Cut this picture into you and me
Burn it backwards kill this history
Make it over make it stay away
Or hate’ll say the ending that love started to stay
There’s a kid a floor below me saying brother can you spare
Sunshine for a brother old man winter’s in the air
Walked me up a story asking how you are
Told me not to worry you were just a shooting star
Sweet adeline
Sweet adeline
My clementine
Sweet adeline
It’s a picture perfect evening and I’m staring down the sun
Fully loaded deaf and dumb and done
Waiting for sedation to disconnect my head
Or any situation where I’m better off then dead

Sad news for lovers of good music everywhere. The kid sister sent me an email today containing bad tidings. Singer, songwriter, and, in my opinion, musical genius, Elliott Smith, is dead. Apparently, he committed suicide by plunging a knife into his chest.

I’m not one to get all emotional over entertainers I’ve never even met, but every album Smith was involved in, either as a solo artist, or as a member of his earlier band, Portland-based Heatmiser, was pure gold. I greedily bought every album he put out, and then proceeded to repeatedly listen to them until those around me cursed his name.

Since his last album, Figure 8, I have been patiently waiting for any new releases, checking the S section of my local record store, just in case I missed an announcement on the web. Now there will be no more releases. No more announcements.

Elliott Smith was all of 34 years old.

Ya, ya , ya. I know. Almost a whole month without a post. I suck. The spirit is willing, but the fingers are weak.

Anyways, yesterday (the 16th) was my birthday. I’m now officially a quarter century old.

Rejoice.