This is one of those records with a cover that you’ve seen a million times. Maybe, like me, you’ve never gotten around to listening to this particular album, but I guarantee that you’ve seen that artwork before. However, if you’re like me, that doesn’t mean that you’ve actually seen that artwork before. I’ve never really looked at it until now—this is often the case with music that I haven’t listened to. Is that cover bleak, or what? It fits perfectly with the music inside, but, man, it sure feels devoid of hope.
Elliott Smith’s 1995 self-titled release makes even the most beautiful of days rainy. It doesn’t matter what disposition you’re in—after you listen to this thing, you’re going to be depressed. In a way, it kind of foreshadows the singer’s death (which was probably a suicide). These are songs that only could have been recorded by a person with some major demons.
Sure, Smith’s lyrics are dark enough—on this album alone, he sings all about his problems with alcohol, drug addiction, and depression—but those aren’t what give this music it’s inescapable dark tinge. This is the man who Conor Oberst emulates, but Oberst can’t touch the sincerity of Smith’s music. The lyrics are dark enough, but it really is Smith’s delivery that pushes everything over the edge. The man sounds like he’s pouring everything he’s got into every word, and he very well may have been. That delicate voice over the dark-but-sweet guitar is one hell of a depressing combo.
Swole Ear 