Tim Buckley
Lorca

Tim Buckley was a dreamer, a utopian, as far away as he could be from any commercial logic, an explorer of musical language not for the sake of experimentation itself, but always in search of new forms that would allow him to express the inexpressible, in a titanic romantic effort aimed at reaching the absolute, the farthest stars in the universe, or, which is the same, the ultimate meaning of existence.

His sensitivity led him at a young age to become passionate about composers like Beethoven, Shostakovich, Prokofiev, Berio, and the most radical experiments carried out by free-jazz of those years by Coltrane, Ayler, Sun Ra, or the nascent Jazz-Rock of Miles Davis. He also cultivated an admiration for folk singers, songwriters like Dylan of "Blonde on Blonde" and Fred Neil. And it is precisely in the guise of a singer-songwriter that he made his entrance into the world of music, gaining confidence with each album, transforming from a delicate folksinger to a refined composer, and at a young age, standing out for a voice for which no superlatives are effective enough: his guitarist Lee Underwood said that Buckley was to singing what Coltrane was to the sax, Hendrix to the guitar, and Cecil Taylor to the piano.

Yet on "Lorca", in the year 1970, Buckley's singing is highly measured, almost a zen exercise. It is certainly not the album for those who want to hear sensational evolutions of his singing, nor for those who approach his music casually thinking they are facing a singer-songwriter album: although the dedication is to Garcia Lorca, this album can easily be approached as an experience akin to the metaphysics of De Chirico, the "Book of Disquiet" by the great Pessoa, or Montale's "Cuttlefish Bones". An absolutely private record, it's as if Buckley were alone in front of the mirror observing himself: the romantic impetus of "Happy Sad" and the restless avant-garde experiments of "Starsailor" are missing, but here there is more purity.
Every embellishment is banned, rhythm is practically absent.

The journey begins with Lorca: dark organ phrases creep into the mind, ten minutes wandering in a labyrinth of ghosts, a tragic search for oneself and not finding oneself, a psychoanalytic nightmare about the human condition, and ultimately about its extreme solitude. Few pieces have reached such depths in exploring anguish: perhaps, from different sides, only Sister Ray by Velvet Underground, the Not Available by Residents, the Frankie Teardrop by Suicide in rock have been able to tell the pain of living so well. In the dramatic finale, the singer seems literally swallowed by the dark, lost in the void beyond the universe.
The second track is Anonymous Proposition, where the guitar and double bass twist freely like dry twigs on a lonely natural landscape: here Buckley is truly the last man on earth. There is something irretrievably lost in the metaphysical atmosphere of this track, which musically recalls the Sun Ra of "Atlantis" and Albert Ayler's ancestral calls.
The third track, more subdued and naturalistic, for a moment recovers the melody and rhythm of the congas, and despite being a minor episode on the record, the atmosphere is only falsely serene: the domestic environment seems only a distant memory evoked in a state of unconsciousness.
The fourth track, and third great track of the album, is Driftin', a slow bluesy ballad that alone can explain the sense of Buckley's entire discography: the lazy sloshing of the guitar brings to mind the seascapes so dear to Buckley, but the yearning to get lost in those waves, to completely annihilate oneself, the absolute lack of physical and mental energy, the drifting make it almost a letter from a suicidal person without even the strength to commit suicide. The closed-mouth laments at the end are only pain. All the musicians in the group are of exemplary discretion. (The Dirty Three might be likened in spirit, if not execution, to the ensemble of "Lorca"). It is absolutely incredible how Driftin' and Anonymous Proposition evoke almost tactile sensations.
The last track is Nobody Walkin', which returns to the gypsy atmospheres of Gypsy Woman, with Buckley finally unleashed in his impossible vocal feats, creating a fiery climax for this compelling erotic delirium; although excellent, this, which can be considered the only actual song of "Lorca", turns out to be absolutely out of context in such a definitive record.

On the next album, "Starsailor", Buckley will once again set out on the last great journey among the stars, but although reaching great heights, he will not manage to replicate the moving sincerity of this album. I do not want to give scores to "Lorca", because I agree with what Manganelli wrote: "the word masterpiece has something hateful, domineering. If a work is presented to me as a masterpiece, it is assumed that I will not raise objections; I will fall into a stuporous state, I will say 'oh!', 'ah!', I will clasp my hands in supplication, as if to say 'have mercy on me'; I may even hold my breath and roll my eyes. A masterpiece is not to be discussed; it deserves only 'the cult of personality.' It is tyrannical; it limits the freedom of press and speech."

I won't give it a score. But do listen to it.