Tim Buckley
Live at the Troubadour 1969

A spark, yet another one, a flash in the dark, a glowing dot, a thin gray-white trail slowly rises, I should stop..

The notes that subtly emerge intertwine with the thin smoky veil that rises from below to the ceiling, expanding, filling the space around, filling everything, slowly, without rush. I'm lying on a soft carpet, eyes half-closed, mind clear, his music takes me far away, even while I'm motionless. His music "is" that soft carpet, which envelops me, cradles me, jolts me from the stupor just as I'm about to sink into oblivion, with its sudden bursts, its highs, the cries..

A carpet from which you never want to get up, "Strange Feelin'", applause, few.. Few people, intimacy at the Troubadour that September 3 and 4 of the distant 1969, Buckley and Underwood's guitars sketch graceful flights, smooth and light trails like the wisp of smoke rising from my cigarette. Collins and his congas roll over the strings, supported by the skins "gently touched" by exquisitely jazz touches of Art Tripp, but you can call him Ed Marimba if you want, followed like a shadow by the delicate bass of John Balkin.

And that voice, divine gift, capable of moving you so much that it leaves you suspended, making you vibrate with Her, teetering between an endless chasm and the most distant galaxies..

"That Voice"..

And suddenly the magic happens, I wish my flight would last forever, but everything, for better or worse, has an end and a song must close sooner or later.

Important record this "Live at the Troubadour", bridge, in live testimony, between the "old" Buckley and what he would soon become, the "Star Navigator", alone, misunderstood, immense..

"Venice Mating Call", breaking point, point of no return, instrumental entanglement into new territories to explore, touching unexpected chords, grazing for a moment the dangerous dark side of jazz, where one is free to dare, experiment, without predefined schemes, without rules.

By now I am fused with the carpet, made of notes, hypnotic keyboards, arpeggios, made by the fingers of Carter Collins, by the brushes that caress me and by the bass that rocks me, I stay afloat for those thirteen minutes, "I Don't Need It To Rain", a lysergic ballad that eludes and mocks time, but whether it rains or not makes no difference, I certainly wouldn't notice.

This man is capable of leaving me in a trance, of completely hypnotizing me and slapping me violently when, with disarming ease, he plays with octaves, ascends to unthinkable keys, phrases, vibrates, descends into hell, screams, is a free instrument.. Then he looks at you, makes a face, turns his back and walks away whistling. Impressive.

There's time to introduce these fellow travelers, a moment to breathe, I manage to resurface to fill my lungs, before sinking into the sweetest of dreams, "I Had A Talk With My Woman", without time, nor space, everything disappears, there are no more walls, no ceiling, there's nothing left, only a carpet made of five thin threads, with thousands of strange dots in the middle, describing a masterpiece, never heard such an enveloping atmosphere put to music.

A flash, a lightning that splits the serene, "Gipsy Woman" arrives irreverent, the guitars speed up the tempo, climb up to inaccessible places and Carter doesn't stand idly by, his hands move agilely, confidently, united with Art's, they beat you mercilessly.

Everything is there for Him, for his voice, which dares, here more than ever the acrobatics that will characterize "Lorca" and the monumental "Starsailor" become visible, the primordiality of vocal cord use begins to open its way forcefully: he can caress you, lull you, to then amaze you with flashes of calculated madness and return to calm with disarming serenity, modulating everything with an almost unacceptable mastery for a rational mind, "Blue Melody", melody.. Weaving of strings, which follow him every step, with that carpet of percussion and light bass dusting, the air that comes out takes conscious form, detaches and vibrates with its own life.

How much greatness can be contained in a human body..

How much greatness at only 22 years old..

You already seemed to have seen everything, so young, yet you had already visited places no one had ever accessed and where no one, maybe, will ever reach.

"Chase The Blues Away", a shiver runs down my spine:

"Well come along walk with me, and learn the songs that lovers sing, when they believe..".

Only you managed to touch me deeply, to shake my soul, my senses and everything else, you and your "band of magical minstrels", coming from who knows where, you and your voice..

"That Voice", "The Voice of God"..

The carpet has evaporated, I now float wandering in nothingness, from afar I hear faint percussion, the guitar textures brush against me and gently tickle me, while the void beneath me strangely fills with something emerging from the darkness, I can distinctly feel its presence, that emergence from nothing and fill everything, "no one succeeded in creating void around the voice like Tim Buckley" and I didn't understand, "Driftin'", now I know.. Now I understand..

You're about to embark on an adventure that no one, not even the bravest, would have ever thought of undertaking, "Nobody Walkin'", no mortal will ever reach there Tim, rest assured, especially at only twenty years walking those paths where you have passed.

And I remain always there suspended, waiting for the stop, even though I wish to remain in mid-air forever, lulled by you five, shaken by "that voice" again and again, lost between the stars and the infinite.

A flash in the dark, the flame dances gracefully for a moment, the tip ignites, a thin trail slowly invades the room, again, without rush..

I should stop..

Maybe tomorrow.