Jazzy cover songs of a beloved singer-songwriter
Recently, I re-watched the Elliott Smith documentary Heaven Adores You. I don’t know how many times I’ve watched the film, but even after many viewings, I’m still captivated by the beauty in Elliott Smith’s songs. “No Name No. 5” from the album Either/Or grabbed hold of me during this last viewing. I’ve listened to it every day since watching the movie. The music has a quiet intensity, sounding almost like a demo more than a finished track, and Elliott strains and sings with a deep pain in his voice. It sounds like a song written late at night when Smith was feeling isolated and reflective. And like so much of his music, the track is stunning.
Elliott Smith wrote and recorded five LPs during his brief life, along with songs that were released on a posthumous album. Whether he used stripped-down arrangements or a full orchestra, the songs on these albums bring me constant joy. Smith created beautiful melodies, and he played most of the instruments on his recordings, almost a one-man studio band by the end of his life. For me, his ability to skillfully structure a tune and his well-crafted musicianship make listening to his albums a continuous, rewarding experience. For others, though, it’s Smith’s troublesome lyrics that draw people to the singer-songwriter. His songs connect with people, and after he died, many expressed that sentiment by writing tributes on the Figure 8 Mural in Silver Lake, Los Angeles.
In Torment Saint, William Todd Schultz’s excellent biography of Elliott Smith, he writes of when Jon Brion first met Elliott. The two were like-minded musicians, who sometimes performed together at the Largo nightclub in Los Angeles. Brion spoke of Smith’s talent and his desire to create something new in music.
Much of it had to do with harmonic invention, the ‘harmonic turn of phrase,’ which in Elliott’s case was without peer, Brion believed. ‘His chord changes,’ he said, ‘the internal motion of the chords, were always logical in a very beautiful way … He really loved the emotions that were generated by chord changes. He understood it better than anyone I ever met, quite honestly, by a long shot.’ At the same time, Brion felt, Elliott was no borrower. He had little interest in making his songs sound like older music he liked. What he was after was ‘new beauty,’ an unmistakable modernity with ‘natural motion.’ Some songs might sound Beatles-y, but they usually included changes that ‘never happened on a Beatles record.’ That, Brion said, ‘was one of his many copious gifts.’
“New beauty” explains a lot. It is the key element in the songs he wrote and the albums he created, even when what he was singing about wasn’t always pretty, as Schultz points out in the book’s introduction. “Even when his subjects are ugly—drug use, suicide, worthlessness—they sound disarmingly gorgeous.”
Some Elliott Smith fans don’t like it when his songs are covered. It’s viewed as sacred ground and best left with the source. I have always welcomed the cover songs. Whether it’s a tribute album or amateur videos on YouTube, I like hearing how they interpret his music. Rock’s master songwriters: Elton John, Ray Davies, The Beatles—all influences for Smith—are continuously being covered, some with spectacular results. One tribute album I really enjoy is Seth Avett and Jessica Lea Mayfield Sing Elliott Smith, released in 2015. They put a different perspective on his songs, and it’s one of those albums that, when it concludes, I want to hear more.
Brad Mehldau’s Ride into the Sun is the most recent Elliott Smith cover album entry. It’s a jazzy take on Smith’s music, with guest musicians Daniel Rossen (Grizzly Bear) and Chris Thile (Nickel Creek, Punch Brothers). Mehldau picks some of Elliott’s lesser known, or should I say less covered tunes. The recording includes ten Smith-penned songs, variations on two, and a couple of Mehldau originals—the title track in two parts. There are also two songs not written by Elliott but closely associated with the artist. The record provides an alternative listen to those who have only heard the singer-songwriter through the compilation album An Introduction to… Elliott Smith.
Mehldau’s selections are some of my favorites: “Sweet Adeline,” “Colorbars,” “Everything Means Nothing to Me,” “The White Lady Loves You More,” “Satellite,” and “Tomorrow Tomorrow.” I started listening to early releases from Ride into the Sun when the video for “Tomorrow Tomorrow” first dropped on YouTube. With Rossen on guitar and lead vocals, Thile on mandolin and backing voice, and Mehldau playing tasty piano, the interpretation is superb. After hearing this version, no Elliott fan can deny that Mehldau put the right people and pieces together to do justice to Smith’s music.
For the ten Elliott songs on Ride into the Sun, Mehldau selects three each from Smith’s self-titled album (1995), XO (1998) and Figure 8 (2000), and one song from Either/Or (1997). None come from his debut Roman Candle (1994) and the posthumous From A Basement On The Hill (2004), two of Smith’s rawest LPs. Ride into the Sun is a jazz album, and most songs are instrumentals featuring Mehldau on piano backed by a chamber orchestra. “Satellite” and “Southern Belle” are from Smith’s self-titled LP, along with “The White Lady Loves You More,” one of his rarely covered songs. This lovely tune is a noticeable drug-themed song, although it’s written from the viewpoint of an observer instead of a participant. Mehldau’s version, with elegant piano and orchestral backing, is wondrous, and the sorrow in Smith’s lyrics is not lost in this tender rendition.
“Tomorrow Tomorrow,” “Sweet Adeline,” and “Everybody Cares, Everybody Understands” are from XO. Mehldau adds extended musical sequences at the end of the latter two, titled “Sweet Adeline Fantasy” and “Somebody Cares, Somebody Understands.” The three Figure 8 tracks, “Better Be Quiet Now,” “Colorbars” (with vocals from Thile), and “Everything Means Nothing to Me” are three of Elliott’s finest selections from the album. “Everything Means Nothing to Me” is an emotional song, and Mehldau keeps the same crashing orchestration that Smith used on his original. Elliott performed a touching live version of the song on the Jon Brion Show—a VH1 pilot that never aired—which also included a younger Brad Mehldau on piano playing behind Smith on “Independence Day” and “Bottle Up and Explode,” both from XO. A rough cut of the show can be found on YouTube, and Smith’s vulnerable appearance on the program will turn the skeptic into an obsessive fan.
The remaining covers are “Between the Bars,” from Either/Or, one of Smith’s best known (and covered) tunes, and “Thirteen,” a song by Big Star that Elliott performed so much, it is now more associated with him. The remaining cover is “Sunday,” a Nick Drake song that is an interesting choice for the record. I adore this sweet, moody instrumental from the English singer-songwriter’s 1971 album Bryter Layter, and its inclusion has Mehldau showing his common interest in both artists. Smith has often been compared to Nick Drake, which is not really an accurate comparison or one that Smith particularly agreed with. “Elliott recalled hearing a little of Drake and liking him,” wrote Schultz, “but he felt Drake was softer lyrically, less focused on hard, painful realities, despite the fact that, on most days, Drake’s life was exactly that—frequently hard, frequently painful.”
It’s been common to lump Smith and Drake in the same conversation. They were both talented singer-songwriters, who had a taste for the melancholy, and both died way too young (Smith at 34, Drake at 26). But that’s where the similarities end. Still, they have one thing in common that is indisputable. Like hearing The Beatles for the very first time, young musicians and music lovers will at some point discover both Elliott Smith and Nick Drake. And it will change their life forever.