Elliott Smith
From A Basement On The Hill

THE REVIEW

The Long Goodbye

Love is strange. You can love a woman, an idea, a land, a word, a memory, an image, a song, but also the soul of a person never known except through their art. It may seem like little, but it's not. Winning a heart is always a difficult endeavor. So I can say that I loved the soul and sensitivity of Elliott Smith, because through his songs, his art, it was possible to glimpse all of his crystalline delicacy, as clear as a mirror of water gently rippled by the wind. But beneath the water there was darkness and torment. Elliott was a luminous melancholy, his heart a universe of stars, for this he easily conquered me, without the need for a long siege.

Today, however, listening to his music my feelings are more confused, because it is impossible for me to separate Elliott's art from his tragic end, which occurred just a year ago. The regret is enormous. It is not easy for me, therefore, to talk about this posthumous album just released. I know it was a project Elliott had worked on for a long time and that it can in fact be considered a complete work, needing only some refinement. But in truth, the "timing" of this release on the first anniversary of his death annoyed me a little. But there's more. Sometimes while listening to it, I can't hold back my anger. I simply cannot accept that Elliott is no longer with us, when he had so much to tell, to give. "From A Basement On The Hill" is proof of that. It is a splendid album, which unfolds from beginning to end, maintaining its entire intensity among ballads, acoustic guitars, and electric fragments. A long breath. It surprises with its ability to both move and tear at the same time. Yes, it's a beautiful album, which, however, manages to make me feel bad, because it's the bitter epilogue of a tormented soul. Because I feel a bit guilty for feeling emotions from a voice that no one will ever hear except from a little plastic disc. And I continue to listen and re-listen to it, I can't help it, just like I can't stop thinking that living is costly, it's not easy. And the antibodies for this absurd, wonderful and horrible disease that is life are not present in everyone. There are those who can't get enough of it, even at the cost of suffering like a dog day after day, and those who can't live through their own hell on earth, waking up every morning without knowing how to get to sunset, without a reason. But why is it so difficult?

Give me a cigarette, yes, a cigarette. I know I have quit, but now I want a cigarette. Because I don't care. I want to smoke it angrily, nervously, until it becomes a smoldering ember. And the wind will smoke it with me, it will burn out quickly. The last bitter drag from the burnt filter is said to hurt the most, but it will also be the sweetest. Before it goes out entirely, I'll toss it away and watch that small bright arc it draws in the air. And then hold me, because I will need it.