the few neurons wandering among the shelves. Illumination! I absolutely had to have something from that band I had heard so much about, known for their considerably original musical offering, according to what was said: an ethereal psychedelic mix dipped in the most oblique and dramatic blues.
As it happened, I found nothing; in compensation, I made mine what would later become the first and unsurpassed masterpiece of their eccentric guitarist, Grant Lee Phillips. The band would eventually take its name from him, becoming “Grant Lee Buffalo,” and “Fuzzy” is the album in question.
It was love at first listen, and I never carried any regret for what was - at the time - a replacement purchase. An inimitable collection of folk ballads amid rarefied atmospheres, refined melodies, and lullabies, political commitment, and ghosts of the past (primarily, Woody Guthrie and Lou Reed).
“Mighty Joe Moon” from the following year replicated its forms for quality and concreteness, adding a greater confidence in their means. Then, a tour supporting R.E.M. (who always proved to have a keen eye, see Sparklehorse, tour 1996, and Radiohead, supporting act the following year).
Then, the inevitable decline, which took shape and notes in the third work, “Copperopolis,” flabby and inconsistent from the title onwards. And then, oblivion, for the whole world and for me personally.

Now comes to replenish my collection, now that years have passed and my bank account has allowed me the luxury of a few more purchases, even non-essential ones, “Jubilee,” which of Grant Lee Buffalo is epitaph and testament, the last piece of one of the many parables of the rock world, curtain closing after the show, applauding spectators, and puppets put away in the drawer.
The heart does what it will, but after the third disappointing work, I was sure to expect a less glorious end. The disc in question, however, has its good reasons to be appreciated, starting with a “Seconds” with a catchy rhythm and a chorus that darts into your head, passing through a “Come To Mama, She Said” full of joy and carefreeness, a cascade of harmonies and caresses, a “My My My” with a Neil Young flavor, and not only for the title, an “Everybody Needs A Little Sanctuary” where Michael Stipe lends the backing vocals.
Above all, “Superslomotion” which will deservedly be included in the list of the best of the American group, like a Jeff Buckley dipped in roots-flavored folk.

The rest is boredom. The breakup, an honest solo career for Phillips, two dispensable albums, an avalanche of beautiful memories. And a happy end with a vaguely bitter taste.
London was really beautiful that day. I wonder why.