Five Years

"Five years, that's all we've got." -- David Bowie

I was a freshman in college, just 18, when Elliott Smith died on this day five years ago. I remember taking the bus downtown for a 9:30 a.m. class that day. I got off the bus and had about 10 minutes to burn before "Philosophy and Human Nature." This was usual. The way the bus routes worked, I always had about 10-15 minutes to kill in the morning. So I paced to the university library, went up one floor, and found a row of empty computers. If we were in the library now, I could show you the exact spot.

Within three minutes, I hit this. My first response, honestly -- I thought it was a joke. A strange, unprovoked joke. Back then, I visited Sweet Adeline everyday; my fingers spasmed the URL and I waited for the page to load. It took a few seconds. It was like turning a blind corner.

The page appeared, not in its usual layout. An enormous photo of Elliott faded in, tagged "1969-2003." He was smiling. I clicked back to Pitchfork with violence. I read the lead, absorbed the facts in a frenzy. Every detail made the joke go away. Los Angeles, Jennifer Chiba, two-stab wounds to the chest. This was real. He committed suicide, I remember thinking. He finally did it, he actually did it, I never thought he'd ever do it, I never wanted to believe he'd do it, but I knew some day he would, or he might, and now the safety drill is real.

His last written words, scrawled on a Post-It note, made me shut off the computer: "I'm so sorry--love, Elliott. God forgive me."

I called a close friend and spoke words I never thought I'd say. Then I cried in a lecture hall with over 100 students. Then I skipped work and my afternoon classes.

I'm unnerved by how distant that day feels to me now. Five years after the fact, I remember details and breakdowns, but even my most emotionally masochistic impulses can't resusitate how I felt in October 2003. Maybe I was just a bigger feeler at 18 -- my highs higher, my lows lower. I'm not sure.

Elliott Smith left me -- and us -- with five devastating albums, not to mention two posthumous releases. I could dedicate an entire blog to those seven records, if I could conjure up that post-trauma drive to collect, buy, and write about all things Elliott Smith. The kind of drive that led me to buy VHS bootlegs and $45 tee-shirts on eBay; to amass outtakes, b-sides, live covers, and interviews; to create and update everyday a month-long countdown to From a Basement on the Hill's release date on the Sweet Adeline message boards; to care actively and deeply about not forgetting him or his music.

Now, at 23, I've amassed all I'm likely to amass. The unbridled passion is gone; what's left is a lifetime of cherishing the songs and the memories associated with them. I miss him as much as I could miss anyone I've never met. I miss knowing he's alive, knowing the sounds from my speakers are coming from a living human, not a relic from the past.

As Alan Alda said in Crimes and Misdemeanors, "Comedy equals tragedy plus time." Five years later, at least I can laugh.