Honoring Elliott Smith, the man who gave so much

A man passed away last week. He was a man whom I, like thousands
of others, had never met, but felt I knew as intimately as my best
friends, as I felt he knew me. He was a man whom I, like thousands
of others, had never once spoken to but with whom I could have
shared my deepest secrets. I didn’t know Elliott Smith, but I
can say plainly and honestly that I loved him, and his death has
left an empty place in me and in the thousands of others to whom
his music spoke so honestly, beautifully, and powerfully.

I saw Smith perform for the last time about nine months ago, in
two shows at the Henry Fonda Theater. I can remember being worried
about him at the time. He had reportedly been in bad health and
there were rumors circulating that he had relapsed in a drug
addiction he had struggled with before. In between songs at one
point he said, “My heart’s weak because”¦”
before trailing off and starting the next song. I try hard to
remember instead how he looked while he sang, strong and
lovely.

A curious thing happened when he played live, a phenomenon that
I’ve never seen at any other concert. Before he came on
stage, the audience seemed like a typical indie rock crowd,
laughing, talking about the opening band, arguing about who had the
better sweater vest or thick black glasses. But the moment Smith
came out on stage and sat down, shy, alone, in old T-shirt and
jeans, the silence in the room was complete, reverent, nearly
religious. No artist that I have ever seen commands respect in the
same way. But respect is the wrong word, because it’s simply
love.

The reason is that most Smith fans have experienced the same
thing listening to his songs that I have. The feeling can be almost
unnerving, the feeling that a song was written directly in response
to an emotion held deep and private. I have often wondered how
Smith was able to write so perfectly the soundtrack to my soul, as
if he knew my thoughts, understood my loneliness and sadness,
better and more profoundly than I did. Other fans (and that word is
so insufficient) I’ve spoken to tell me that they experience
the same.

The effect can be so complete that we often forget that the true
thing Smith gave us in his songs is not our own selves, but his. As
I listen to his music now, I try to hear his gift. I hear a man, I
hear his soul, its beauty and pain. I feel that he hurt, but also
that he loved. I wonder that he could share himself so completely,
give so much of himself to so many. And I’m grateful.

Early last week Smith’s girlfriend discovered him dead of
an apparent suicide, a single stab wound to his heart. Smith, how
many people did your words keep from a similar end? What hurt so
much that the love of so many couldn’t help to soothe the
pain? Could we have done anything? You who made so many lives a
little bit brighter, what did you need in your own? I hope it hurts
less now.

Smith, in your own words, I’m damaged bad at best. You
will be missed so much. Goodbye.

E-mail Crossen at [email protected]