By Ian S. Port
By Tony Ware
By Emma Silvers
By Gary Moskowitz
By Alee Karim
By Ian S. Port
By Ian S. Port
By Derek Opperman
One of the stranger moments in Oscar history -- especially for indie rockers who might have caught the telecast back in 1998 -- was seeing the woebegone singer/songwriter Elliott Smith alone on a giant stage, dressed in a gleaming white suit, performing his "Miss Misery" from Good Will Hunting for hundreds of nearby Hollywood types and roughly a billion viewers worldwide. Particularly surreal was the fact that Smith was nominated alongside that year's eventual winner in the Best Song category, Celine Dion, who, as we all remember, won for that late-'90s symbol of unhinged sentimentality "My Heart Will Go On" from Titanic.
Before the events of last week, however, Smith seemed quite removed from most people's thoughts (as do Dion and Titanic, but I'm not complaining). He hadn't released an album since 2000's Figure 8, which, unlike dour masterpieces Elliott Smith and Either/Or, felt more like a Dear John letter to his music career than a welcome next step. But last Tuesday Smith once again became the topic of conversation throughout message boards, record stores, and concert halls when he was pronounced dead from a self-inflicted knife wound to the chest. That is to say, he stabbed himself in the heart.
Like his forebears, such as singer/songwriters Jeff Buckley and Nick Drake (two guys who also expired before their time), Smith turned the angst of loneliness and alienation into haunting, soft-sung ballads, which, in the beginning of his career, were stitched out of plucked acoustic guitars and maybe a few brushed drums. Later, on parts of '97's Either/Or but certainly on '98's XO and Figure 8, he added some more epic touches, like the occasional swatch of strings or electric guitars or bigger drums, and critics started comparing his songwriting skills to the Beatles' or the Beach Boys'. But the thing that made Smith's music so adored was his lyrics, and the gut-wrenching, confessional style in which he delivered them. Over a blanket of plaintive melodies he told us such simple sentiments as, "I'm in love with the world/ Through the eyes of a girl." But in addition to love, both realized and unrequited, his songs were about drugs and booze and desperation. "I'll make it through the day/ With some help from Johnny Walker Red," go the famous opening lines of "Miss Misery."
Like a lot of fans, my first impulse when I heard the news of his suicide was to talk to people about it, dilute the grief, that sort of thing. But the more I looked into it, the more frustrated I became that this had happened. It was, after all, the age-old cliché of the strung-out rock star on a downward spiral, and it seemed like everyone saw it coming.
Conor Jonathan, singer/guitarist for S.F.'s the Caseworker, shared, via e-mail, a story of having met Smith in L.A. in 2001 through mutual friends. The group was hanging out in a bar together where, according to Jonathan, "it only took about 10 seconds to realize he was very badly strung out and the effects on his mind were more than apparent. He couldn't speak clearly, his hand-eye coordination was gone, he nodded off every few minutes, and woke up mumbling to imaginary people.
"It was sad and awful to watch, like a car crash, you don't want to look but. ... So, to make matters worse, he kept passing out and his head would crack off the bar every time. Did his friends help him out of the club and into his bed / nearest treatment center / the hospital? No, they laughed at him and then -- you won't believe this -- they took turns to plait his lanky, matted hair as he lay passed out on the bar. So he was kind of their hair doll, if you like. Then he'd wake up muttering to the imaginary people and all his friends burst their shit laughing because he wasn't in a fit state to notice that they'd plaited his hair while he was 'asleep.' Then he'd pass out again, and someone would unknot the plaits and take a turn themselves. Un-fucking-real. This death is not a surprise at all."
While a lot of Internet sites have already begun reeling off the typical "he was such a genius" confessionals (and I'll be the first to admit that he was), there are also plenty of pre-suicide accounts from fans who speak of feeling uncomfortable when they would see Smith perform these past few years. On both the Internet and in conversation with people in the days after his passing, I encountered stories of Smith forgetting notes and words onstage, of screwing up song after song, of passing out in the middle of a set. Reports indicate that he was this close to finishing his long-awaited new record, titled From a Basement on the Hill, an album that featured foreboding song titles like "A Distorted Reality Is Now a Necessity to Be Free," "Fond Farewell," and "King's Crossing," which included the lyric, "Give me a reason not to do it."
Then there are the photographs. Johnny Cash died at age 71 after a long battle with various health problems, and even he looked better toward the end than Smith, who, at 34, looked like a browbeaten alcoholic, his skin sagging like a Dali painting, his eyes droopy, his face pale as ice. Smith looked like shit, plain and simple. Clearly this check was in the mail. Everyone knew he was fucked up, everyone knew he was skirting the edge. The question, then, is could his death have been prevented?