Elliott Smith 1969–2003 BY MATT ASHARE

The passing of 34-year-old singer-songwriter Elliott Smith got the expected mentions in music-oriented publications and Web sites, and he was eulogized in several hipper media outlets. But in the broader scheme of all things media, Smith’s suicide was practically a non-event. He might not have wanted it any other way. After all, he shunned the trappings of celebrity throughout his career, which began with him sharing songwriting duties with Neil Gust in Heatmiser, a Portland (Oregon) band distinguished by their sharp sense of melody and the fact that Gust was openly gay. It wasn’t until Smith ventured off on his own, with 1994’s Roman Candle on the Kill Rock Stars label, that it became apparent that he was no ordinary punk-rocker, that he had talents and skills that went way beyond bashing out three-chord rockers on a dime-store guitar. The gentle, plangent, Beatle-esque melodies of Roman Candle and the two Kill Rock Stars albums that followed started a trend of sorts in the underground, as young musicians began exploring the softer side of indie rock. But no one had even half the talent that Smith possessed, and most were happy to admit it.

When Smith was finally tapped for a mainstream project — writing what turned out to be several songs that would be integral to the film Good Will Hunting — his true abilities began to surface. He didn’t need a room full of session players to create lush, orchestrated pop songs (their melancholy nature got him compared with British folk-rocker Nick Drake, another artist who died before his time). He proved capable of scoring his own orchestrations, singing his own background harmonies, and playing just about any instrument that was put in front of him. "Miss Misery," a typically sad yet beautiful composition, was nominated for an Oscar (not a Grammy), and though he lost out to Celine Dion and "My Heart Will Go On," it was a triumph of sorts to see the mangy, greasy-haired Smith up there on that elegant stage standing shoulder to shoulder with all the beautiful people. He’d arrived. Sort of.

The fact is, Smith never embraced the celebrity that that was his for the taking. All he would have had to do is hire a makeover artist and fill his closet with the right clothes and he could have spent the past six years attending all the best Hollywood parties. Instead, he retreated to Brooklyn and focused on his music, as if it were his only lifeline, before returning to the West Coast. The result was two major-label CDs for DreamWorks that confirmed his status as one of those rare artists gifted with both the talent to create and play gorgeous music and the Muse to fill that music with somewhat confessional (though he always denied it) lyrics that were a cut above the usual singer-songwriter fare. The Oscar appearance and the first DreamWorks CD, 1998’s XO, stamped him as one of the more important figureheads to emerge from the post-punk indie-rock underground. And it won him both a solid core of fans and a level of critical acclaim that just about guaranteed him a decade of making whatever albums he liked. Smith was in a position to write his own ticket, and yet people who knew him — and even those of us who turned up at his shows regularly — could see that he wasn’t a happy camper. He looked gaunt and emaciated, unkempt and seemingly unaware that the adoration emanating from the crowd was meant for him. It wasn’t false modesty. No, Smith seemed genuinely unaware that the praise was meant for him. Or maybe he just didn’t feel worthy of it.

And then there were those shows where he really didn’t look right. Usually these were solo performances, and though it’s hard to put a finger on exactly what looked wrong, it was evident that all was not well in his little corner of the world. He had adopted a reclusive lifestyle, doing all he could to keep the celebrity limelight from shining too harshly on him. Everyone knew that he’d been born in Omaha and had grown up near Dallas, and that he’d come into his own as an indie-rocker in the Great Northwest right around the time that Kill Rock Stars and K Records were coming into their own as bastions of indie rock. But except for a few disturbing sightings of a wasted Smith having one or two or three more drinks than he needed at bars across the country, or the persistent rumors that he’d been battling on and off with a heroin addiction for the better part of his career, not much was known about his personal life. He kept all that to himself. And in the wake of his gruesome suicide — it appears he plunged a knife into the region of his heart — it’s obvious why he insisted on so much privacy.

Then there were the songs — at least a couple on each album — that seemed to allude to addiction. One was free to guess what was going on behind Smith’s closed doors, and there was always evidence as to his ongoing struggles with addiction but rarely proof. Besides, he’d played all the instruments for both of his DreamWorks CDs (Figure 8 was the second), and he was reported to be doing the same for a third due sometime next year. And he was as prolific as ever, releasing, as his DreamWorks contract allowed, the occasional indie single on labels like Suicide Squeeze while working away at the next album.

For weeks, months, maybe even years, people who knew Smith well will wonder whether there’s anything they might have done to save him. He was one of the greatest musical talents of his time, and his loss is a blow not to the Hollywood celebrity scene, which he was never a part of, but to the musical world. All the signs of addiction and abuse were there for anyone to see, and I’ve heard from several friends in LA that over the past several months he’d withdrawn from social interactions. Of course, he could have just been working overtime on material for the new CD. But there are also rumors swirling around LA that just a couple of weeks ago, he was hospitalized after a heroin overdose.

Yet rather than blaming the friends and associates who couldn’t have known what the "right’ thing to do was, why not look to demagogues like Rush Limbaugh, who after decades of supporting a war on drugs that in reality is just a war on people now resides in a treatment facility after admitting that he himself has developed a drug addiction? Why not reconsider taking some of the obscene amounts of money that go into that war on drugs and using it to fund treatment facilities and research projects that might come up with better ways of treating heroin addicts who have reached the end of their line — people who are so ashamed of their inability to "get clean" and so afraid to admit they have a problem that they instead opt to leave this world in search of a better place? Elliott Smith left behind a body of work filled with heavenly music — songs that will be pored over by some of us for clues as to his mental state. He made the world a better place to be for so many people, and yet he couldn’t find a way to fit into that world. Maybe in the end he found what he was looking for. But I doubt it. Because though I’d like to think that some good will come from his passing, if past events are any indication, it will have no effect at all. And that’s the really sad part.