It was May 30, 1997 and I was on my home after closing the bar I managed in downtown Manhattan. I made my usual stop at Gem Spa to pick up the early morning editions of The New York Post and Daily News before heading to Veselka for a quick late night breakfast. Sitting in the restaurant and flipping through the Post I came upon something that crushed my heart - Jeff Buckley had died, drowned in the Wolf River in Memphis. I wept. He was 31.
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