Religious Experience or; Jeff Buckley

Having nothing to do with Jesus, the Pope or any rabbi, nor Haile Selassie or Buddha, or Oprah; my help comes from a voice of a man long gone.

When I am in need of some spiritual healing, or just some good old fashioned wallowing, as is the case so often, I turn to a voice that sends those shivers down my spine, the ones that love songs always speak of. The voice belongs to a man named Jeff Buckley, the album: Grace, my knee jerk reaction to sadness or melancholy; I automatically rummage through my endless array of loose compact discs, my eyes trained to spot the white text on black; my therapy.

It’s not so much the fact that the lyrics drifting around me and eventually blanketing me heal me, per se, it’s the lyrics coinciding with the whiskey warmness of the voice and the sound of the melody, the sound of the guitar strings. The combination feeds the hungriest souls.

Listening, I feel neither comfort nor it’s opposite. There’s anxiety, something tight which leaves me vulnerable, almost exposed.
The music is there in that moment, only for you. The way music always is.