The Legacy of Grace and Eternal Life

This is exactly right . Double Elvis What makes a Vacation Rental of the Year Stays guests love and host with the most ? Discover top quality homes like the Vacation Rentals of the Year using the loved by guests filter. It highlights top rated vacation rentals with near perfect ratings for cleanliness, location, and all the good stuff, so no more walking into a surprise. We've done the heavy lifting so you can get straight to relaxation. Book your next state with Verbo now . The thing about AI for business , it may not automatically fit the way your business works . At IBM, we've seen this firsthand , but by embedding AI across HR, IT and procurement processes, we've reduced costs by millions, slashed repetitive tasks, and freed thousands of hours for strategic work. Now we're helping companies get smarter by putting AI where it actually pays off, deep in the work that moves the business. Let's create smarter business , IBM . 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Jeff was a one of a kind musician, a Jimmy Hendrix, a John Coltrane, an Otis Redding, a giant star who burned bright and fast and who would have went on to unprecedented creative heights had he lived , but that unfortunately did not happen. Here's Jeff's story in Disgraceland Hope you dig it. Disgraced Land is a production of Double Elvis The stories about Jeff Buckley insane . He was just thirty years old when he disappeared . Six days later, his body was found floating in the water near Beel Street in Memphis. He released only one studio album in his lifetime, yet he's achieved near icon stat us . His father, Tim Buckley, a singer songwriter of his own , also died tragically and at the age of twenty eight . But Jeff Buckley never knew his father. Jeff wanted to create his own legacy , so that's what he did . And in doing so, Jeff Buckley made great music . He made one of the greatest debut records of all time. Unlike that music I played for you at the top of the show . That was a great music. That was a preset loop from my melodron called Snips and Snails and Puppy Dog Tales MK . I played you that loop because I can't afford the rights to m by Hansen. And why would I play you that specific slice of flaxen haired brotherly cheese could I afford it? Because that was the number one song in America on may twenty ninth, nineteen ninety seven , and that was the day that Jeff Buckley waded into a river in Memphis and never returned safely to shore . On this episode , Floaters, Beel Street, a Great Debut, two tragic deaths, and Jeff Buckley . I'm Jake Brennan , and this is Disgraceland Nusrat Fatar Ali Khan was dreaming of music . The sound of hands clapping in rhythm, Tabla, harmonium, Kuvalei singers entering a trance like state, pure ecstasy , their throats stretching and vibrating like rubber bands. Music was constant . Music was endless. Music didn't stop when you fell asleep . But Nusrat Fata Ali Khan wasn't just dreaming of music . He was dreaming of his father , the great Kuvali singer. Musrat's father never wanted his son to follow in his footsteps , but things change . Ten days earlier, Nusrat's father had died , and now he was here in Misrat's dream . So real, as realism music that pulsed throughout Pakistan . He had one request . He asked his son to sing . Father, Misrat replied , I cannot sing . You must try, his father said. And then he put his hand on Nusarat's throat. Nusarat felt a tremor. It percolated there, just beneath the skin of his neck. He felt something bubble up from his gut. It coursed through the blood in his veins. His father's warm hand guided the vibration through Nisrad's entire body . Nisrat opened his mouth , and then he shot up in bed , his eyes wide open , his dream stayed a distant memory , and he was doing something he'd never done before. He was singing. Over thirty years later , on may twenty ninth, nineteen ninety seven, Jeff Buckley was singing as he waded into the Wolf River in Memphis, Tennessee. He was wearing black jeans, black boots, and a t shirt with the word Altamot written on it , a nod to the infamous Rolling Stones concert from three decades prior . But he wasn't singing a rolling stone song as he waded in deeper. He wasn't singing a song by Nusfrad Fata Ali Khan either. Even though N usraot was it for Jeff Buckley, Nusrat was his guy, his elvis. Nusrat was always in Jeff's voice, whether he was screaming like a heavy metal banshee, cooing like as he once described himself, a chantous with a penis, or a scatting like a jazz singer venturing in the slip stream . Right now, by the light of the blue moon hanging in the Memphis sky, Jeff was singing a song by his other idol , Robert Plant , specifically Led Zeppelin's Whole Out of Love . From the shore, Keith Vodi called out to Jeff, who is now knee deep. What are you doing, man? Keith, the musician and hairstylist, made the trek from Jeff's adopted home, New York City with Jeff's tour manager all the way to Memphis where Jeff was busy recording his second album. Now he found himself here down by the water after he and Jeff drove around town for what seemed like an hour in search of Jeff's rented rehearsal space to go bash on some instruments . They had time to kill. Jeff's band members weren't died in town till later that night , but their search for the studio turned into a boondogle. Jeff and Keys didn't know Memphis all that well. This was the nineties. There were no smart phones, no standard issue GPS in the van. Navigation was analog, and that means it was a bitch. Fuck it. They'd find the rehearsal space later. Jeff had a better idea, a spur of the moment idea. Those were the best kind . Let's go down to the river, he told Keith . Keith brought his guitar in a boom box from the van. Jeff, of course, had something else in mind. Now he was swimming out farther into the wolf, while Keith yelled at him to come back to shore. It made no difference because no one told Jeff Buckley what to do. He did his own thing , followed his own muse. His label, Columbia Records, legally couldn't tell him what to do. The contract Jeff signed with Columbia back in nineteen ninety two gave him complete control of his music. It also gave him space and time to develop . But nearly three years had passed since the release of his debut album Grace. It was obvious that Jeff had too much space and too much time . With no real deadline, he procrastinated. He couldn't get the new songs right, he couldn't get the sound right. Tom Verlane tried. Jeff hired the legendary television guitarist to produce, but the new songs weren't finished. Verlane wasn't a mind reader. They moved the sessions from New York to Memphis in hopes that a change of scenery would lead to inspiration . It only led to Verlane's patience running out. Same for the money. Verlane went back to New York, Jeff stayed in Memphis. He played unassuming solo gigs at a small place called Barristers as if he wasn't a major artist on Columbia Records, as if he was starting all over again. Who knew what would happen next ? Maybe he'd buy the small house in Memphis that he was staying in, maybe he'd get married, maybe get a job working with butterflies at the Memphis Zoo, which no shit is something he actually applied to do. Jeff Buckley was spontaneous . He was passionate about moments in life and about opportunities that needed seizing. He made impulsive decisions , like wading out into a river in Memphis at nine o'clock in the evening fully closed. He inherited that trait from his father , just like his five and a half octave vocal range. But Jeff Buckley didn't talk about his father. Tim Buckley wasn't even a memory . He was a dream , just like his songs. All songs were dreams. Some dreams could be songs. Music was everywhere . It was endless. Newswatfata Ali Khan knew this and Jeff Buckley knew it too . People were divine and eternal. People were here even if they were gone That last one rang all too true every time someone wanted to talk to Jeff about his dad . Tim Buckley was dead , but his memory wouldn't leave Jeff Buckley alone. Tim was one of the so called new dylans of the nineteen seventies, which was a ridiculous albatross the press slung over any decent singer songwriter for like a decade. But Jeff Buckley didn't want the albatross of his father on his shoulders . Tim wasn't even there when Jeff was born. Tim was barely there at all. In nineteen seventy five when Jeff was eight years old, he spent a few days with his dad. The only days they ever spent together. Just a few months after that, Tim Buckley, ever impulsive and impetuous , was dead from a heroin overdose. And although Tim's obituary made no mention of Jeff's existence . Jeff still had his father's legacy to contend with privately. My blood is cursed, he told his girlfriend. He knew he'd wind up like his father, so he was surprised when he turned twenty eight, the age at which Tim Buckley died, and Jeff still found himself alive . And then he even outlived his father . And now he was thirty years old . But he still couldn't shake that feeling. It never went away. You know, he confided to his girlfriend, I'm gonna die young . And maybe the Wolf River would get him out of his own head. Aqua therapy or Carpet DM therapy or some shit. Jeff was still doing his best rubber plant impersonation while swimming the backstroke, heading farther away from shore. Keith Fodi tried to get his attention. Get out of the fucking water . Jeff was about a hundred feet from the shore now. He couldn't see many stars up in the Memphis sky, but he knew they were there all the same . Keith kept yelling, Jeff, man, there's a boat coming. Locals used to call this part of the river the shoot because it carries the flow of the wol f right into its convergence with the mighty Mississippi River. On the opposite side of the shore where Keith Fodie stood, across the wolf river was a naturally formed sandbar called Mud Island. And it was at the tip of Mud Island that the wolf met the Mississippi and whirlpooling eddies that were a lot stronger than they appeared. Jeff turned around to see that Keith was right. There was a tugboat heading straight in his direction. Jeff didn't have much time to react. Instead of heading back towards the shore, he began to swim toward Mud Island , or so it seemed from Keith's perspective. Jeff moved just in time, safely out of harm's way , and the tugboat sailed on by , but then in the near distance, another boat appeared. This one was even bigger. Once again, it was headed straight forward, Jeff . Jeff kept swimming, managing to get himself clear from the approaching vessel , two close calls in a matter of minutes . As the bigger boat passed, however, it kicked up a much bigger wake , and the waves swelled all the way to the shore where Keith Fodi stood. He picked up his boom box so that it wouldn't get soaked by the water. He put it down safely away from the shoreline and then turned back around to face the river . He looked out . Jeff Buckley was gone. Keith Fodie saw nothing but water rising and falling, like the chest of a deep sleeper , like it had all been , a dream . Okay , not so fun . Autoimmune skin conditions are actually on the rise . Cases are climbing nearly twenty percent every year . I know terrible opener for a podcast ad. But here's the thing. I'm Holly Fry, and our skin exists precisely because of stats like that. Because more people than ever are living with conditions like psoriasis and hydrodinitis superativa, and most of them are doing it alone, without answers, without community, without anyone to tell them what the heck is actually going on. You know, not that many people knew about it and I felt kind of alone like am I an outcast? That's where we come in. We talk doctors. We talk appointments that are , well, a disappointment. We talk about the flare ups and the breakthroughs. Then we dive deep into the wild, occasionally gross, always fascinating history of how humans have tried to understand our skin over the centuries . Spoiler alert, we did not always get it right. Listen to season three of our skin, a personal discovery podcast on the IHR radio app, Apple podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts . Hello, hello, I'm Malcolm Gladwell, host of Smart Talks with IBM. I sat down with Alone Cohen, who leads research and development at UFC to dis cuss the complexity of using technology to analyze fight data. With kick to the head , it makes contact with the outset of my arm, which I brought up. In our world , that's a block ed strike. Yeah . But teaching a computer what exactly that means and when and how. Like when my arm is up, that's a block. When my arm is down and hits my shoulder, that's not. It's those nuances that proved incredibly difficult for machines to be able to handle for a very, very long time . That is until IBM entered the Octagon . Listen to the full conversation at iBM dot com slash smart docs . They were best friends from the moment they met, and for twenty years nothing could come between them until one sh ocking secret changes everything . One of them is an international assassin, and the other had no idea. Octavia Spencer and Hannah Wadenham star in Prime Video's hilarious, clever act,ion packed, and irresistibly fun new series, Ride or Die. When Debbie's, Octavia Spencer, World Implodes thanks to her husband's corrupt dealings, she's thrust into a deadly game of survival and forced on the run. Her only hope, Judith, Hannah Waddingham, her rider die bestie, who just happens to be a fierce and lethal assassin. What follows is a wild race across Europe filled with explosive action, unexpected twists, dangerous enemies, and plenty of laugh out loud moments. As the two friends chase the truth, a danger is never far behind, and staying alive may be their toughest challenge. It's an action comedy, espionage thriller, and buddy adventure that prove some friendships are literally bulletproof. Don't miss the new series Ride or Die, starting july fifteenth, only on Prime Video Gunshots rang out from the back of the Rege Club. They overpowered the sound of sky music coming from the stage. They snapped like pop balloons. Loud as fuck. The crowd panicked , and the band stopped playing. More shots rang out. Jeff Buckley clung to his guitar and looked for a place to take shelter. Fuck . It's really worth this . Late night gunshots were nothing new to a guy living in a shitty apartment on Hawthorne Avenue, directly across from Hollywood High. Jeff heard the LA gangs fire off rounds in the football field from his bedroom , but the habit happened here, inside, while he was working where innocent bystanders were like fishing a barrel. That was fucked up. LA was fucked up . And if random gunfire didn't get you, the sunset strip eventually would. As the nineteen eighties came to a close , the strip was over saturated. Too many bands, too many girls, girls, girls, and it wasn't about talent anymore. It was all about money. Money talked and no money having talent fucking walked. You want to play the strip? You pay to play the strip. You want to get on stage? Fuck your demo tape. You need a wallet as thick as the bulge in Tommy Lee's pants. You got cash and you're in. And you better fucking look the part too. Again, see Tommy Lee's bulge for details . The strip was leather and hairspray and stilettos and cocaine. It was Motley Crew and G and her. It was a jungle baby, and Jeff Buckley, barely into his twenties and a little over an hour north from where he grew up in Anaheim, was welcomed into that jungle like so many other musicians before and after him. Nobody fucking cared. He had a vocational certificate from a local music school called the Musicians Institute, which in theory made him feel like Al Dimiola or John McLaughlin or Insert your favorite esoteric jazz fusion guitarist here, but in practice it was just another piece of paper Everyone chasing a dream in LA had a piece of paper . Paper meant shit. Oh, you went to school? Good student? Fuck you, take a number, get in line. Now listen , this Jeff Buckley, the one I'm talking about, Circa nineteen ninety, is not the same one you're currently envisioning. Not the guy with the white V neck t shirt and the unbuttoned flannel and the fender telecaster slung halfway down his body. Not the sublime vocalist with crazy range and acrobatic flair who covered songs by some of the greatest artists of all time and made them his own. This is Prague, Jeff Buckley, Hesher, Jeff Buckley. The guy who worshipped at the altar of Genesis, yes, and Rush , the guy who eated it out as a journeyman in metal pop and scaw bands with names like Group Therapy. Sometimes he didn't even go by Jeff Buckley. Sometimes, he was Scott Mheooread , Scott being his middle name, the one he was called as a child, and Moorehead being the last name of the stepfather who raised him in his biological father's absence. The same stepfather who introduced him to all those staples of cl assic rock like Grand Funk Railroad, Chicago, Crosby Stills and Nash, and of course , Led Fuckin' Zeppelin . Sometimes, he wasn't even Jeff or Scott. During his tenure in the AKB band, he was scalp cuta. That's CUTA, a nickname here and due to the razor sharp rege wrists he chopped on his electric guitar. If that sounds a little ridiculous, well , it is. But so is Los Angeles . In Jeff Buckley's eyes, LA had become a creative and inspirational wasteland long before he got there. And if he hung around too much longer, he'd rot from the inside out . Right now, though, at this little reg ae club, Jeff Buckley was simply trying to not get shot . He kept himself safe behind the stage , far away from wherever the commotion was happening. People were still screaming and clamoring for the exits. Whoever had pulled the trigger was either still inside or maybe they bounced, it was hard to tell, but it was easy to feel that sinking feeling. And hear that voice in the back of your head. It's no good here. It's time to move on. It's difficult to know for sure if the shooting at the AK B Bang gig was the thing that finally convinced Jeff Buckley to leave LA . Maybe it was just another of his impulsive decisions. But in early nineteen ninety, he packed what few things he had and moved to New York City. He worked the guitar for higher angles some more. He auditioned for an eclectic range of groups. He didn't really fit in with anyone. Nothing was clicking. When Jeff's Harlem roommate played him some Nusrafata Ali Con cassettes though. Something did click and it clicked hard Jeff locked in . The trance like state of the music, it took him somewhere else, somewhere outside his own body. Listening to that shit was a physical experience, and he listened to it all the time . I felt a rush of adrenaline in my chest, he later said, like I was on the edge of a cliff, wondering when I would jump and how well the ocean would catch me . Van Morrison's Astro Weeks was next . It had the same effect . It was cliff jumping music, equally risky and rewarding. It awakens something deep inside of them in a way only music can. Music is primal. It taps deep into your psyche. It reminds you of smells and tastes, of memories that may or may not even be real. And if you give yourself over to the music, it can change you. It takes you on a journey where the you once knew dies and the new you is born . The music transformed Jeff from the inside out, walked into the edge and took his breath away . Nusrat and Van held his hand and led him there. Robert too. Both Roberts actually , Plant and Johnson. They all took him to that place , where jagged cliffs slice into the horizon, where the wind blows up from an abyss below and carries with it not just those smells and tastes and memories that live inside of you, but a song The wind smacked him in the face. The song smothered him. There were hands on Jeff's throat. Sing, the hands told him . They were in his father's hands . Not Tim . Fuck that guy. Which is precisely what Jeff first said when Herb Cohen called Fuck that guy . Herb Cohen was Tim Buckley's former manager, and he wanted to help Jeff's budding career. Jeff suspected Cohen just wanted him to carry his father 's torch. But Jeff didn't carry shit . Look, Jeff Buckley didn't hate his father all the time, but when it came to his own career and his worth as an artist in his own right, well that was one of those times. So fuck that guy . That was also his initial response when the producers behind greetings from Tim Buckley, a tribute concert held at St. Anne's in Brooklyn Heights, approached and performed some of his father's songs after they discovered that not only did Tim Buckley have a s on, but that he was living right under their noses in New York. Jeff knew he had to swallow his pride. These were opportunities , opportunities that needed seizing. With Cohen's help, he made a demo tape, a tape for him, for Jeff, not for anyone else. That was all it was, a tape . And with the greetings from Tim Buckley concert, he convinced himself that he was simply saying goodbye to the father he never knew . But as the buzz grew around his New York debut, Jeff remained resolute and wanted to distance himself from being known solely as Tim Buckley's kid. I'd really rather let people not think about me as a face or a name or a body, he said, and just come and listen . Plus, he had his own journey to make , and he had shit to do. There was a cliff to walk to, an abyss to marvel at . And somewhere down there , way down below , an ocean to jump into . We'll be right back after this whirl, whirl, whirl Okay , not so fun fact . Autoimmune skin conditions are actually on the rise . Cases are climbing nearly twenty percent every year . I know terrible opener for a podcast ad. But here's the thing. I'm Holly Fry, and our skin exists precisely because of stats like that. Because more people than ever are living with conditions like psoriasis and hydrodinitis suprativa, and most of them are doing it alone, without answers, without community , without anyone to tell them what the heck is actually going on. You know, not that many people knew about it, and I felt kind of alone like, am I an outcast? That's where we come in. We talk doctors. We talk appointments that are well, a disappointment. We talk about the flare ups and the breakthrough s. Then we dive deep into the wild, occasionally gross, always fascinating history of how humans have tried to understand our skin over the centuries. Spoiler alert, we did not always get it right. Listen to season three of Hours Skin, a Personal Discovery Podcast on the I Heart Radio app, Apple podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. I'm Malcolm Gladwell, host of Smart Talks with IBM. I spoke with Alone Cohen, who heads research and development at UFC. He shared how AI puts action into context. Insight's engine is not here to feel technical. That's the genius of it. It's simplicity, it's narrative. We are bringing it to a place where you feel like you could even have an opinion because you understand enough of what's going on. Learn more at iBm dot com slash UFC They were best friends from the moment they met and for twenty years nothing could come between them until one shocking secret changes everything. One of them is an international assassin, and the other had no idea. Octavia Spencer and Hannah Wanningham star in Prime Video's hilarious, clever, action packed, and irresistibly fun new series , Ride or Die. When Debbie's, Octavia Spencer, World Implodes thanks to her husband's corrupt dealings, she's thrust into a deadly game of survival and forced on the run. Her only hope, Judith, Hannah Waddingham, her rider die bestie who just happens to be a fierce and lethal assassin. What follows is a wild race across Europe filled with explosive action, unexpected twists, dangerous enemies, and plenty of laugh out loud moments. As the two friends chase the truth, a danger is never far behind, and staying alive may be their toughest challenge. It's an action comedy, espionage thriller, and buddy adventure that proves some friendships are literally bulletproof. Don't miss the new series Ride or Die, starting july fifteenth, only on Prime Video . At China, a little cafe in the East Village , the coffee was strong and the rolling rock was cheap. Chinay was geographically and ideologically far from LA. Jeff Buckley didn't pay to play. The audience didn't pay to watch. In LA, you walk into a place with nothing but a white telecaster you borrowed from a friend and a demo tape, and you get laughed right at the fucking door. Not here . Chinay's Irish expat owner didn't even listen to Jess Tape. Just say shit up against the back wall and give him help kit . Monday nights were best. There was no pressure on Mondays , no expectations . Monday was, Who the fuck is this guy night? It was No, I',m not the son of a somewhat famous songwriter from the seventies night. Starting in the spring of nineteen ninety two, on every Monday night, Jeff Buckley cast aside the weight of Tim Buckley that walked to that cliff. He felt the wind kick up. He felt the hands touch his throat. He could do anything. He could be anyone. His hands started to hammer out a rhythm on his reverb, so telly. Edith PF Wi . Jeff could do Edis, Jeff could do Edith Travian. He picked up speed and volume on his tele. He vamped on one note, then an entire chord. How about some zeppelin? He let his voice spiral upwards into another register, like it had grown w ings. It morphed easily into Robber Plan and then Nusra, and then Van, and then it dropped the O and the N and added an E and a Y and he was Marisi and then suddenly back to plan again. His right hand kept scraping against the Telly's strings , the reverb bouncing like a springboard. Old scalp cut arrives again . And then with a dramatic chop of his right hand, he stopped string , but the music was endless. It didn't stop . He was now stomping his foot on the floor. Accented the rhythm by clapping his hands together. He started singing again . This time, Nina Simone, this time, with nothing accompanying him but the rhythms of his own body. At China, Jeff Buckley was, as author Daphne Brooks put it, Spotify before Spotify. Which reminds me. Let's all agree there should be a moratorium on performing Leonard Cohen's Hallowah because Jeff Buckley recorded the definitive version. A version that has not only been marked for preservation by the Library of Congress, but as Jeff himself explained, was meant not as some sadass tear jerk could be played during some heartbreaking scene in a stupid movie but in O to, you know, the hallujah of an or gasm ? But I digress . At China, Jeff didn't just play covers. He workshopped his own songs Eternal Life, Mojo Pin. Lover, you should have come over. Words spread fast. This guy at China, he sounds like everyone and no one. He's an anomaly, a true original, and dig it, you can watch him evolve on stage every week at this tiny coffee shop in St. Mark's place . The audiences got bigger. Soon, everybody there wanted them, including reps from all of the major labels. And by the autumn of nineteen ninety two, Jeff was signed to Columbia Records . Almost two years later, in August of nineteen ninety four , he released his debut LP, Grace . It was the height of Grunge Rock, just months after the death of Kirk Cobain. But it sounded like neither Grunge nor Kirk. It sounded like nothing else out there. It defied categorization. Some songs were cerebral and complex, straight up art rock, others were slick pop confections, but whether it was that untouchable cover of hallelujah or original songs that ran the gamut from pissed off punk to Eastern influence meditation, the constant was Jeff's voice. It was a voice that could do anything . Anything but find a mass audience it seemed. It took nine months before Grace even cracked the billboard top two hundred . But just like Jeff's contract, the record had time and space to find that audience. Columbia worked on finding Jeff Buckley's audience without dragging Timbuck ley into it. They never mentioned Jeff's father once in their PR blits. Jeff even had a rider on his tour contract that restricted venues from using Tim's name in their advertisements, and if they did, he could legally refuse to perform . But the more Jeff gave the memory of his father the silent treatment, the more it was all anyone wanted to talk about. Jesus Christ, kid, you look just like him. You sound like him too . Your song Dream Brother. Is that a direct response to Tim's song Dream Letter? Do you ever play his songs? Why not? Why don't you play one of his songs for us right now? Tonight ? On tour in Denver, the constant barrage of requests finally got to him. Against his better judgment, Jeff rambled his way through one of his dad's old songs. Are you satisfied now? he asked the crowd when he was finished. Are you really? I shut the fuck up for the rest of the night , love and kisses from the living one, Jeff Buckley . The State told him to get out of the car. He didn't realize that he pulled over Jeff Buckley. He didn't know who Jeff Buckley was. This was New Jersey after all. Are you Frank Sinatra? No, then get the fuck out of the fucking car. Jeff did as he was told. In the cop's eyes, he was just another slacker with long hair, a good will wardrobe, and a sorry excuse. And when it came to excuses, he could say whatever he wanted. It didn't matter. The cops saw him take a swig from the beer bottle as the carrier riding and blew past where the police cruiser sat. He saw him with his own two eyes, and where there was smoke , there was always fire. The cop told him to empty his pockets , Jeff did. The plastic bag was tiny, just enough weed for one joint , just enough to put him in cuffs and head down to the station . At the station, however, all it took were a few words from Jeff's friend for the police to change their tune . Hey man, you want me to call your manager ? Hold up. His manager