Why Can't I Stop Stabbing Myself?

It's amazing what artist can do from the grave these days. Tupac Shakur made an entire movie about his own death from inside a gold-plated coffin; John Lennon just released another acoustic rehash from the depths of hell; and on the one year anniversary of his questionable suicide, Elliott Smith delivers what we can only hope to be his last album, From a Basement on the Hill. The posthumous release contains 15 tracks totaling 57 minutes. Its release on Anti records perhaps confirms rumors that DreamWorks had dropped Elliott Smith after the release of his previous album, Figure 8, for poor sales and heavy drug abuse.

Elliott's earlier albums, back when he was with Kill Rock Stars, living in Portland, running the streets with Slim Moon, are often considered his best. Ironically, however, they are the same albums that closely detail his struggles as an artist coping with addiction, depression, and soured relationships. Obviously he has had plenty to write about, but as things improved for Elliott a little in Los Angeles with DreamWorks, his music changed a lot. His polished, major label debut, XO, was surprisingly well received by both old and new fans. Record sales were never high enough to keep the DreamWorks' executives happy, but XO gave the label some much needed credibility and Elliott some much needed cash.

Excited by the reception of XO, Elliott bought a few dozen instruments he didn't know how to play and began working on Figure 8, which did poorly and left a bad, over-produced aftertaste with his until-then following. Spurned by his failure, Elliott withdrew into his Los Feliz cottage for a long period of serious depression and equally serious heroin use.

The new album frankly strikes me as half an album. It sounds like he was working on a promising album and someone just stabbed him to death right in the middle. Not to say that his girlfriend killed him and there aren't good songs on the album. The acoustic tracks, Twilight, Let's Get Lost, A Fond Farewell, and Memory Lane are all great, cohesive tracks, which could be easily characterized as classic Elliott Smith.

The remaining tracks, however, were obviously never meant for release. They are poorly written songs muddied with some crummy electric guitar and, aside from Shooting Star, Pretty (Ugly Before), and A Passing Feeling, sound very much like leftovers from Figure 8.

The digipack booklet includes 3 pictures of Elliott Smith looking very sad, and some copies of his original hand-written lyrics to a few of the songs. The back cover has the track titles listed, which is nice, but is poorly laid-out and totally mismatched against the front cover. Aesthetics aside, From a Basement on a Hill is the last testament to a singer who was a voice for me and many others. I can't honestly give the album any kind of rating; I did, however, shell-out the fourteen big ones to own it.

Katie the Pest at the Prospector

Once I had a friend, a good friend of several years. One day she confessed to me her deep longing for my dick, like she was born there and being away from it made her homesick. I was shocked and disappointed because the whole time we were friends, I kept thinking how nice it was to be friends with a real girl, with a real vagina that I had no interest in touching. But then I found out that the whole time she just wanted to touch my meaty man vagina. I don't talk to her anymore.

I imagine that [Katie the Pest], a rock duo from Downey, must feel the same way. I saw them play tonight at Cafe Bleu in Long Beach. The crowd was sparse, but not uncomfortably so, mostly populated by dickbag indie nerds with experimental facial hair. Nearly everybody there came explicitly to see Katie the Pest sip her lovesick concoction of melancholy frustration on stage. Even the opening bands The Suck Fuckers, and The Bologna Pig Cock Garble Wranglers sang her praises before their sets.

When The Suck Fuckers finished their set, they told everyone that they loved Katie the Pest, but then they corrected themselves and said that they were in love with Katie the Pest. I think it was meant to be a sheepish admission of a crush, designed by a frustrated fat kid to show that he might not be presentable enough to be seen with in public, but gosh golly, he's a charmer.

Not to be outdone, the frontman of the Cock Wranglers removed his flannel to reveal a white t-shirt with the words "KATIE GIVES THE STICKY CHILDREN MOIST VAGINAS" scrawled across it with black magic marker. Now, call me old fashioned, but trying to pass yourself off as a plump-but-lovable, wacky-but-desperate character from a Jack Black movie -especially with a homemade t-shirt with more than one vagina on it- is as pathetic as eight quadriplegics in a punctured life raft, and expecting someone to take it as a compliment is an insult.

Meanwhile, the girls of Katie the Pest had to go up on stage and play to crowd of leering assholes with Dorito stains on their crotches, most of whom would jump at the chance to dangle their wilted mules into any available Katie hole, conscious or otherwise. It's a shame, because Katie the Pest is a good band that makes good music, but anytime a guy tells them that, really the only thing it means is that the girls will have to keep an eye on their drinks for the rest of the night.

Anyway, here is my official review of the show:

The Fucks Blasters: Random people playing boring whatever-music

Autoduel and the Steve Jackson 5: Talentless homos that give baby-shaking and abortions a good name.

Katie the Pest: Good band. You should check them out at [www.katiethepest.com]

Overall, I would say that tonight's show was a strong supporting argument for more Great White shows.