She was transfixed. As though drugged-up. But as far as I could tell, the only mind-bending substances coursing through her veins were half a lager and the slow burn of a bent Silk Cut. And even the latter was being puffed more than sucked. Artfully puffed I hasten to add. For maximum coquettishness. But to no avail. The fella on the stage was oblivious, mid-song, eyes shut, mouth puckered, kissing a long lingering note goodbye.

Jeff Buckley, August 1994, La Belle Angele, Cowgate, Edinburgh. I want to say it was the 16th of said month (as that’s my birthday). But a quick fact check confirms it was the 30th of August of said year. Not quite the end of the festival – back in the day when it ended with a bang in the form of the bank-sponsored fireworks extravaganza. But still a glorious summer evening. Besides, if it wasn’t my birthday that night, it felt like it.

The ultimate present. Seemingly from above (and I’m no God-botherer). That voice. Although to call it ‘a voice’ is understatement. It was more some celestial instrument in human form. Not the stuff of angels. Too lovelorn, pained and raw. As though a cherub had dropped said instrument into the Styx. Its player seemed to be on terms with death. And later of course, the man himself would tragically find his own end in another river.

Much like that lass puffing a Silk Cut, gazing starry-eyed at the stage – and everyone else there that night – I’ll never forget that Jeff Buckley gig. His debut album, ‘Grace’, had just been released a week earlier. And we were treated to a live run-through, with some wonderful covers thrown in for good measure. Even my brother, who has an astonishing set of pipes, and is a recognised indie vocal legend in his own right, was blown away.

I saw Buckley perform a year or two later at the Queen’s Hall. But while brilliant, it never quite hit the heights. Of course, maybe it was as good. But it didn’t hold the power of that moment that, once experienced, couldn’t be matched. I’d never know what it was to reach such giddy heights. But I did experience the magic of being on stage myself – and as the front man too. I was no Jeff Buckley. More like What the Fuckley?

Yet, for one blissful summer – it always seemed to be summer – I too, was up there trying to bewitch girls reeking of half-smoked tabs and gin in plastic beakers. Up there is something of an exaggeration. In most cases, what passed for a stage at these local venues in Edinburgh’s ‘live n’ local’ scene was a bas-relief bier; the place where people went to die. But we (my fellow band members and I) didn’t die. We came out fighting.

Between summer 1995 and the tail end of 1996, we played the ECA, Stones Music Bar on Frederick Street (just next to the travel agent‘s – we had that on a flyer, I think), a place on the Cowgate that may or may not now be known as Stramash, The Venue on Calton Road (our big break… or so we thought), and the old Cas Rock – now demolished – twice, one of those times supported by a little-known outfit of the time called Idlewild.

The second of those Cas Rock spots was to prove our last outing as a unit. Diamond Dave the drummer (top bloke, drum fills that went on for a week, like a drunken falling downstairs in slow-motion), Tom the bassist (lovely fella, but more than a little of the Derek Smalls about his freeform jazz wandering), and the machine that powered it all… Malcolm, an exceptional guitarist/songwriter, who pretty much did everything vital.

Me? I was the fop at the front. And I enjoyed every single minute of it. Heckles and all. We had our pals, and our ‘groupies’; no, not that sort, you dirty beggars. And friends of friends etc. And we even produced a really good quality demo tape down the sound studio behind The Anchor Inn. It was all very wonderful. But like everything, it didn’t last.

For that brief moment everything seemed perfect. A moment in time as beautiful as that of a hot August night in 1994, when Jeff Buckley came to town. Only 90 minutes or so. But lasted a lot longer. Ditto my own exploits on stage. And for that I’m truly grateful.