It would probably have taken a bout of pneumonia to make this gig any less than perfect; as it turned out, Elliott Smith had indeed contracted a bout of pneumonia when he took the stage at Dublin's Temple Bar Music Centre on Sunday night. Apologising for his somewhat wheezy singing, Smith proceeded to weave his wonderful, tattered magic, singing the torn and frayed tunes which have made him rock's most glittering cult star. Smith has begun to crack through to the mainstream consciousness, thanks largely to his contribution to the soundtrack of Good Will Hunting; but let's not play down the power of his own albums, Elliott Smith, Roman Candle and XO, to grab the attention of hapless passersby. Here is the great white hope of the male singer-songwriter genre, the one man who can counter the influence of the awful Alanisettes who are over-running rock like a plague of praying mantis.
Elliott Smith writes vulnerable yet tough-skinned tunes like Independence Day and Miss Misery, articulating the concerns of both genders, and digging deep into the body politic of love, sex and power. Layering his lyrics over undulating chord progressions, Smith brings small, self-evident truths bobbing briefly to the surface, then lets them sink again with a shimmering splash of realisation. Onstage, he's backed by weirdcore duo Quasi, who have been supporting Smith on his current tour, playing tracks from their album, Featuring Birds.
Like a lo-fi alternative to Jeff Buckley, Smith and band chug their way through ragged epics such as Waltz #2, Sweet Adeline and Bottle Up And Explode, picking their way gingerly through the complex chord changes and confusing emotional extremes, only to arrive at a new level of understated empathy. Like all great revelations, there's nothing earth-shattering about Elliott Smith, no star-like supernova of song, just a guy with a semi-acoustic guitar, a few chords and words, some superb tunes, and a vision wider than rock's othermost panoramic views.
