So there’s another pop suicide: Elliot Smith. I’m no fan of suicide, in fact my cousin Eddie’s death by his own hand is heavy marker on my map of life and how to live it.
Some words from Stew on the Negro Problem Mailing list:
for many of us this terribly sad info will come as no surprise whatsoever. anyone even remotely “silverlake” or “pop geekish” or just unfortunate enough to have ever seen him in live meltdown mode was quite familiar with Smith’s condition.
…
What makes me really angry is how, just as in the case of cobain, record companies, managers, promoters and anyone else primed to make cash off the artist are happy to keep mum on the subject of whatever hell the artist is going thru instead of publicly calling attention to what may have started as a lifestyle choice but has clearly turned into a disease. And the record companies always win cuz for them the only thing better than young and cute is dead and mythic.
…
I dont know which clique disgusts me more – the sick vulture fans who love to see their stars stumble and fall or the suits who stand to make a bundle while giving a really sensitive quote about Smith’s artistry to rolling stone.com.
And more, an obituary pitchfork and on the official site for him, sweetadeline.net.
I had never heard his name that I know of, but it saddens me. How can one not be intrigued by death? Our mortality is the subject of so much art. For Elliot, it was obviously front and center in his work.
I have no lessons or conclusions for this post. I’ll let the discomfort hang there.
