Song of the Week – Song to the Siren, Tim Buckley

In the late ’60s and early ’70s, Tim Buckley emerged as the avatar of daring, adventurous folk music.

His beautifully aching song “Morning Glory,” co-written with Larry Beckett, appeared on his second album Goodbye and Hello (1967) and was later covered by several artists, including Blood, Sweat & Tears.  However, the song was ultimately too conventional for Buckley, who felt compelled to keep pushing his music into new, uncharted territory.

By 1969, Buckley was embracing jazz influences, collaborating with vibraphonist David Friedman and conga player C.C. Collins on Happy Sad (1969).  His exploration of improvisational structures culminated in what many of his most devoted fans consider his masterpiece: Starsailor (1970).

Buckley understood that this shift in musical direction would likely alienate his core fanbase, but he was determined to follow his artistic instincts.  He toured the album in small jazz clubs, often to indifferent or confused audiences.

The standout track from Starsailor is “Song to the Siren,” also co-written with Beckett.

The song draws on Greek mythology, referencing the sirens who lured sailors to their doom.  Its poetic lyrics reflect Beckett’s literary sensibilities, offering a stark contrast to Buckley’s more emotionally direct songwriting style.

The arrangement is minimal — anchored by a reverb-drenched guitar that perfectly frames Buckley’s extraordinary five-octave vocal range.

“Song to the Siren” found new life in 1983 through a haunting cover by This Mortal Coil, which has since been featured in numerous film and television soundtracks.

Buckley died 50 years ago of an accidental drug overdose. He was 28. His friend and drug dealer, Richard Keeling, had given him heroin the night he died. On the advice of Keeling’s lawyer, he pleaded guilty to involuntary manslaughter, and served four months in jail. Today, he says he regrets that decision and wishes he had fought the charge.

Enjoy… until next week.

Song of the Week – Jerry Yester Productions

If you were asked who Jerry Yester is, you’d probably mention his time with the Lovin’ Spoonful—and you’d be right. Yester stepped in as the Spoonful’s guitarist after Canadian member Zal Yanovsky departed, following a controversial drug bust. Yanovsky and bandmate Steve Boone were caught up in a marijuana scandal in San Francisco in 1966. To avoid deportation, Yanovsky cooperated with the authorities, a move that was seen by some as betraying his friends and led to tensions within the band. But that’s a story for another time. This one is about Yester.

While Yester’s role in the Lovin’ Spoonful was significant—he contributed to their 1967 album Everything Playing—his most remarkable contributions to rock history are arguably his work as a producer.

Yester, alongside Yanovsky, played a pivotal role in shaping Tim Buckley’s experimental, jazz-infused sound on his 1969 album Happy Sad. A standout track on that record is the tender love song, “Buzzin’ Fly,” a testament to Yester’s ability to nurture an artist’s creative evolution.

One of my favorite “under the radar” albums is the self-titled debut of Aztec Two-Step, released by Elektra in 1972. This folk-rock gem is filled with sweet melodies, intriguing lyrics, and beautiful harmonies, all brought together under Yester’s expert guidance as producer. The track “Baking” is a great example of the band’s distinctive style.

Yester was also at the helm for the debut album by Tom Waits, Closing Time (1973). This version of Waits, with his smooth, crooning vocals, contrasts sharply with the more experimental, Kurt Weill-inspired Waits of the 1980s, known for albums like Swordfishtrombones and Rain Dogs on Island Records. Closing Time opens with one of Waits’ most famous songs, “Ol’ 55,” which was later covered by the Eagles on their album On the Border.

Jerry Yester deserves far more recognition for his work as a producer, which stands as a significant part of his legacy, beyond his fame as a member of the Lovin’ Spoonful.

Enjoy… until next week.