I recently wrote a short piece about Elliott Smith's posthumous release, From A Basement On The Hill, where I claimed that it was my favorite album. I still hold to that, but you have to understand that in spite of its greatness, it is a flawed work, hampered by an inconsistent songwriting quality and uncertainty in its direction. I just like it a lot because it's the most varied and layered of his albums, offering near-endless playability and repeat listening value. Every time I listen to it, I hear something new and great that I hadn't heard before.
But Smith managed to release two albums while he was alive that, rather than take you on any kind of journey, are succinct, direct and to-the-point about what they are: masterpieces, pure and simple. There's not a song wasted on either of them as they firmly establish Smith's legacy as the perfect fusion of eloquent songwriter, unique performer and troubled, awkward loner.
Elliott Smith and Either/Or track Smith's trajectory as he comes into his own, veering away from the noisy indie ruminations of his band, Heatmiser, in which he shared writing duties with fellow guitarist/singer Neil Gust. On their first two albums, '93's Dead Air and '94's Cop & Speeder, the Gust songs and Smith songs are interchangeable, really, with both men displaying an aptitude for sludgy, guitar-driven punk with little in the way of melody. On 1996's more mellow and melodic Mic City Sons, however, it becomes evident that Gust prefers vague and moody sketches of songs, whereas Smith has taken to crafting hook-heavy pop songs that have a far more human face on them, said face being Smith's own.
His intriguing strength of character is the instrument he really perfected more than any other over the shared trilogy of albums he made between '95 and '97. While Mic City Sons is an excellent album in its own right, its main detractor is the odd dichotomy between Smith's subtle and precise strokes as he figures out how to push people's buttons with his voice and Gust's brute-force methodology as he powers through his songs on charisma alone, largely forgoing any attempts at style and finesse. On the solo albums that blanket Mic City Sons on either side, one can witness Smith blooming without the distractions (On a side note, I just want to say that although this paragraph makes it sound like Neil Gust is a stupid dick who can't write any good songs, that's not how I feel at all. Heatmiser wouldn't have been the same without him, and he was as important to the band as Smith was.)
There is a hint of seriousness to Elliott Smith that wasn't there on his '94 solo debut, Roman Candle. Not that Roman Candle isn't dark as all hell, but there is a feeling on Elliott Smith that the stakes have been raised, like he knows people are listening now. It kicks off with what is probably most people's introduction to Smith's music: Needle In The Hay. It's straightforward to the point of recklessness, nothing but a few two- or three-string chords and fiercely whispered phrases, and is an excellent opening track in how it perfectly demonstrates Smith's MO. It's no coincidence that it has become probably his most famous song, but not because it's a particularly good song (it's not, really). Rather, it subsists entirely on Smith's style of playing and singing, showcasing his palette without really painting anything of significance.
Once that's been safely established, he then delivers a series of songs in what would become one of Smith's signature styles: a dreamy, hazy concoction of drawled classical guitar chords linked together with eloquently sloping arrangements that already attest to his budding genius. Clementine's stoned, cocksure gait and blissfully resigned lyrics contrast wonderfully with the indescribable beauty of its delivery. The hook in The White Lady Loves You More's refrains are about as country as Smith would ever get, while the insistent strumming of the verses saunters wonderfully, keeping things from getting too traditional.
There are also detours, tracks that are essentially punk songs performed with an acoustic guitar - namely Christian Brothers, Southern Belle and St. Ides Heaven - that maintain his loud rock sensibilities, and although they accomplish little of what many of Smith's indie and grunge contemporaries could not (there is even a Heatmiser version of Christian Brothers that proves how easily these songs transform into rock anthems), they are nonetheless just as well-crafted as the more pop-oriented songs are. One gets the feeling that the sludge and the dirt were more than just devices to Smith, however: he seems to truly have had a love for just busting out a really loud tune once in a while. It's easy to forget that there was a boisterous, fun-loving side to him, and while the songs' subject matter remains as angst-ridden and difficult as ever, there is definite joy in their performance.
They also help establish a special little mood that persists throughout both Elliott Smith and Either/Or: that of barely restrained power. Smith had a gift for sounding like he was just barely keeping from exploding with anguish whenever he opened his mouth, like all his frustrations were perennially about to cave in on him. This mood complements the albums' lo-fi production well, as to fully let himself go Smith would have need a budget and production value he would only attain once he signed with DreamWorks to release '98's XO and 2000's Figure 8. And of course, once we finally get to see him explode into hi-fi, one can't help but be a little bit disappointed, as if he'd been demystified.
Elliott Smith is, essentially, a troubador's album. Its beauty lies in its simplicity and directness; it wagers everything on the quality of its songwriting and the personality of the performer, and triumphs without question. Either/Or, on the other hand, is a rock album, where Smith has become a frontman rather than solo performer. There's a slight cockiness and swagger to it, like Smith has established beyond a doubt that there are people who love his work, and while that confidence does destroy some of the intimacy that made the first two albums so precious, it allows his songcraft to truly shine, and man oh man, does it ever fucking shine.
The aforementioned restraint is all over Speed Trials, its furiously pattered brush drums ringing out like punctuation to Smith's voice, which has now achieved the silky slide that would stay with him until he died. Just like Elliott Smith's opening track established that album's style, so does Speed Trials break in the listener to how Either/Or will function: an album of songs that hover somewhere between acoustic pop ballads and full-on rock anthems. Ballad Of Big Nothing's refrains are catchier than they have any right to be, and while Pictures Of Me might be fairly cheesy as a song and a bit too Beatles-esque for my tastes, its assurance and boldness are undeniable, and it provides the arrangement blueprint for several of his later organ-driven pop numbers, especially Waltz #2 and Baby Britain.
It also highlights one of the most important things about Smith's music: that he was okay with making very traditional stylistic choices. There is something distinctly silly about the little scale-climbing hooks in Punch And Judy, again attesting to his boisterous side. It is a testament to Smith's skill that he makes those little moments work on such a moody album, rather than have them stand out. He gets a little carried away with this traditionalism on XO and Figure 8, in my opinion, resulting in jaunty, frivolous songs like In The Lost And Found, Son Of Sam and Happiness, which remain some his weakest songs ever. But it still works on Either/Or, kept in check either consciously or as a result of Smith's inexperience with the form.
There are, of course, callbacks to the minimal troubador stylings of the earlier albums on Either/Or, namely on the beautifully dismal depression and hopelessness of Between The Bars, the shy, eerie Angeles, and, most noticeably, the lone shaft of sunlight at the end of the tunnel: Say Yes.
Elliott Smith and Either/Or have both similar beginnings and endings. Say Yes is the answer to The Biggest Lie in the same way that Speed Trials expands and perfects what Needle In The Hay began. However, in the case of the album closers, it is a change for the worse. Say Yes feels clumsy and forced when compared to the heartbreaking little gem that is The Biggest Lie.
The Biggest Lie is simply superior to Say Yes in every single way (except maybe the group vocal harmonies). Where Say Yes is based on carefully rehearsed chords that feel a little too lifted from a Cat Stevens song, The Biggest Lie builds on instinctive plucking. Say Yes's refrain is almost meaningless in its cliché simplicity, and it's somewhat jarring to hear Smith discard his trademark obscurity and metaphor for the pedestrian casualness of Say Yes's lyrics. The Biggest Lie is fairly direct, too, but it keeps the mystery intact by leaving holes in the story. What is "the biggest lie?" There are as many answers as there are Elliott Smith fans, and their answers attest more to their own basic nature and state of mind than they ever could about Smith, who took the answer with him to his grave.
There's also something to the vocal delivery of The Biggest Lie that is nothing short of incredible. I've always felt that the greatest talent a singer can have is to be able to deliver clichéd and oft-repeated lines as if they were gospel, absolute and utter truth, so in a way the singer has to be a good actor, and as James Cagney once said, the trick to acting is to look the other actor in the eye and tell the truth.
So when Elliott Smith sings the line "everything you do makes me wanna die," is it the simple purity and gutsiness of the phrase that puts tears in my eyes every time I hear it, or is it the strength of Smith's performance? Is it so fucking great because he is, as Jimmy Cagney would say, "telling the truth?" I honestly don't know, but I do know that no point of Say Yes even comes close to the raw, bristling emotion of that moment. It's incredible, an exceptionally beautiful moment that stands out even in a body of work full of heartbreaking genius, and it gets me every time.
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