Reykjavík Grapevine - 11.10.2013, Blaðsíða 30

30
The Reykjavík Grapevine
Issue 1 — 2011
So it’s been ten years since Elliott
Smith died.
By the time this article goes to print,
there will probably be a host of other
pieces marking this rather infamous
anniversary on blogs and music web-
sites, as well as in magazines, podcasts
and whatever other format they can
conjure up. While I don’t exactly enjoy
being part of all that, I feel it would be
remiss of me not to write a few words
about the man and his music, if only
to get it out of my system. This way,
I’ll never again have to drunkenly rant
about him to fellow bar patrons and
party guests whenever I’ve had a few:
instead, I’ll succinctly try to sum up
the rant in a slightly more coherent
manner, and simply refer people to this
article.
There’s a kind of symmetry to his
musical development that I enjoy. He
spent three albums perfecting his lo-fi
sound and songcraft and then, after
signing with Dreamworks, he spent
his other three albums honing his hi-fi
sound. 1997’s ‘Either/Or’ is the perfect
culmination to his lonely, awkward
early work, and saw him masterfully
in control of the elements that he so
timidly experimented with on the first
two albums, and his posthumous
piece, 2004’s ‘From A Basement On
The Hill,’ serves the same purpose for
the Dreamworks albums.
‘Roman Candle' and 'Elliott Smith,’
released in 1994 and 1995 respectively,
may be more intimate and less assured
than ‘Either/Or,’ but part of their beauty
lies in their imperfection, filled as they
are with scratchy guitar work and
unsure, incomplete lyrical ruminations.
‘Either/Or,’ on the other hand, is sheer
perfection, and sees Smith’s songwrit-
ing achieve that special effortless qual-
ity that is the hallmark of a truly great
musician.
Every song on ‘Either/Or’ shows off
Smith’s ability to create hook-driven,
catchy singalongs out of drudgery,
despair and alienation. In many ways,
it’s the ultimate ’90s indie record,
packaging the lamentations of Genera-
tion X with poetic wordplay and DIY
production. “Nobody broke your heart
/ you broke your own / ’cause you can’t
finish what you start,” Smith insists
in that heartbreaking whisper of his
on Alameda, as the distinctly garage-
sounding steel brush drums shamble
on behind him, their gait merging with
Smith’s chords to capture that unique
feel of much of Smith’s work: the sen-
sation of wanting desperately to run
away from everything you know, but
having nowhere to run.
Then came ‘XO’ and ‘Figure 8,’ in
1998 and 2000, respectively. Merged
together, they could have made one
great album out of two ho-hum ones.
There are some gems here, such as the
intriguing chord work of “Color Bars”
and the achingly beautiful “Waltz #1,”
but generally, both records see Smith
let the songwriting take a backseat to
indulgent production experiments. He
basks in the bigger budget, basically
becoming a one-man rock band, and
most of the melodies are drowned in
excessive overdubs. The lyrics become
more idiosyncratic and literate too, los-
ing much of their honest oomph in the
process.
‘From A Basement On The Hill’ is
a completely different shape of beast.
It’s a masterpiece, pure and simple,
incorporating not only lessons learned
on ‘XO’ and ‘Figure 8,’ but from Smith’s
entire repertoire.
The oversmoothed slickness of the
big-budget albums is infused with the
dirt and distortion of the early work to
create epic, sweeping rock anthems
like the swirling, enticing “Coast To
Coast,” the roly-poly, arpeggio-driven
“Don’t Go Down” and the closest Smith
ever came to writing headbanging
music: “Shooting Star.”
Shooting Star’s distinctly Chilton-
esque guitar handiwork also demon-
strates something that gets forgotten
a lot when people talk about Elliott
Smith: that he was a phenomenal fuck-
ing guitarist. This is also demonstrated
on the intricate classical guitars that
shape some of the best acoustic songs
Smith ever wrote, “Let’s Get Lost”
and “Memory Lane.” Not content to
simply play well, Smith also ensured
the guitars sounded amazing. The rip-
ping, biting lead guitar of “Strung Out
Again” and the fuzzy barrage of rhythm
guitars on “A Passing Feeling” actually
rescue songs that would have been b-
side material, had they had ‘Figure 8’s’
limp-wristed production.
But it’s not all tricks. ‘From A Base-
ment On The Hill’ sees Smith achieve
feats of songwriting genius that easily
rival ‘Either/Or,’ if not surpassing it
entirely. This is best displayed on the
honest directness of “A Fond Farewell,”
“The Last Hour” and the devastatingly
sad “Twilight,” its haunting refrains of
“I’m already somebody’s baby” made
all the more dismal and bitter by the
contrastingly simple production. It’s as
if Smith knew that some of the songs
on the record were simply better than
others, and produced them accord-
ingly, tweaking the weak ones until
they worked.
However, the crown jewel of the
piece, appropriately situated di-
rectly at the centre of the album, is
the apocalyptic, snarling bitterness of
“King’s Crossing.” Lyrically, it’s as good
as Smith ever was, and the candid,
morbid similes leave one wonder-
ing whom he hated more, himself or
the rest of the world, as they worked
together to package and sell Smith’s
misery. The production is, as usual,
marvellous, working with the chords
to create a unique feel of determined
resignation. Fatalism and doom echo
from every second of the track, from its
lengthy, introverted guitar overture to
the soul-scathing taunt of the climax,
“Gimme one good reason not to do it,”
and the foreshadowing of his suicide is
so strong that it’s difficult to listen to.
In fact, if there’s one word that aptly
describes ‘From A Basement On The
Hill,’ it’s foreshadowing. It’s not just in
the song titles and the lyrics, but also
in the album itself, collecting as it does
everything Smith did best and creat-
ing a decisive, detailed, if occasion-
ally rambling magnum opus. There is
everything there ever was to love about
Elliott Smith on ‘From A Basement On
The Hill,’ as well as the horrible things:
his depression, alienation and wish to
die.
I know it makes me a bad person to
feel this way, but I’m pretty sure I’m just
saying what we’re all thinking: his mis-
ery made him a better musician. This is
never truer than on ‘From A Basement
On The Hill,’ whose lyrics read for all
the world like they’re nothing more
than a carefully considered argument
for taking his own life. It’s impossible
to ignore his suicide while listening to
it, and in an awful way, it becomes all
the more poignant for it. His suicide
actually makes the album better. Add
to this that it follows what was arguably
his weakest album, ‘Figure 8,’ and it
becomes difficult not to imagine that
he somehow knew it would be his last
dance, that making it would be the
death of him.
On October 21, 2003, a few months
into the recording of ‘From A Base-
ment On The Hill,’ Smith killed himself.
The incomplete album he left behind
remains as a testament to a mind
that wavered between genius and
self-loathing misanthrope, with plenty
of overlap between the two. It’s as dif-
ficult, uneven and melodramatic as it is
brilliant, as majestic and victorious as it
is defeated and fatalistic. It’s the most
beautiful suicide note ever written, and
it is my very favourite album.
Being Him Just Wasn’t That Much Fun
Elliott Smith and the Basement on the Hill
Music | Column
Music
Sindri Eldon Is a young musician
with an unhealthy obsession with
Elliott Smith.
Issue 16 — 2013 30
“I know it makes me a
bad person to feel this
way, but I’m pretty sure
I’m just saying what
we’re all thinking: his
misery made him a bet-
ter musician.”