I've always thought Elliott Smith's music was very sweet, pretty, intelligent and sad. It all kind of sounds the same, distinctly his, but the same nonetheless. So I never got super into him, and I always felt a little bad about that.
One night I said to my roommate, "I like Elliott Smith, but all his stuff sounds the same." To which she replied something like: "Blasphemy! Elliott Smith has never written a bad song in his life!" (He was still alive at the time.) Again, I felt bad. Deep down, I knew all of his lyrics would hit me a certain way, that I enjoyed every song I heard from him, so what was I holding back for?
And then he died. And I surprisingly had these strange connections to the event, living in the same part of town, knowing his sister and some friends... The loss hung heavier than the smog.
The memorial went up on the mural at Solutions, a electronics repair shop up the street from my house. When friends come to visit, they often want to pay their respects. It's just as vibrant today as it was when it suddenly came to life.
And I don't take Elliott for granted anymore.
