“I’m not a pussy and I don’t wanna sound like one, and that’s why I’ve declined most opportunities to write about Elliott Smith post-suicide. After Smith split for the Great Whatever in October ’03, the critical outpouring was gross, precious, and unbecoming. Honoring dude’s life by writing about vintage sweaters and tearstained cheeks is bullshit and doesn’t do the man justice. Because, really, that’s what he was: a man. His songs, even at their most quote unquote emotional, weren’t nearly as wussy or melodramatic as, say, Matchbook Romance or that dumb cunt from Dashboard Confessional. Smith’s music was—and is—unflinching and fully brutal, tore-up ache; over-sentimentalizing it in print is just reductive.
Still, with music this intimate it’s easy to slip into breathless homage and maudlin indulgence, and that’s how a lotta Smith’s obituaries rolled. But fuck that; there are better ways to eulogize your heroes!”