Which is why, for the first time in memory,
I did what everybody else usually does when a rock star dies: I listened
to his music and remembered what it had meant to me. All my records are
in storage right now, so I bought the self-titled album on Kill Rock
Stars from the iTunes store, and I spent much of the week in wonder at
just how good he’d been. An amazing guitarist, a remarkably effective
singer with a small range within whose parameters he’d learned
to work as economically as an outclassed boxer, and a lyricist confident
enough to let his images work without unnecessary window-dressing. His
albums number among the best his generation had to offer. Many of us
would happily sign a contract with the Devil for a gift like the one
Smith has now destroyed forever. It’s gone now. And this is sad,
and infuriating, and there is nothing for it.
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