By Emily Eveland
By Sarah Stanley-Ayre
By CP Staff
By Zach McCormick
By Jack Spencer
By Sarah Stanley-Ayre
By Rob van Alstyne
By Zach McCormick
There was something hopeful about the words, as if Smith knew that we'd all end up drinking too much and getting sick and waking up to the same 9-to-5 grind, but if he warned us that closing time was coming, we'd make sure that anything would be possible in the time before last call.
On October 21, there were still 14 hours left before the bartenders locked up when Elliott Smith's live-in girlfriend found his body in the kitchen of their Los Angeles apartment. He had stabbed himself in the chest with a knife. When I read the news, I thought of the last words to Smith's "Clementine": "Anything to pass the time/Keep that song out of your mind/Oh my darlin' oh my darlin'/Oh my darlin' Clementine/Dreadful sorry Clementine." He'd omitted a line from the old standard. Now those missing lyrics--you are lost and gone forever--speak of the one thing Elliott Smith did in his life that everyone will remember.
"Clementine" was one of the only things that got me through the summer of '97. The line about the wet streets made me homesick for Portland, Oregon, the rainy corner of the country where Smith and I both grew up. Some say that Portland is a city that was famous for having an underdog songwriter, but I think that Elliott Smith was an underdog songwriter who was famous for having a city. On his first two albums, Roman Candle and a self-titled release, you can hear the sound of his hometown: the Oldsmobiles creeping down Condor Avenue, junkies' sneakers slapping the pavement just past Powell Blvd., Smith himself in the Washington Park rose gardens, shouting at the spinning sky. Each song is a street map of sleepy convenience stores, damp train stations, broken photo booths; the lyrics heavy with the romantic industrialism of the Northwest, where cities look like old factory towns that were dropped from airplanes and somehow landed in a forest.
Smith eventually moved to New York and then on to L.A., but long after he was gone, you could judge how close you were to Portland's Saturday Market by how many street musicians were playing his songs. The substance-abuse ballads were most popular: "Needle in the Hay," "St. Ides Heaven," "The White Lady Loves You More." Smith always said that you needed sad songs in order to make happiness matter, and maybe that's why his more optimistic tracks ("Say Yes," "Angeles," his cover of Big Star's "Thirteen") felt like a sonic rendition of an Edward Hopper painting, capturing the beauty of a lightbulb glowing through the shadows of an empty lot. But nobody ever played the happy songs. I never heard "Clementine."
In the early '90s, no one would have believed that this awkward rocker kid would pick up an acoustic guitar and become the poet laureate of Rose City. At the time, major labels were scouring the Northwest to find the next Nirvana, and the term "singer-songwriter" simply meant that you sang and wrote songs that you hoped would get you a Sub Pop contract. Grunge and punk groups like Crackerbash, Pond, and Team Dresch ran the local music scene, and Everclear had just reached the point of true popularity: Everyone in town hated them.
Smith made some noise in the hardcore band Heatmiser (Sam Coomes, bassist on Heatmiser's Mic City Sons, will play in town this week with his current band Quasi, which might offer Portland transplants a kind of memorial), but he was known for retreating backstage after concerts to play his guitar on his own. When Roman Candle, his first solo album, debuted in 1994, it was a revelation: This was a self-professed heroin addict whose own band and music scene was mired in the sludgy sound of Hüsker Dü--yet here he was, strumming his guitar and singing softly about the moon.
In retrospect, that transition makes sense: The January/February 2001 issue of Magnet recalled Smith telling an interviewer that when you've grown up around a lot of yelling and screaming, the last thing you want to do is be in a band where everyone is yelling and screaming. Smith rarely talked about his past, but with his pock-marked skin, deep-set frown lines, and eyes that naturally looked as if they were rimmed with black makeup, he had hard luck written all over his face. It was almost shocking when a fragile, champagne-glass voice tumbled out of that mug.