Amy Correia Writes for : amy correia

Amy Correia Writes for

Posted on | September 10, 2013 | No Comments

I’m trying my hand at some other kinds of writing besides “song”.  They have a section called Rock Heaven, and I was happy they published this little piece about the first time I saw singer and songwriter, Jeff Buckley, perform.

Read the whole article here:

An excerpt below:

Be My Husband

Jeff Buckley made me want to give myself to music, to love another, to live my life and get lost in it all

Jeff Buckley

I was 24 years old and living in a small Chinatown apartment on Mott Street in New York City. During the day, I wrote advertising copy for a small agency owned by the late great Jo Foxworth. (I’m sure you remember my “Dances With Cold Cuts” ad for D’Agostino’s, right?) By night, I worked at making a name for myself, plastering the Lower East Side with homemade posters made by my friend Maura, writing songs into the wee hours and playing them to handfuls of people.

Over those years, I saw many shows, and one of the most memorable was one that I had no intention of seeing, one that came to me out of the blue like an unexpected gift

It was late October 1993 and I had finished playing a late-night set at this tiny venue in the East Village called Sin-é. I had only several months ago dropped off a demo tape (yes, cassette) and felt lucky to have landed my first real gigs in NYC. After I packed up and friends had said their goodbyes, I gave myself a minute to sit alone at a table by the window and have a cup of tea before heading home. At this point it was after midnight and only a few other people were still there. It was quiet, even for a weeknight.

The café door opened and I heard the brief clamor of the street outside and turned to see a slim, handsome guy about my age enter the room. He had dark hair and was bundled up in a wool jacket, carrying a guitar case slung over one shoulder. He made his way to the “stage” (a few feet of floor space at one side of the room) and plugged in his amp without saying a word.

After a quick line check, he stripped off his coat and stood there in jeans, white T-shirt and beaten-up combat boots. I had never seen him before and felt foolish because I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He had a dignity and self-possession about him — a rumpled majesty — and I wondered if it were possible he could sound anywhere near as good as he looked, wearing his electric guitar like a coat of arms….(continue reading at )


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