Lee Underwood | Interview | Tim Buckley’s Musical Partner Reflects on a Journey Through Sound, Nature, and Influence

Lee Underwood played an essential role in Tim Buckley’s musical trajectory, contributing to seven of his nine studio albums, as well as several posthumous releases.

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A versatile musician with a gift for both guitar and piano, Underwood helped shape the intricate soundscapes that defined Buckley’s ever-evolving music. Beyond his musical work, Underwood made a significant impact as a writer, serving as West Coast editor for DownBeat and contributing to Rolling Stone and The Los Angeles Times. He also authored Blue Melody: Tim Buckley Remembered and penned three books of poetry, firmly establishing his presence in both the music and literary worlds.

‘California Sigh,’ the 1988 album by Underwood, was reissued last year through Drag City Records, presenting a deeply introspective listening journey. His emotive guitar playing takes center stage, evoking a personal connection to the natural world. As Underwood himself reflects, “With ‘California Sigh,’ I put my love of nature into solo guitar music.” The album is a sonic meditation on nature, emotion, and sound, with the guitar serving as both a conduit to the earth and an expression of Underwood’s inner landscape.

“Buckley made each different song change colors like a shifting rainbow”

What memories from your childhood really made an impression and pointed you towards music? Was there a sound or a moment that made you go, “Hell yeah, that’s what I want to do?”

Lee Underwood: I was lying in bed, a nine-year-old child, listening to The Grand Ol’ Opry on my handheld plastic radio. They brought on a guitar player named Chet Atkins. I had never heard such beautiful music—the way he strummed his chords, letting melodies fly. I had never heard anything as beautiful as that. From that moment on, I wanted to play guitar. I didn’t play an actual guitar until many years later, but I knew in my heart that that was what I wanted to do.

Was there a certain moment when you realized that music wasn’t just a passing interest, but your destiny?

When I left my wife for a woman named Jenifer Stace, we were driving down to Mexico. I was in the grass hut on the beach, practicing my guitar, when I looked out the window and saw Jennifer dancing on the sand with the ocean waves behind her. I fell in love with her at that moment and said to myself, “I want to play this guitar for the rest of my life.” That was the moment I made that crucial decision.

Let’s go back to the early days—what was the local scene like when you first started out?

It was the rise of folk music—Pete Seeger, Bob Dylan, Joan Baez, et al. For a while, I sang my original songs in coffeehouses, took my first toke of grass, and began what I hoped would be a rise to stardom as a solo guitarist and singer. I made some headway and began thinking of going from California to New York—which I ultimately did. That’s when I met Tim Buckley.

Take us there—how did you first meet Tim Buckley, and what kicked off the collaboration? Was it like lightning striking, or did that special chemistry build over time?

I had an audition with an agent in New York named Sean O’Brien. As I was walking up the stairway to his apartment, carrying three guitars with me, I looked up and saw a scrawny kid with curly hair looking down on me from the floor above. We said hi, and Tim asked me what I was doing there. I said I was auditioning for Sean. Tim said, “You mind if I come with you and take a listen?” I said, “Sure.”

So I played all of my tunes, singing my heart out. Sean said, “I like your stuff, but I don’t have any openings for you here in New York. But I do have an opening for you in Baltimore.” I said, “I didn’t come all the way to New York to play in Baltimore.” That’s when Tim said, “Well, I’ve got a gig coming up at the Night Owl for six weeks. How would you like to play lead guitar with me?” Needless to say, I said yes, and that began a journey that lasted some eight years.

Recording with Tim must’ve been amazing. What are some of the standout moments from those sessions, especially for albums like ‘Happy Sad’? Got any stories to share?

When it came time to record ‘Happy Sad,’ we were in the dressing room, warming up for the recording session. Tim leaned over close to my ear and said, “This is your album, Lee.” That blew my mind. What did he mean?

He was referring to all of the wonderful conversations we’d had regarding the music I loved—jazz. We had spent lots of time together, smoking pot, talking about improvisation, and exotic chords and improvised melodies. Tim was taking his first early steps, looking into chords and melodies he had never tried before. And so, he was telling me to “let the music flow, Lee.” That’s what he meant when he said, “This is your album, Lee.”

Touring with Tim Buckley—talk about a trip. What was he like on the road, and what kind of energy did he bring to the tour scene?

On the road, Tim in the early days was lively, smiling a lot, laughing, joking. But as the months turned into years, he became more introspective. But whenever he got on stage, he would close his eyes, lean into the microphone, and disappear into the music. His powers of concentration were amazing. That ability to disappear, to lose himself in the music, dazzled me and everybody who was listening.

Tim’s music was so emotionally intense and complex. How did his approach to music push you as a guitarist? What did he teach you about playing that you never expected?

He never told his musicians what to play, although his intensity of concentration, his ability to go within himself the way he did, certainly made a huge difference. That presence—perhaps I should say that lack of personhood—transferred itself to me and to others in the band. Each one of us tried to join Tim, concentrating, working with each shift of tone and each unexpected change in tempo. He made each different song change colors like a shifting rainbow, making even familiar changes become something original and exciting.

Tim’s passing was a heavy loss. How did it hit you, and what did you turn to creatively during that tough time?

You’re right. It was a heavy loss indeed. As a matter of fact, I have never gotten over his death. Having worked with him as his lead guitarist for some eight years and having remained his close friend for many years after that, it was like losing a hand, or an arm, or a leg—living part of myself had died.

By that time, I had shifted my creative energies from playing music to writing about music and musicians for DownBeat magazine (West Coast Editor) and many other publications (The L.A. Times, Rolling Stone, Body/Mind/Spirit, The L.A. Free Press, etc.).

Your album ‘California Sigh’ just got a reissue—how’s it feel revisiting that piece of your past? What was the inspiration behind it, and how did you end up working with Steve Roach on it?

In 1988, the year in which I recorded ‘California Sigh,’ I was living in L.A. One night, I was in a nightclub awaiting the arrival of the main act, whose name I’ve forgotten. However, I did notice that there were several speakers lining the stage and a huge keyboard. Hmm, I wondered, what were those doing there? Pretty soon, a tall fellow with long hair came out, sat down, and began playing his keyboard—using tones, sounds, and colors I had never heard before—and playing very loud. I loved what I heard. After that set, I went backstage, introduced myself to Steve Roach, and we became close friends, a friendship that has lasted to this day.

When it came time for me to record ‘California Sigh,’ I needed to record with somebody I knew—so I contacted Steve, who ran a small recording studio in his house. After some ten sessions, I finally managed to record an entire album tape, which didn’t go anywhere commercially. So I just forgot about that tape until I finally received a call from Drag City in Chicago—they wanted to release ‘California Sigh’ as a double LP. Well, hello—how ‘bout that!

You made a switch to being the West Coast editor for DownBeat magazine. How did that come about, and what were the highs and lows of living that double life as a journalist and musician?

Once I made the decision to become a writer and had recorded ‘California Sigh’ in 1988, I finally dropped both guitar and writing about music and musicians and moved out of L.A. My lovely wife, Sonia Crespi, and I moved into a small adobe house in the wilds of New Mexico, where I embarked on a new journey—walking along a stream in the woods and the mountains, and writing not about music and musicians, but about life itself—in a novel, in poems, in short stories. It was a wonderful life, which Sonia and I lived for some seven years.

“With ‘California Sigh,’ I put my love of nature into solo guitar music”

With ‘California Sigh’ back out there, what do you hope new listeners take away from it? Where does this album fit into the bigger picture of your musical journey?

With ‘California Sigh,’ I put my love of nature into solo guitar music—the love of rippling streams, the sound of wind in trees, the cry of birds, the sounds of all things wild. As such, it is the most cherished musical effort I have ever made. It stands as a sonic testimony to nature and the natural way of living that is our human birthright.

You’ve mentioned that modern listeners might be more tuned into Tim’s avant-garde works like ‘Lorca’ and ‘Starsailor’. Do you think Tim’s influence has been more present in certain scenes, or are there specific artists you feel owe a debt to his sound?

Tim had pretty well run out of ideas, having explored folk music and jazz. He definitely wanted more, but more of what? I researched avant-garde music and came up with certain Western mystics, such as William Blake and Delmore Schwartz, and several significant modern composers, including Xenakis, Ilhan Mimaroglu, John Cage, and others — the music of which did not particularly move Tim. However, when I played him the music of the Italian composer Luciano Berio, he perked up his ears, particularly the pieces in which Berio featured the singer Cathy Berberian, such as ‘Visage,’ ‘Sequenza III,’ and ‘Themea (Omaggio a Joyce)’.

Berberian usually did not sing words. When she did, she held onto vowels and extended their sound indefinitely. More often than not, she chirped, beeped, cheeped, clucked, cooed, gurgled, peeped, howled, whispered, cried, laughed, and wailed, utilizing her voice not as a vehicle to carry words and concepts, but as a multi-faceted sound source that created pure, direct emotion — like a new instrument. Her approach was not verbal, but sonic; not linear, but abstract; not artificial, but natural; not decorative, but primal.

Tim no longer felt lonely, isolated, or freakish. With Cathy Berberian, he had found a friend. Now he knew he was on the right track. First, he gave birth to ‘Lorca.’ Then, with the invaluable help of bassist/producer John Balkin, he gave birth to his masterpiece, ‘Starsailor.’ Tim was always evolving.

Which phase of his career do you think was the most groundbreaking, or the one that meant the most to him personally?

The ‘Starsailor’ period, and later on, within the pop tunes, he got into lengthy vocal improvisations, utilizing all the techniques he had developed along the way.

“He brought the avant-garde into the popular music context”

What’s your take on the shift in his sound? Was it a radical change, or more of a return to his earlier roots?

It was a radical change, first with ‘Lorca,’ then especially with ‘Starsailor’. Then, within the pop context that followed, he mixed the standard harmonic progressions and words of pop songs with the extended “Berberian” vocalese. He brought the avant-garde into the popular music context — and he did a magnificent job of it.

In ‘Blue Melody,’ you share some deeply personal insights into Tim’s world and his music. As a journalist, how do you walk that tightrope of staying objective while being so close to the subject? How does your own experience influence the way you write about music?

Being deeply involved with the subject matter subjectively while maintaining an objective observer’s stance takes a long time to get right. It was not easy at first. Now, after many years of writing, I think I’ve got it down pretty well.

Do you think Tim’s personal struggles and creative challenges are part of why his music connects so deeply with listeners?

Yes. He was bedrock honest in virtually everything he wrote. He lived in a kind of dream world, with music churning around his heart and mind constantly.

Before we wrap, would you like to say anything about ‘Phantom Light’ (2003) and ‘Gathering Light’ (2009)?

Those were two solo piano CDs I put out myself. They are primarily lyrical music, rooted in heartfelt melodies that moved me then — and still hold up well — although I have never followed up on them.

Looking back, what would you say was the highlight of your time as a musician? Which songs are you most proud of? And what’s the most unforgettable concert you played?

The highlight of my time as a musician was, of course, playing guitar with Tim. I never got so naturally high as when I played music with him — and of those many occasions in which we soared up into clouds of glorious music together, it was undoubtedly our second concert at Carnegie Hall that remains with me to this day.

Thank you for this interview, Klemen. I greatly appreciate your patience and understanding. All the best to you.

Klemen Breznikar

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Lee Underwood Website / Facebook