The boy starts singing. It is his album, Grace. As each song unravels, it fills you with a desperation that sucks at the heart, and puts sparks in the eyes. It moves through the blood and makes the veins glow. It crackles across the skin and leaves scorch marks. Imagine if you could actually sing the sound of all hope leaving. Imagine if you knew the syllables of falling in love. If you had fingers that could coax a guitar to sound like the sun in your lover’s eyes, the smell of hot skin, the taste of their throat.
Yeah, well…
Kristin Hersh once posited a theory that love is like an addictive poison—one lick of it and you crave the next hit. Anyone who hears Jeff Buckley music will spend the next month craving the next hit.