There are very few things in life I would say I'm sure about. Einstein wasn't sure about some stuff either, so I don't feel bad for not knowing. Einstein said there were only two things about which he was sure -- the infinity of the universe, and the infinity of human stupidity. Then he backtracked and said he couldn't be sure about the universe.

But infinity... there just has to be infinity, if only so Lord Buckley could talk about it.

Lord Buckley was sort of a comedian. His most famous works were those where he would take either classic oratory (the speech from Julius Caesar, or The Gettysburg Address, for instance) or the life story of a great man (Jesus, Einstein, Gandhi), and translate them into 'hipsemantic,' or, roughly, beatnik language. He was amazing, and one of the hugest influences on modern comedy as we know it. Lenny Bruce, Richard Pryor, and George Carlin were all profoundly influenced by Buckley, even if his name isn't generally known around the provinces. So be it. Very few prophets are appreciated in their lifetime. While Buckley -- and, for that matter, Mort Sahl, Lenny Bruce, and Vaughan Meader -- are hardly household names these days, their effect is still felt acutely and profoundly.

Buckley was not only a great verbal gymnast, he was somebody whose sheer force of personality begged notice. To borrow a phrase from Lyle Lovett, Lord Buckley had lights in his fingers. He had sparks coming off him. He was great.

To me, listening to Lord Buckley has never been a timely exercise. I don't think of him as typifying the 1950s any more than I think Thelonious Monk typified the 1950s. Some guys are just who they are, and they're going to be that way no matter when.

[Trager does Buckley at the 90th Birthday Bash in 1996]



A guy named Oliver Trager, whose past literary accomplishments include a book about the Grateful Dead, has recently published a bio of Buckley called Dig Infinity, and it's great. It's a non-linear book of biographical fact, tall tales about a bigger-than-life personality, and a fine window into the time and places where Richard Buckley earned his lordship. We learn that he grew up in post-goldrush Northern California, spent the vaudeville era in vaudeville, worked with Red Skelton, and all that kind of stuff. This is worth knowing, because Buckley info, despite a few fine articles, has long been hidden in the back corners of someplace where nobody knew to look. The other thing DI has going for it is a disc of classic Buckley performances so the uninitiated can hear what the fuss is about.

I'm a Buckley-ite. I have bootlegs (even some video I got from the amazing Phil Milstein). I have a bunch of the records, and I often click onto Michael Monteleone's wonderful LordBuckley.com. There's only about a half-dozen albums worth of Buckley, and even the bootlegs are pretty much different versions of routines we know by heart. But I'm hardcore. I want it all.

Trager's book goes into all kinds of stuff I never would have suspected, let alone didn't know. For instance, Ed Sullivan was a huge Buckley advocate, had him on his famous show on several occasions, and apparently loaned him money several times. (Buckley was notoriously irresponsible, and money was no exception to this.)

Buckley inspired a cult that continued on even after he shook off this mortal coil in 1960. I think -- and this is just me, kids -- that Buckley's positivity made him absolutely unique. The usual bullshit hipster attitude -- the ironic 'seen it, done it, am above it' judgementalism -- was far from Buckley, which is why he was the hippest of the hip. Buckley didn't dismiss the wonders. He celebrated them, with a voice as broad and cutting and unmistakable as a foghorn over a silent bay. His sharp language was never aimed at a target. Rather, it cut through layers of dust and blah so to better get to the beauty deep in the heart of the matter. His was not to be jaded; rather, it was to celebrate the wonderment.

I was about fifteen when I first heard Lord Buckley. I lived in a blue collar town in South Jersey, a dreamless place whose GNP was funeral homes, where everybody's father worked in a factory. It was one of those places Bruce Springsteen has captured so well, in all its unmoving, ungloriable ennui. "My Hometown" my ass. We're talking racism, ignorance, and muscle cars.

Somehow in the midst of this a guy named Marc Shaw loaned me my first Buckley record, A Most Immaculately Hip Aristocrat. When I heard Buckley's telling of Einstein's life up to the discovery of the Theory Of Relativity, I was floored. Here was a window, just as Mark Twain's books about the Mississippi River, just as Frank Zappa's Cruising With Ruben And The Jets, just as Rahsaan Roland Kirk's 'Bright Moments' speech had each been a window to a place that was, unlike the one where I lived, in color, and full of people who were alive. I wanted life in the Lord Buckley sense of life, of being alive and in color.

Buckley cared deeply about that feeling. He always bordered on mania and seemed uncontainable. It reminds me of that thing in Andre Williams' rhythm'n'blues classic "Bacon Fat" where he says "I wanna holler but the town's too small." Buckley was never too hip for the room, hip as he was. He was too big for anything with walls.

Trager's book gets this. The only book in recent memory that understands the spirit of its subject nearly so well was John Kruth's Rahsaan bio Bright Moments. And, like Buckley, Rahsaan is often typified by apocryphal stories. And, like Buckley, Rahsaan was a life-affirmer.

We live in an age of put-downs, contrived darkness, and other ugly lies. I doubt seriously that Lord Buckley would have thrived in a Ben Stiller world. Which is why we need Lord Buckley so badly now. We need someone who reminds us that infinity is at our fingertips, that believing is the key to beauty, that Jesus probably sang just like Louis Armstrong. Buckley was never afraid of the darkest aspects of humanity. He accepted them. Listening to Buckley transform Poe's 'Raven,' you know he knew that you couldn't have brightness without some sort of personal horror. But he never lingered on the horrible.

There is always talk of some sort of Buckley Renaissance, as if he can be rediscovered and brought to a mass audience. Frankly, uncut Buckley ain't for everybody. His influence can be felt strongly in Jonathan Winters and Robin Williams, but great as they are, the town can take it if they holler.

Buckley said "we must spread love... rehearse kindness and graciousness," and his work expressed this at every turn. He even wrote a love song in praise of the police, which, given Buckley's bio details (buy the fucking book already) amounts to a put-upon man laying his money where his mouth is.

You need this in your life. You need to know about a guy like this, especially now. Trager's book and Monteleone's website are each excellent starting points. Go find out about Lord Buckley. I promise your life will be better for it.

(C) 2002 - Skip Heller