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I went through a phase in my life where I was a bit in love with Jeff Buckley. And maybe I still am. A bit. It’s a thing. I have a copy of Grace sitting on top of a copy of Wilco’s A Ghost Is Born sitting on the edge of a bookshelf in my bedroom. I don’t know why, since almost all of my CDs are now in a large storage container in the basement, but there it sits. I don’t listen to Grace much, because it kind of hurts, for the reasons I described about a year ago:

It’s more that it just seems like something that must be done while sitting in the dark after having a bit too much to drink, alone with the knowledge that the only person in the world who matters isn’t going to call.

Yeah, that.

But I listened to it the other night. Not that I was drunk and sitting alone in the dark and moping, because actually I was sober and playing a few rounds of Free Cell and I know! I’m thrilling! But seriously I am so good at that game. Not everyone can boast a 97% win percentage. Why am I writing about this? I don’t know. Let’s move on. So:

Jesus, Jeff Buckley. I’m older now than he was when he died more than a decade ago; when it happened, I thought 30 seemed so old, and now I know how young it really is. The thing about musicians who die so young is it leaves you wondering what they would’ve created if they had been able to stick around. What more would there have been if Jeff Buckley were alive and in his 40s now? The belief, the hope, is that it would’ve been more brilliance and not a series of “Oh god, why are you still making albums?” It’s a good belief to have.

“Lover, You Should’ve Come Over” is one of many brilliant songs on Grace, and it’s the one, more than the others, that always wrecks me a bit. No matter how many times I’ve heard it (hundreds by now), there always comes a point, when listening to that song, when something inside me crumples like useless paper. I have a lot of emotional reactions to a lot of songs, but this is the only one that does that to me. And as much as it wrecks me (and it does, every single time), I don’t seem to mind. Sort of. I can only handle it in small doses.

I had something to say the other night when I listened to this song, and I should’ve written it then, because I might’ve had more to say than “Man, this song fucks me up a little.” I would’ve written it yesterday when I remembered better, but I had a lot of stuff to do, which culminated in me caulking my tub all night long (all night!) or maybe at least until, say, 10, which is pretty late for me these days because oh my god when did I turn into such an old lady? ANYWAY. In none-too-poetic terms, the song is both universal and transcendent, and maybe I have to write about Jeff Buckley once a year. In any case, here’s a live version:

Damn. That’s the point, really.