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 dcrossem@media.ucla.edu