Elliott Smith:

Shedding New Moonlight on an Old Favorite

By: Steven Waye

I’m typically wary of posthumous or post-breakup releases, because they’re usually preening attempts to electroshock a geriatric rock n’ roll dinosaur back into relevance or make an extra buck off the tragic death of an icon. I purchased New Moon, a compilation of Smith’s unreleased material, with trepidation, especially in light of all that Elliott stood for as a musician.

In reference to the title of his 2000 release, Figure 8, Smith says this: “I just like the idea of figure 8, of figure skaters trying to make this self-contained perfect thing that takes a lot of effort but essentially goes nowhere.” To me, this is the quintessential statement on artistic honesty. Smith made the music the way he wanted, because he couldn’t do it any other way, the same way he couldn’t help his squeaky speaking voice or his frightening appearance. Instead of tempering these attributes down to a non-abrasive bromide, the fierce introspection and distinctively shaky vocal delivery featured in every self-contained, perfect world he created are nothing if not univocally his.

And it for exactly this reason that, whatever it was intended to be, New Moon stands as a worthy retrospective on Smith’s lifework. You couldn’t fit Elliott Smith into a commercially viable package if you tried. This is Elliott at his best, stripped down and intimate, without the symphonic frills that weighed down some of the major-label music he made at the tail-end of his career. I’m not really into the whole, “one squirrelly dude with a guitar waling about his feelings” genre, but I’m a huge fan of Smith’s lo-fi early work because, at his core, Smith was always a punk rocker, even after he ditched his band Heatmiser in favor of a four track and fingerpicks.

There is a vibrant cynicism that underlies even Smith’s poppiest songs, and this shines through most starkly on his more naked acoustic tracks, which New Moon features predominantly. Somehow, Smith never seems sappy or insincere even when belting out his most Hallmark-worthy lines. The opener, “Angel in the Snow” is classic Smith, a plodding and infectiously repetitious bass line backing up Smith sighing, “don’t you know that I love you” with an earnestly that few others could pull off, mostly because the affection he speaks of sounds so tired and worn that it becomes nearly tragic.

“Going Nowhere” subtly displays the attributes that leaves Smith with few peers as a folk guitarist. Violently rapid chord changes shift over a jarring rhythmic pattern, and all the while Smith’s gentle falsetto lulls the listener into a daydream as he whispers about nothing at all, and the harsh reality of it.

Other standout tracks include “High Times”, “Riot Coming”, and “Whatever (Folk Song in C)”, but the best of this album for me by far is Elliott’s cover of Big Star’s “Thirteen”. It captures an idyllic sort of Leave it to Beaver era romance that contrasts so harshly with Smith’s usual invective about soured relationships that I can’t help but be moved by his pained, wistful interpretation.

Although the album sags towards the end with tracks like “Fear City” an uninspiring track left over from Smith’s Heatmiser years, Elliott dazzles and astounds new listeners and ardent fans alike with the strength of his unreleased material. I don’t buy into the idea that an artist’s legend grows after his death. It sucks that Elliott Smith took his own life in October of 2003 because he is no longer around to make beautiful music. It’s that simple. Instead of a hastily thrown together compilation of “greatest hits” assembled by dispassionate record executives, this collection is reflective of Smith’s career: understated, prolific, and sublime. New Moon shines as Elliott did in his lifetime: dull and empty, yet pregnant with the hope of a coming light.