It’s been well over five years since Elliott Smith stabbed himself in the chest and died, what must’ve been, a rather painful death. A couple of years prior to his suicide, around the time XO was being made, he jumped of a cliff and was saved/impaled by a tree. Nothing in his music depicts the harshness of these acts and I still wonder at what point sadness can turn into so much self-hate. I guess when bitterness is stripped clean from all its sweetness and you can no longer see what you want to see there’s really no other way but down. One day you just wake up with a stone cold heart and you’d expect the knife to fucking break but it doesn’t… and you take another stab because there’s no other way but down and you realize you we’re a human being all along and not some shitty excuse. There were days when I thought hope was a bitch and there were days when I was really fucking pissed at people like Elliott Smith for having the balls I’d never have. I could’ve sworn I felt death’s warm embrace on several occasions but every time I turned around it was that goddamn sun bearing down on me again. When I’m listening to XO I’m pretty sure Smith must’ve seen that same sun just as much I did, and I’m sure he could’ve gone more gently than he did but I guess there comes a time in everyone’s life when there isn’t any room left for romanticism. No last Herzog film and no last writing on a bedroom wall. It was my first suicide and it definitely shook up my idea of the artist and his tormented life. No goodbyes whatsoever. One day you’re listening to Elliott Smith and the next day you’re listening to the Late Elliott Smith. All of sudden your records get an extra pinch of bleakness and you just sit there with a kitchen knife, too much romanticism and no fucking guts. This kid in my class always told me how much I looked like Elliott Smith and I’m still not sure if he was pointing out a physical resemblance or if he was just referring to my state of mind. Either way, I guess I was that ugly. And even though my days of wine and roses are long gone I can still get bummed when I come across a used XO copy at whatever local flea market it is I’m roaming and I feel like punching the guy who thinks he can sell so much beauty for a just a buck. In the end I always buy the damn thing because Waltz#1 is my jam and it always makes me cry a little on the inside. With each passing year the price I have to pay for everything that is priceless in my life becomes a tad bit smaller.
peace.
