In the late 1960s, a new prophet emerged in the desert of psychedelia and folk - a troubadour by the name of Tim Buckley, who, with a guitar slung across his chest and a heart heavier than the final bow of a Beethoven symphony, pushed the boundaries of contemporary music in ways that only a man with a death wish or perhaps an overdose of absolute brilliance could. A bleating goat in the choir of minstrels, Buckley was always destined to outshine in his short-lived symphony, his waxing tragic. Born on that one Valentine's Day when love decided to take a break and bless the world with a melodious beacon - February 14, 1947 - Tim Buckley was either the child of Eros or Euterpe, fated to strum his life across the harsh strings of fame and tragedy. From picking at strings of a six-stringer to plucking at the heartstrings of an entire generation, Buckley was no stranger to making music that resonated far beyond his meagre years. His eclectic journey saw him flirt with folk, dabble in psychedelic dalliances, jam with jazz, and form unholy unions with the avant-garde, while his lyrics tangoed ably with tragedy, possibly whispering sweet nothings of what was to come. The zenith of his commercial success, "Happy Sad", ironically didn't reflect the pits he'd find himself in a year later, both artistically as well as personally. No one was happy, and the sadness was palpable. The year was 1969, when the album peaked at No. 81 on the charts - a spectacular achievement for someone used to chasing shadows of fame rather than basking in its glow. Then came "Starsailor" in 1970, an overzealous swan dive into the deep end that was Buckley's undiagnosed genius. To simplify it, "Starsailor" was akin to running an obstacle course blindfolded. It was a Pandora's box of sounds and styles, locked together in one album that simultaneously delighted listeners and scared the living daylights out of them. Thus, much like Buckley's life, "Starsailor" became a cult favorite; a wild ascetic dancing naked in the snow, whispering, no, screaming his "Song to the Siren" into the deaf ear of the industry. Ah, the sirens! While Buckley sang his heart out to these mythical creatures, the real sirens - drawn to the scene of his untimely demise - provided a heartbreaking chorus. At the age of 28, the golden child of American psychedelia succumbed to the insatiable hazards of heroin and morphine. Buckley, the poet who gentle wept on the strings of a guitar, bade an early, painful adieu to the world and to his sons, Taylor and Jeff, leaving behind a rich tapestry of heart-wrenching melodies to their custody. The strumming strings of Tim Buckley's short-lived symphony waxed tragic indeed, but in a world far too prone to homogeneity, his discordant chords cleared a path for the adventurously audacious. His was a symphony that crashed as dramatically as it rose, a haunting melody strummed out far too swiftly - a cautionary tale, a rock-star cliché, and a legacy that plays on repeat. The music lives on, a testament to an extraordinary artist, forever suspended between tragic stardom and a timeless echo.