This is one way Smith plays tricks: the drums kick in seconds into the song and keep time on cruise control until the track ends. At times, it leads to a sunny track like “Ballad of Big Nothing,” which has the potential to misdirect people with its chorus in the same way Nine Inch Nails did with “Closer.” In the same sense that the world misread Reznor’s plea for salvation as horny filth, one might hear Smith sing, “You can do what you want to / Whenever you want to,” and wrongfully view him as a cheery nihilist. The rest of the record comes with varying forms of instrumentation. It’s easy to praise the more obvious creative details of Smith’s work, the stuff that wins him admirers, but the technical quality of his work is nothing to shrug off either. Smith recorded this entire album on an eight-track: listen to it click at the beginning of “Speed Trials.” Considering such a setup, his results are immaculate. Even then, these tracks aren’t underproduced - just subtly produced. While Smith still works towards this austere, isolated aesthetic on Either/Or, only a few of its tracks feature the troubadouring that Smith became known for, alone in the booth with a guitar (“Between the Bars,” “Angeles”). There’s a reason this LP is often considered the bridge between his lonely, early ’90s indie folk and his later, more ambitious efforts. Concentrating too much on the lyrics and melody of it all distracts from the production, which not only adds a humility to the record, but offers a point of comparison for the three albums that follow. 5”) makes it easy to miss out on the artistry of his songwriting. Focusing on his sleight, finger-plucked guitar (“Alameda”) or the phantom chill on his breath as he croons (“No Name No. Spotlighting one aspect of Smith’s artistry is the quickest way to neglect everything else that brings it together. What’s most impressive, about both this record and Smith in general, is that it’s very difficult to highlight what makes it him: unique. But Either/Or, his third full-length, shows he didn’t need David Geffen’s record label to reign supreme over the indie scene. Its predecessor, the eponymous Elliott Smith, contains some of the best cuts of his career, and its successor, XO, gave Smith a bigger budget than he could’ve imagined, rocketing his capabilities beyond what the eight-track recorder could handle.

John Mayer couldn’t hold a roman candle to Smith.ġ997 saw Either/Or, a crystallization of one of his many gifts. Effortlessly profound, endlessly talented and proficient with his instruments, and entirely artistically self-motivated. Elliott Smith isn’t a white guy with a guitar, middling about with a trust fund - he’s who all these white guys with guitars are trying and failing and failing and failing again to be. He tries not to drone over some plucky, hyper-complicated riff rather, his music is intentional, in its luster or lack thereof, from start to finish. His voice exhibits control and restraint, but not necessarily detachment. Listening to that playing, though, it’s hard not to imagine Smith’s fingers smoking on the fretboard.

His works sounded very bare: a cheap acoustic guitar, recording gear from his girlfriend’s basement, an occasional second instrument to accompany his voice and strumming. Elliott Smith seemed to operate on deception … at first.

Elliott smith either or no more