On a Monday night in late spring of 1992, Jeff Buckley arrived at the tiny Cafe Sin-é on New York’s St. Mark’s Place with a borrowed Fender Telecaster and a story to tell. He had scored a prestigious weekly gig at the East Village mainstay that had hosted both Irish rock royalty (Sinead O’Connor, Shane McGowan, the Waterboys), as well as up-and-coming talent, and the 25-year-old appeared ready to meet the moment.

He set up against the wall in a corner, waved a shy hello to the small crowd, opened his mouth to sing and that’s the moment when all hell broke loose. The raw power of his voice overwhelmed the space, alternating between a feminine falsetto and masculine growl—often within the same song. His guitar playing, too, had elements of punk and blues, but with Eastern flavoring woven

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