Elliott Smith’s self-titled sophomore album marks the beginning of his solo career in earnest, and it remains one of the finest indie records of the 1990s.
Elliott Smith’s self-titled second album, Elliott Smith, marks a significant turning point in his recording career. It’s not his first album, but it might as well be, as 1994’s Roman Candle was more of an attempt to get down a bunch of songs during a particularly prolific period for Smith. It’s raw, scrappy, full of some great songs and incredible songwriting, but it’s still much more of a collection of songs than an album.
Elliott Smith is the first time Smith had a comprehensive vision and the time and means to pull it off. Sonically, it’s a major step forward from the scuzzy four-track hiss of Roman Candle but not nearly as elaborate or ornate as his later major label works. It’s a critical inflection point, capturing Smith at his rawest and most confessional in warm, rough fidelity.
Judging solely by album credits and a cursory listen, you’d be forgiven for assuming Elliott Smith is simply a folk record. It’s built around bare acoustic guitars and unadorned vocals laid straight to tape, after all. The first few moments of “Needle in the Hay” reveal the error of this line of thinking, though. Its irregular, pulsing guitar line comes on more like a mathy hardcore song than a folk ballad, while Smith’s whispered vocals sound more like a Lou Reed outtake than something off of The Anthology of American Folk Music.
From the very start, it’s evident that Elliott Smith is made using folk methods and instruments, but it’s far from folk music. Listening to the dense, deft interplay of layered guitars and vocals reminds you that the Beatles were Smith’s favorite band, not Nick Drake or Simon & Garfunkel, both of whom Smith was often compared to during his lifetime. That becomes immediately obvious when you read about Smith’s recording process with Leslie Uppinghouse at a house in SE Portland.
On the Life of the Record podcast in 2020, Uppinghouse discussed the recording of Smith’s self-titled record at length for its 25th anniversary over two months at the beginning of 1995. For virtually every song, barring “Needle in the Hay”, which was recorded at Tony Lash from Heatmiser’s house, Smith would come to Uppinghouse’s Craftsman house, have some juice or tea, and then get set up in a small spare room with wooden floors and a high ceiling. Uppinghouse would set him up, adjust his levels, and then leave the room.
Left to his own devices, Smith worked quickly and intuitively, laying down guitars, overdubs, vocals, and then vocal harmonies in quick succession. It wasn’t uncommon for Uppinghouse to step out, have some tea or lunch, and come back to a nearly completed song. Smith clearly came into these sessions knowing what he wanted to do and how to do it. That is what separates Elliott Smith from your run-of-the-mill folk album or even most bedroom projects.
As a sound engineer, head of Jackpot Records, and official Elliott Smith archivist, Larry Crane observes on the Life of the Record podcast, “The thing that he had was a really good sense of what the song was going to be, and like I said, even if he didn’t have the vocals written. But he would know kind of the melody and where they were going to be, and he would have a really good sense of what wasn’t in there yet, but able to record the parts that were going to wrap around that.
“Which, a lot of times, people, musicians, say you’re a songwriter, you might focus on your rhythm instrument, piano or guitar or whatever, and then just play that rhythm instrument like it’s either on or off and it plays all through the song and it takes up this kind of space that’s not really all that revealing to the core of the song if that makes sense. Then you have this kind of constant piano or guitar or what have you that goes all through the song, and then you try to build the arrangement around that, and you’re adding to something that’s maybe already too busy, and you’re cluttering up even more. And that’s why a lot of home recordings sound like ass (laughs).
“A lot of homemade single-person projects don’t sound that good if they can’t sit there and go, ‘Oh if I just strum this chord and let that hang for like four beats, there’s going to be this room.’ If you listen to the nuance of all the little spaces he leaves open and stuff like that, when something’s busy and when something’s not busy, it’s like taking into account like as if three or four people are in a room looking at each other and playing it and trying to leave those little pockets and leave space in the arrangement.
“That’s why it comes together good, it’s so easy to mix (laughs). Everything has a space. When you listen to these songs on Elliott Smith and Either/Or and everything, one of the hallmarks is that everything has a place, a reason to be there, and it doesn’t just play like, they’re not played like musicians, like ‘oh I’ve got to get my part in there.’ They’re played like a songwriter who is a great musician, and that’s a real difference.”
Smith’s arrangements aren’t the only thing preventing him from being just another folkie, either. Although many are quick to dismiss most of Elliott Smith’s work as autobiographical and confessional, those who knew Smith during this period suggest otherwise. Like much of Smith’s recorded output, the album focuses on the ravages of addiction, particularly heroin, at length, particularly on “Needle in the Hay” or the gutting, harrowing “Alphabet Town”.
Those who knew him talk about how Smith was more often an observational writer than a personal one, however. While no one knows for certain when Smith started using opiates, there’s a strong chance “Alphabet Town” is more of a story song, taking a stroll through some spectral New York neighborhood from Johnny Thunder’s imagination than a confession. It’s no less telling for it; one of Smith’s greatest strengths is using fiction to reveal something intimate and personal not only for himself but also for the listener.
The dark, troubling subject matter of so much of Smith’s work has led to him being typecast as an arch miserablist, a glowering sadsack with a perpetual rain cloud over his head. Elliott Smith might be the best argument against that misconception. Listen to “St. Ides Heaven”, with the Spinanes’ Rebecca Gates providing a sweet vocal harmony, as the pair lay out a story of drinking malt liquor in convenience store parking lots. Yes, it’s escapist and damaged, but that’s not all it is.
The record isn’t a portrait of a disaster waiting to happen. It’s a picture of an indie punk life in the Pacific Northwest, when things were cheap and art was everything. It’s full of darkness, but it’s also full of light, friendship, even genius, just like the underground from which it emerged.
Some believe that things would’ve turned out differently for Smith had he never moved to DreamWorks. Transitioning to a major label left him feeling disconnected, cut off, and isolated, surrounded by too many yes-men and not enough true friends. There’s little point in playing “What If?” about Smith’s life and music, other than lamenting the music we’ve missed out on with such a talented, sensitive soul being taken far too soon.
However things might’ve turned out, Elliott Smith remains a snapshot of a time right before the darkness descends. It’s still full of some hard truths and harrowing moments, especially “Southern Belle”, which is almost surely about Smith’s abusive relationship with his stepfather in Texas. It’s still the record where Smith sounds happiest, most alive, most himself. It’s a fine place to remember him and his music, alive and vibrant and inspired. It remains one of the finest indie records of the 1990s and one of the best in Smith’s tragically short career.