Elliott Smith s/t

Kill Rock Stars

July 21st, 1995.

Elliott Smith's self-titled sophomore album released on this day 30 years ago. The debut album was great. But the sophomore album is where the wheels were really set into emotive motion. The down-and-outers had their new saviour.  

Smith's signature hushed voice holds a haunting element. I'm not here. Quivering and cold. I'm not here, I promise. Of Nick Drake lineage, the acoustic guitar takes on a life of its own. It feels and sounds like a different instrument in their hands. As if all other sets of hands aren't actually playing it, speaking to it, or speaking from it. Like a snake charmer the instrument breathes, moves, mouths. The strings resonate on another level - a level unlocked by those that refuse to play any other way. A few strings and a means of amplifying them is all it takes - of course, this is an oversimplification. A musical intelligence is also necessary - a sonic intellect. A sensitivity to sound and what works where. Do you raise it here and lower it there? Can you? Do the rules justify a set method? Can they be flipped off to achieve something 'more'? Energy. Do you think about it and squash potential before it even blooms? Things change when perceived; depending on the person, talent/skill, is one of these things. Too much and it shrivels, not enough and it dies. Just right and it revels. Finding that sweetspot is where the secret lies. Like tending to a flower - it can be drowned with what it requires. 

A pen on the page is as a needle in the arm. The lush release. The cryptic code meets its undoing. All answers on the tip of the tongue, a few syllables away. Life unravelling, ribbon-like. The internal Gordian Knot slipping through itself. The calm before, during and after the storm. Self-loathing ceases to chip away at that which affords its right to breathe, offering it the space to actually breathe, the space to actually be. Problems are at bay for the time being. However, they do await your return. Life lets go of the chokehold for a few. Killing yourself to live. A willing participant in the end scene. Piece-by-piece pulling the finishing line nearer. Tip-toeing, burglar-like, hoping that nobody notices. Your flesh keeps the secrets; your body keeps the score. Lying to yourself. Lying to those around you. Lies on every level. Self-deception to live out some sort of prophesized fantasy. 

Locked in self-talk - a speech to the inner citadel.