St. Ides Heaven

A few days ago, I had been straightening up Erica's room for an open house when I came across a small pile of dirty laundry--a few pairs of underwear and an Elliott Smith "say yes" t-shirt. I wanted to put on XO but I was pretty positive it, along with about 500 other CD's, was in storage. In the Bronx.

The first time I heard Elliott play, he opened for Mary Lou Lord. I reviewed the show for The Spec and made passing mention of Elliott, his "sad-boy-with-guitar schtick" and the tattoos covering his arms (not my exact words, but along those lines). But after hearing his self-titled second album, I was hooked.

Elliott headlined a show at Princeton's Terrace Club in the winter of my junior year. I was in full-on zine hipster mode, and planned to interview the Softies after the show. Rose and Jen were charming as ever, answering my questions while Elliott sat quietly by himself, drinking beer. At some point, I asked them to draw self-portraits. I decided to ask Elliott too, even though I was a little scared of him, but he was happy to oblige. Upon hearing about his death, I went through my old notebooks, looking for the picture he'd drawn. It's a man with blacked out eyes and a hole for a mouth, that he then crossed out.

34 is too young to die.