I first heard Jeff Buckley when I was 15. When he died when I was 18, I cried because I wouldn’t grow up with his music. I was wrong.

Originally published in Toronto Star

The way Jeff Buckley’s voice soared to hymnal heights while being grounded by his soulful guitar playing was just what I needed as a depressed 15-year-old high school dropout. Jeff was my gateway to a new musical world that included the sophistication and restrained anger of Nina Simone and the sublime lust of Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah.” His music helped me process grief and gave me something to hold on to when I felt lost.

When I first heard Jeff, I didn’t know what to make of his music. Within a few days, I recognized his voice on the radio after only a few notes. I was hooked. Seven months later, I saw him live at the Danforth Music Hall in Toronto. I held my breath as he appeared on stage. Despite feeling depressed at a young age, being there made me feel fortunate, alive, and less alone.

I lived on the high of that concert for a long time. But then Jeff went missing, presumed drowned in the Wolf River in Memphis, in 1997. For six days I barely ate, lying in bed and worrying about someone I only knew through his brief body of work. When he was found, I learned the meaning of the word “undertow.” I ate, but I wasn’t the same. Amid my despair, I listened to his music, which brought me solace. Desperate to feel close to him, I went to his public memorial.

I took a Greyhound bus from Toronto to St. Ann & the Holy Trinity Church in Brooklyn Heights, travelling alone at 18. I barely remember the service, but as the audience played “You are My Sunshine” on kazoos, their buzzing childlike sound had a psalm-like effect on my sorrow. While several of Jeff’s friends and family spoke, my mind wandered from the present moment and the bizarre experience of being at his memorial to what could have been. Tears poured down my face as I kept thinking, “I won’t be able to grow up with his music.” I fixed my gaze on the vaulted ceiling and the stained-glass windows, letting the colours steady me. I found myself in front of Rebecca Moore, an accomplished artist and Jeff’s ex-partner, who had inspired some songs on “Grace,” his only studio album. When I struggled to find my words, Rebecca gave me one of the warmest hugs I’d ever had.

I was supposed to leave right after the service. But when I heard there would be a photo gallery of never-before-seen photographs I decided to stay — even if it meant missing my bus home. Alone in a city I barely knew, I had nowhere to sleep, no idea how to book a hotel, and no credit card. I asked a guy at the church if the Port Authority Bus Terminal would be a safe place for me to hang out overnight. He offered me a spot to crash. “I don’t want to impose,” I mumbled. “You’ll be safer,” he replied. His name was Todd McCraw, and he worked on the production team at St. Ann’s. He’d even worked with Jeff on a few occasions. Terrified, I agreed to take a cab to his place. But Todd was a gentleman whose only concern was my well-being. He slept on the couch while I had a bed to myself. He asked me to call him once I got back home to Toronto.

We didn’t speak for another 25 years until I tracked him down to thank him for helping me when I was vulnerable. We felt like old friends, our shared connection reminding me how Jeff’s music had carried me through dark times. It was Todd who first told me there was a new documentary on Jeff. He texted after seeing it with his son; he was feeling reflective. I immediately bought tickets, though I was nervous. I knew it would bring up a lot from my past. Sometimes revisiting Jeff’s music and my teenage years was overwhelming, but his music was still a balm for my troubled soul.

In Amy Berg’s recent documentary “It’s Never Over,” released this summer, Jeff Buckley is framed around the words and emotions of the women closest to him: his mother, Mary Guibert; his fiancée, Joan Wasser (aka Joan as Police Woman); and Rebecca Moore, who had comforted me at the service. Their interviews were raw, cutting through the feelings I had long buried. Reliving the shock of his disappearance and death reopened a deep wound, but their reflections reminded me how Jeff’s music had been soothing, a source of strength, and even joy.

I still feel Jeff’s loss; he died so young at 30. Though I’ve lived much longer, his lyrics seem older and wiser than my years. Listening to his music now still stirs deep emotions and offers a sense of healing. Though his death was a tragedy, I continue to grow with his music, letting it wash over me as I reflect and move forward in a life shaped by both grit and grace.