Assistant Music Editor Jacob Dittmer circa 2003. Damn, buzz was cool back in the day.
The following article appeared in buzz October 30, 2003 by then-Assistant Music Editor Jacob Dittmer.
I was going about my typical Wednesday morning last week. Drinking coffee, reading email, pretending to work. As always, I checked www.pitchforkmedia.com to see what was going on in the world of independent music. I was greeted by the headline “Elliott Smith Dead at 34.” Not a good way to start my day. Almost instantaneously I thought of Nick Drake and how my roommate had drawn the comparison between Drake and Smith when he first heard the latter. Now the two truly were the same, depressed, drug-addicted, gifted songwriters and dead.
As I read through the article on Pitchfork, it seemed as though everyone saw the warning signs that his death was coming, and in all honesty, I did too. Smith’s music and lyrics were so dark and disheartening that listening to them would place me into a state of melancholy as I would reflect on my life’s pains. But that doesn’t mean it was music not worth hearing. Smith’s lyrics and melodies blended together so well that his music was engrossing and beautiful as well as melancholy in message.
My first exposure to Smith came in May of 2002. A friend of mine had scored tickets to a special Wilco show put on by Northwestern University. He told me that this guy named Elliott Smith was going to be the opening act and that a friend of his was really into his music. My friend mentioned in passing that Smith had done the soundtrack for Good Will Hunting, but I had not recalled the music, unfortunately. I was unsure but interested to hear what this guy was about. Another friend travelling in our group was mocking Smith’s lyrical content as we rode the red line down to the Riviera Theater. He said that Smith’s music was always about getting “fucked up” and “drinking a shitload.” I found this peculiar considering it was his girlfriend who was anticipating Smith’s performance eagerly.
As we entered the Riv, I was confronted with the wonderful snobbery of Northwestern students, but I gave that little of my attention. We walked in as Smith was beginning his set. He sat on the stage with just his guitar and a stocking cap pulled tightly over his head concealing his eyes from the judgmental onlookers. I honestly don’t remember Smith playing one song. He would strum his way though a few bars of some melody, attempt to sing, and then stop, stating that he “just couldn’t do it tonight.” The crowd grew restless and Smith’s onstage nervousness became more apparent. I remember thinking this is the onstage breakdown of a performer that is on some heavy drugs. Smith continued in this process of attempting to play a song, stopping, smoking a cigarette and talking with the audience for the remainder of his set. The crowd of snobs were hissing and mocking his conflicted state and he could hear them. It was an awkward experience for both Smith and the audience. After what seemed like 15 minutes with no songs, Smith left the stage and soon Wilco came out to perform, making much of the crowd forget what they had just seen.
Halfway through the Pitchfork article I found reference to Smith’s performance that night in May 2002. The article mentioned how Smith had difficulty performing sometimes as he would complain about his hand being numb or his arm not working. Apparently the same concert I was at was one of those occasions in which Smith complained of his hand not working and that is why he was unable to play his guitar. I have vague recollections of Smith saying these things in his mumbled and nervous voice.
That same weekend I got a copy of Smith’s Figure 8 album. I was blown away; these songs weren’t all about drinking and wallowing in sorrow. The beautiful melodies and pop-like rock songs on this album grab the listener on the first track and made me a believer in his music. It became my obsession. That summer consisted of me and Elliott Smith, heartbroken, angry at the world’s complex stupidity and lonely in our existence. The music had really touched me and I understood why Smith couldn’t perform in front of a crowd of a bunch of trust fund babies from the North Shore. He was singing about pain and loss that many had not felt. In a sense Smith amplified his isolation from the world.
So now he is gone. He must have felt that suicide was the only answer for his lonely existence. But I say no. Talking to people about Smith’s death made me realize that I was not alone in the special bond I had with his music. Many like me were distraught and saddened by this news, knowing that no other solemn troubadour was out there to connect with their puzzled minds. Instead we are left to throw on our old vinyls of Tim Buckley and Nick Drake. We’ll put Smith’s XO album on repeat in our CD players and remember how great he really was.
Perhaps my favorite song lyric of Smith sums up the feelings of both his fans and Smith himself. From “Waltz #2” he sings, “I’m never gonna know you now, but I’m gonna love you anyhow.” True, we may never get to know Elliott Smith, but he has left us with wonderful music that will at least help us understand him.