Tim Buckley
Look At The Fool

My relationship with Tim Buckley began a few years ago, when winters were still cold. At that time, I read one of those epitaphs from a music magazine, which, as I recall, went something like this: "A legendary voice, which has indelibly marked rock music. His records are the object of a cult, also due to his tragic ending at only 28 years old, on June 29, 1975."
I was dumbfounded: the day after, I was born. We had passed the baton, one out, another in. This circumstance led me to go, the next day, to my music dealer. For once, I had very clear ideas about which artist to buy. Not yet about which record to choose. I opted for "Look At The Fool". The title promised well, "Look at the Fool," and then it was his last work before the Wrong Dose; it would be the testament, I thought, the Fool who guts himself in front of us, the best show. And then there he was on the cover, and behind, the full moon reflecting on the sea. I took it without hesitation.

I play it again today, to write a bit about it, but I peter out about two-thirds through; that’s enough. There’s little to say about this album. One could arrange a couple of lines about the marked soul tones, about the endless class of Tim Buckley that hides the absolute poverty of ideas; I could cite a couple of moments that survive oblivion. But those would be wasted bytes. "Look At The Fool" consists of a generous half-hour of absolutely useless and manneristic music.

But then, that epitaph? Over time, I unveiled the mystery. It was the records between 1967 and 1971 that revealed to the world the most extraordinary voice to date. He was never interested in the words. They defined him as a "singer-songwriter," but his lyrics were a pretext. Only the voice mattered, made of air, saliva, muscles. That voice that became an instrument, that voice that insinuated itself into the unthinkable. That voice that was everything, prayer and lament, analysis and catharsis, scream of pain and Hallelujah, but I’ll stop here, Tim Buckley cannot be explained in words, you will have understood.
Let's try this way: "Starmaker," is the title of one of his masterpieces. Close your eyes and imagine this figure. There. Buckley was a shipwrecked of hyperspace, unable to land on a bastard Earth. It's clear that there on the planet, Tim Buckley's (flying?) records were regularly shot down by the anti-aircraft, or, less fantastically, ignored by the locals. Silence.

But drugs still had to be bought; would you be so cruel as to deny him that? And so our hero takes off his spacesuit and helmet and starts making packaged music, with a red bow. And thus, "Look At The Fool". Look at him, the fool, roaring like a kitten among strings, choruses, and delayed endings.

Don’t ask me for a rating on Tim Buckley, what should I give him? One? Two? And who am I to do this? I would never judge a man who in 28 years found the time to dare the impossible, trace constellations, die.