As I researched this review, I began to realise that everybody who I had spoken to had a very distinct visual memory of where they were the first time that they heard Grace – a memory they treated with the kind of reverence reserved for other coming-of-age milestones like their first kiss or the first time they got drunk. Grace radiates a strange spirituality, a special kind of magic that is difficult to explain. Central to its mystique is Jeff Buckley himself, the prodigious songbird who recorded just one record and died young a few years later, drowning in the Mississippi River. Jeff’s most potent gift, a feverish wail that could shift from breathy falsetto to siren-like howl with the ease of a bird taking flight, is the centrepiece of Grace. It’s a rare talent that can connect as deeply with a listener as Buckley does and as his tone shifts from choirboy to chanteuse to wailing rock god, a deep sense of intimacy prevails. At times, Buckley’s anguished cries give you the sense that he is suffering greatly, giving Grace an almost Passion-of-the-Christ-like quality that, coupled with his early death, contributes to the sacred, ethereal quality that permeates Grace.
Pete Whelan 