New CD Review of...
Elliot Smith
From a Basement on a Hill
By Debi Rotmil
Neil Young once sang, “Every junkie’s like a setting sun.” As Elliot Smith’s star soared in the music world, the sense that he was living in the last ember of his days was palpable. When he died in 2003 of an apparent suicide, it was obviously troubling, yet not surprising. There he goes, another young, hell bent talent who found his way down the righteous musical road, only to shuffle off this planet in a haze of depression, unanswered questions, and a heartbreaking trail of “what if’s”. Sadly, we’ve seen this before.
Smith was close to putting the final touches on his new album, “From a Basement on a Hill” at the time of his death. With only track arrangements and final mixing needed to complete the project, his family brought in Producer Rob Schnapf and Elliot’s former girlfriend Joanna Bolme to fill the void, and finish a body of work that could easily have been left on the shelf. The end result unfurls like a last jam, an intense hodgepodge of out of tune rock and acoustic ennui emblazoned across this fifteen track CD. There is a strange loveliness about this album, but it is not perfect. One wonders if Smith would have been happy with the end result, as it hangs with an unfinished air, stuck in experimentation.
Elliot was lost among the drugs and alcoholism that relentlessly demonized him. His songs always embodied loneliness and relationships struggling in the grip of desperation. Here we find the same in an album filled with self-recrimination, self-hatred and his self imposed exile from happiness. Using his signature melody hooks, he borrows from the Beatles’ sensibilities, making the sounds his own. So, a song like “A Passing Feeling” floats by in a Lennon like scuffle with an Elliot hook. “Memory Lane” conjures a McCartney guitar-picking beat, but has a fresh take on tune. Smith does hold his own in “The Last Hour”, whereby a unique demo intimacy takes place, making the listener feel as if they’re in the same room with the man for the last time. Nevertheless, there is a murky, wired feel to this album. Each song is almost a litany of self-flagellation for all his sins. See “Stung Out Again”. He’s horrified by his failure to stay straight, screaming at his hung dogface in the mirror, wanting to climb that wagon one more time. On “Twilight”, he denies the happiness of daylight, deserving only to wallow in the shadows of night, and in “Coast to Coast”, he turns his back on someone who may have done the same to him.
Sadly, since Smith was unable to see joy beyond a needle or a bottle, there is no redemption, no hope, and no view beyond his yellow haze. Instead, he lives on like Buckley, Cobain and Drake: as a headline in an obituary, with a pile of music that will never be written. This posthumous release gives you a taste of what might have been, but it’s so close to the despair Smith has given us before, it’s a bitter taste indeed. For all its hooky chorus’ and acoustic vibe, “From a Basement on a Hill” is a reminder that Smith could have lived long enough to find freedom. Unfortunately, his haunting voice is now silent. Hopefully, his demons are too.