These last past days, when trying to write about Elliott Smith’s death, I went through a lot of memories and images stuck in my head. I rarely listen to him these days, but his music will always be the background of my mind.
I saw him a few times in concert and every time it was different; sometimes it was a bad difference, sometimes it was a good difference.
The first time I saw him he was not doing well, you could tell, but strangely this first experience triggered in me a strong interest in his music. It was during his fall into drug hell and it was painful to watch. But despite the broken songs, the frustration he was showing, or may be because of all this, it was a unique and precious experience, and I don’t mean it in a voyeurism kind of way, more in an human/humane kind of way.
The intriguing lyrics must have echoed really true to stay in my mind long after this night. But I would say that Elliott is an acquired taste.
Next time I saw him it was a year and half later. Elliott always came late on stage, almost reluctantly, with a shy and awkward walk, but once he had started playing, he was strong, ferocious and victorious. Well, there were the aborted songs but it was happening less and less often over the concerts. That night, I was close to the stage and I saw everything, the bitten nails, the timid and nervous smile, the holes in his clothes, the eyes avoiding others’ eyes. He was still struggling, it was like he was saying, I don’t care what you are thinking of me, I will survive, I will survive despite your judging looks. But people in the room were not judging him at this point, they were absorbing his lyrics, they were listening or singing with him, some were closing their eyes. I was not closing mine, I was looking very hard, may be I knew I was in the presence of something rare that would not last.
I saw Elliott nine times, and after his diving into hell in 2001, each concert after the end of 2002 was an uprising. Last time I saw him, he got really bold, he was jumping on stage, playing lead guitar and drums, he was happy. “One must imagine Sisyphus happy.”