Just over seven years ago, the same week that David Letterman retired from The Late Show and Hillary Clinton was struggling with her email, the Northwest Film Forum in downtown Seattle was showing screenings of a documentary on the late musician Elliott Smith.1 Even though it was a conspicuous eighty degrees out, I donned a thin jacket and beanie—the jacket, to hide the moonish landscape of sores that covered my arms, and the beanie, to hide the spontaneous, jagged haircut I’d given myself with kitchen scissors—and made my way to the theater.
For those unfamiliar, Elliott Smith is Portland, Oregon’s favorite soft-spoken, indie-rocker. Some may remember him from the 1998 Oscars. Dressed all in white, he took the stage with just an acoustic guitar to perform “Miss Misery,” his nomination for Best Original Song. It was an unfamiliar sight for the famous awards show—this Kurt-Cobain-looking, Paul-Simon-type serenading the audience with a hushed voice—and one that was further underscored by Celine Deon’s cinematic follow-up: “My Heart Will Go On.” However, despite Smith’s quiet reserve (or perhaps in part of it), he has left a lasting impression with his music that still resonates today.
Pitchfork recently named him one of The 200 Most Important Artists for their First 25 Years.2
His album “Either/Or” has held a consistent place in Rolling Stone magazine’s greatest albums of all time. As of 2022, it is ranked at #216.3
Madonna, when asked what song of the last twenty years she wished she had written, provided Smith’s “Between the Bars” as her answer.4
All those accolades aside, his most impressive feat is perhaps motivating me, a one-hundred and five pound drug addict, to leave the safety of my apartment, travel to an unfamiliar part of the city, and watch a documentary about him with a bunch of strangers.
Appreciating art is an incredibly personal experience. I’ve found that it allows me to be vulnerable with myself when I might otherwise not. The act of putting on headphones, squinting at a portrait, cutting into a three-star Michelin meal, or tracing a finger across a poem, creates a connection where I can better understand myself through someone else. A relationship.5 So that evening, as each new stranger filed into that theater, I rubbed sweat into my orange “Admit One” ticket with pangs of jealousy and embarrassment. It wasn’t the swath of sores covering my arms or the misguided haircut that I cared about people seeing. It was me. Being in that theater was evidence of my vulnerability.
But what I often fail to appreciate is that it’s not all about me.
Everyone in that theater had been moved by Smith’s work in some way. Literally, in fact. Whether it was by Uber, bike, or the King County Metro, we all took the physical effort required to be there. And here we were. Strangers? Yes. Each of us leaving no less than two empty seats separating ourselves from the others. But when the lights dimmed and the speakers swelled it didn’t matter.
I first discovered Elliott Smith in highschool, back before I had ever even had a sip of alcohol let alone a full blown drug addiction. What I did have was a cloud—a fog that had settled inside my head, making it difficult to see the world the same way everyone else did. My friends and classmates, they all seemed to glide so effortlessly through life. I, on the other hand, navigated my youth with caution. It was in my best interest to avoid people, places, or things that could potentially hurt me.
Unfortunately, long term avoidance was impossible. Life demanded that I live it whether I wanted to or not. School forced me from bed; friends forced me from my reruns of The X-Files; and church officials forced me into meetings about the state of my soul. The fog remained. Unhampered. At one point, desperate to be rid of it, I would attend weekly hypnotherapy sessions, on the outskirts of town, in someone's converted basement. Sadly, ten pads vaselined to my scalp and connected by wire to an EEG machine didn’t help. Drugs would, but I didn’t know about those yet.
I knew something wasn’t right, but I could never find the right words to explain it—especially to those who had been blessed with clearer minds. My attempts to do so often failed. Spectacularly. When words didn’t get the point across, I devolved into hysterical screaming and swearing. My anger was a flash grenade—a Hail Mary attempt to prove to everyone around that yes, if you couldn’t tell, something is clearly wrong with me. I’m afraid the message got lost in translation.
After one such incident, I retreated to the safety of my room to escape the resulting humiliation. The door slammed shut behind me, and my fingers shook as they struggled to click the speakers on. My head begged to be filled with something besides its own thoughts. How could you do that to your friends? What kind of person are you? I didn’t even know what playlist I had selected. But the resulting wall of music muffled the chatter.
People you've been before
That you don't want around anymore
That push and shove and won't bend to your will
I'll keep them still6
That was the shot of clarity I needed. After struggling for all this time to try and explain to myself (and everyone else) how I felt, here was this complete stranger doing it perfectly. My head was still a mess, true, but I could finally see through the muck a little better. There was someone who, at least at one time, shared this cloud. I wasn’t alone.
Many years later, after having had many sips of alcohol and a full blown drug addiction, I sat in my apartment looking out over the city. The night was near black, engulfed by swollen clouds, which bulged into each other and sank beneath their own weight. They rolled across town, undeterred by the piercing skyscrapers, and snuffed out the light as they went. I lit a flame beneath the square piece of tinfoil in my hand and sucked up the resulting smoke. My sharp headache dulled and the piercing glow of my lamp blurred. Inside and out, my world was haze.
My feet rested on a cardboard box of a subwoofer I had gotten from a friend. Smith’s voice threaded through the frayed wires and rattled out as a buzz.
Day after day
I'd steal with my true love away
To some hideout
We're left undisturbed
We could do what we wanted
But I started to feel like a liar
Saying I love you7
This was the cusp of rock bottom. I had dropped out of college a year ago, family and friends from out of state were catching on to me, and within a month my lease would be up. I’d have nowhere to live. How could you let yourself get here? What kind of person are you? I hated drugs for bringing me here, but I loved them because, when I was high, it didn’t matter. Outside my window, the creeping fog spread across the lake and surrounded my building. I brought the lighter back up to the foil. It was scorched dry. Nothing left.
When I stumbled into rock bottom—that is, when I was going through heroin withdrawal in a twenty-four hour donut shop as the January rain pelted the windows—all I had to get me through to the next few minutes were songs (and the occasional cigarette offered by kind strangers.) Yes, what I really needed was rehabilitation, but I had to make it there first. Smith’s music was crucial to that. It got me through the storm by promising that something beautiful can come from even the ugliest of situations.
Smith ended up losing Best Original Song to Celine Dion at the 1998 Oscars. To be fair, it’s hard when your competition is “My Heart Will Go On.” But while awards and recognition are nice, I try to remember that they aren’t the point. I think the goal is to be heard. Smith’s presence on the stage that night speaks to that. He wouldn’t have been there if no one resonated with his music. When we connect with art, we don’t just connect with the artist, we connect with the rest of the audience. We may not be as alone as we think we are.
Even now, nearly twenty years after his death, people continue to recognize Smith and his music. People continue to connect with him and each other.
Your creations outlast you.
https://www.seattlemet.com/arts-and-culture/2015/05/the-top-things-to-do-this-weekend-may-14-17-2015
https://pitchfork.com/features/lists-and-guides/most-important-artists/
https://www.rs500albums.com/250-201/216
https://www.billboard.com/music/music-news/madonna-performs-elliott-smiths-between-the-bars-mingles-with-sean-penn-at-5721562/
Stephen King calls this a meeting of the minds (On Writing pg. 106.)
Elliott Smith, “Between the Bars”
Elliott Smith, “True Love”
Image Sources: https://www.deviantart.com/stzito/art/figure8-73899413, https://imgur.com/r/elliottsmith/GbQT8EJ
Wow, Matt. Such incredible imagery and authenticity! Thank you for sharing your thoughts and life here. I’m not sure where I was during the Elliott Smith music era (in the throes of raising kids?) but I’m going to give his music a listen. I love this piece as I consider the connection theme that’s been showing up lately.
Is it wrong that I hear Madeleine Peyroux when I read those "Between the Bars" lyrics? In all seriousness, I always appreciate how unflinchingly open you are. Thanks for writing, Matt.