Elliott Smith: 25 Years Later
My cousin Johnny has always played the obligatory older family member role of showing the younger kid cool music. I remember watching in awe as he showed me music videos for Fall Out Boy’s “Sugar We’re Going Down” and The Strokes’ “Last Nite” on the family desktop, exposing me to great things I wouldn’t have known existed. But I think I’m most grateful for Johnny introducing me to Elliott Smith. He made me a playlist my senior year of high school that included “Son of Sam” and “Somebody That I Used to Know” from Elliott’s album Figure 8. I played those songs over and over again, addicted to the melodies and bouncing upbeat nature of songs that dealt with dark topics of serial couple-killers and bitter breakups, respectfully.
It wasn’t until a year later during my freshman year of college that I dove deeper into Elliott Smith. I joined my college radio station my first semester and soon found in my hands Say Yes!, a tribute compilation in the rack of new releases that DJs-in-training were required to spin music from. I immediately fell in love with Julianna Hatfield’s rendition of “Needle in the Hay” on the comp. The story-telling lyricism and crunchiness of Hatfield’s harmonies sent me straight to the original and opening track of Elliott Smith’s second and self-titled album, which is celebrating its 25th anniversary this month.
Elliott Smith quickly became one of my favorite albums of all time. I soon found out why so many creatives boasted him as one of the most prolific and important songwriters of the 21st century. 25 years later, Elliott Smith still makes for one of the most important albums of all time for its exceptional songwriting, minimalism and honesty.
Elliott was born Steven Paul Smith. He began going by Elliott in middle school because Steve was too "jockish." He played piano and guitar, and started writing songs at 13. In high school, he moved from his mom’s house in the suburbs of Dallas to Portland to live with his father. At the time of his self-titled album’s release in 1995, Elliott was Portland’s pride and joy, making loud alt rock with his band Heatmeiser. He began to split his time between the band and a solo project, making music unpopular for the local scene: stripped down, lo-fi, acoustic guitar music. In an era where grunge and riot grrrl bands like Sleater Kinney, Soundgarden, and Bikini Kill were dominating the Pacific Northwest, it was a bold move. He eventually ditched the band, their record deal with Virgin, and their hype of being the “next Nirvana” to focus on his solo work. That same emotional content of grunge was there in his stripped-down music, in a polished and mature way.
Friend and musician Mary Lou Lord invited Elliott to tour for his solo work after seeing him play:
I remember I really didn’t want to watch him play because I’d seen too many guys with acoustic guitars; I didn’t care. . . There were 40 people in the audience, but I felt like it was just him and me. I was in this tunnel of some awesome dimension, thinking, ‘What the fuck am I looking at and hearing?’ I was sucked in and left absolutely on the floor. It was literally life-changing. (Consequence of Sound).
She later introduced him to Slim Moon, the founder of record label Kill Rock Stars (Nirvana, Bikini Kill). Despite the nature of Elliott’s music in comparison to what was popular at the time, his songs wowed Moon, and he signed Elliott as his label’s only acoustic act. A year later the label released Elliott Smith.
There’s so much to be said about someone who can wow you with just their voice and a guitar. I couldn’t count on two hands all of the forgotten acoustic solo acts I’ve seen play in basements and coffeehouses, where one song in I’ve turned to my friends with that let’s-get-out-of-here-before-I-die-of-boredom look in my eyes. But the intricacy of Elliott’s melodies and technicality of his instrumentation on his self-titled make a dude with a guitar sound like an orchestra. “Needle in the Hay” is bewitching with nothing but a warm toned acoustic and a whispery doubled vocal track. It’s folk meets punk, playful and memorable with half-step creeping guitar parts and snake-hissing esses; it’s minimal but it’s going to be in your head forever.
Most of the songs on self-titled are bare bones like the opening track, but layered with Beatles-like harmonies. Elliott sneaks low muted drums in unnoticed on the track “Christian Brothers” with light brushes on cymbals and a snare. An electric guitar is subtle in the mix on “Coming Up Roses,” and a harmonica has a crooning intro on “Alphabet Town.” But that’s about as can extensive as the instrumentation gets. In a world today were music is so overly produced, Elliott Smith is like a pallet cleanse. I find myself so put off from most popular music today because it doesn’t sound how music sounds in real life. Like the first time someone tried to put me on to a tune from Harry Style’s Fine Line, I found it totally jarring. While I can appreciate a song like “Adore You”’s composition, the production makes for something more robotic than soulful: drums are programmed, synths are swelling, nameless and faceless session musicians are playing perfectly EQed guitars, and everything is crisp and pristine, more perfect than anything could ever sound outside of a major label studio. When you listen to Elliott Smith, it feels like he’s in a room with you playing songs; it feels real. The minimalism is a testament to his artful songwriting and shows that you don’t need all the bullshit to create an amazing song; it’s possible to write catchy, meaningful music with next to nothing.
The stripped nature of this record in combination with its confessional, dark subject matter make it an intimate piece of music. Elliott described it himself as the darkest album he ever recorded. His vocals are growling and whispery. The album cover depicts two silhouetted figures seemingly jumping to their death from a building. Themes of addiction weave through songs like “Christian Brothers,” where Smith uses liquor to conquer his abusive stepfather, and “St. Ides Heaven,” which narrates “walking out between parked cars with [a] head full of stars” and malt liquor. While Elliott wasn’t under the influence of drugs or abusing alcohol while writing the album, he would go on to struggle with addiction throughout his life. Being honest about experiences of abuse, addiction, anger, loss and heartbreak is what makes this album so tangible. Elliott is not afraid to talk about things most people don’t like to talk about, despite the fact that most humans have these dark feelings and experiences. It makes for an instant connection, trust and empathetic response from a listener. That’s the most successful thing a work of art can do: help a person empathize and connect. “Some beautiful songs try to make you think that, for a moment, there’s no crap in the world, that it’s just a beautiful place,” Slim Moon says. “But Elliott’s songs admit that the world’s fucked up, and this is just a beautiful moment we get to have.” To write the album off as exclusively dark would be an injustice; Elliott’s nuanced songwriting often gets obscured by his critical reputation as depressed singer-songwriter, and by his tragic death at 34. Tracks like power-pop ballad “Coming Up Roses” offer a glimmer of hope in the world. Even if it’s from substance use, “Clementine” offers tales of bar sing-alongs and angels in the snow; “St. Ides Heaven” offers toe-tapping euphoria in a time where “everything is exactly right.”
After its immediate release, the album failed to see success or critical acclaim outside of Portland despite its powerful songwriting that transcends acoustic singer-songwriter boredom. Today it’s still as important as the day it was released, and shows that even in a world that may seem broken beyond repair, there are always glimmers of hope and moments of beauty.
Image Credit: Thumbnail image & image 2 by Constintina Trainwreck. Image 1, 3 & 4 by J.J. Gonson.