Elliot Smith defies the reaper at St. Andrew's

By Christian Hoard

Daily Arts Writer

Elliott Smith does not, as a rule, rock out. Most of his songs are mellow if not morose, full of heartache and bad memories that are channeled through sparse acoustic guitar arrangements and Smith's ethereal vocals. The uninformed might even call him a folkie.

It was somewhat surprising, then, that Smith's show at St. Andrews Hall on Wednesday rocked -- or, at least, it rocked inasmuch as an Elliott Smith show can rock. Sure, some of the non-devotees in attendance were probably left wondering what the big deal was, since, in one sense, this was a pretty standard rock show: White dudes on stage with drums and guitars, boomy sound, half-decipherable lyrics. But it was a stellar performance for Smith, whose records speak so loudly that there's usually little he can do to make the songs sound much better on stage.

After a short set by Grandaddy that drew mostly on parts of their very likeable "Sophtware Slump" album, Smith took the stage dressed in a black t-shirt and red pants, looking haggard as ever though less frumpy (and more like a rock star?) than usual. Smith and his three band mates then kicked into "Needle in the Hay," a rarity whose lyrics fell victim to the slightly muddy St. Andrews sound. The sound, however, proved no real obstacle for Smith, since he and his band weren't too concerned with delicacy and instead spent the better part of 90 minutes plowing through the brighter side of Smith's catalogue (including "Stupidity Tries" and the almost poppy "Happiness") with straight ahead, trad-rock sensibility.

Among the standouts in Smith's 20-song set were "Son of Sam" -- a brilliant White Album-era Beatles knock-off -- and "Cupid's Trick," which was treated with just the right amount of hard-rockin' angst. Despite apologies for several minor miscues during the set, Smith's voice was in prime form and sounded particularly fine on mellower numbers like "Waltz #2" and "Say Yes."

Through it all, Smith was his usual reticent self, performing as though he didn't notice that he was perched on stage in front of a packed house and only occasionally mumbling a word or two between songs. That's wasn't particularly a problem, though, since the crowd -- mostly 20-something white kids -- seemed to want it that way, as nary a soul danced and most preferred to stare in quiet awe at the biggest anti-hero in rock. (Question: How many Elliott Smith fans does it take to screw in a light bulb? Answer: 1,000 -- one to screw in the bulb, 999 to stand around wearing hooded sweatshirts while staring at the floor and shuffling their feet).

For his final encore, Smith and his band covered Blue Oyster Cult's "Don't Fear the Reaper" while some guy in a grim reaper costume, scythe and all, pranced around the stage. Was Smith poking fun at his image as a gloomy melancholic? Maybe. It's equally likely that Smith, ever the misunderstood rock poet, just likes to keep us guessing.

After a short set by Grandaddy that drew mostly on parts of their very likeable "Sophtware Slump" album, Smith took the stage dressed in a black t-shirt and red pants, looking haggard as ever though less frumpy (and more like a rock star?) than usual. Smith and his three band mates then kicked into "Needle in the Hay," a rarity whose lyrics fell victim to the slightly muddy St. Andrews sound. The sound, however, proved no real obstacle for Smith, since he and his band weren't too concerned with delicacy and instead spent the better part of 90 minutes plowing through the brighter side of Smith's catalogue (including "Stupidity Tries" and the almost poppy "Happiness") with straight ahead, trad-rock sensibility.

Among the standouts in Smith's 20-song set were "Son of Sam" -- a brilliant White

Album-era Beatles knock-off -- and "Cupid's Trick," which was treated with just the right amount of hard-rockin' angst. Despite apologies for several minor miscues during the set, Smith's voice was in prime form and sounded particularly fine on mellower numbers like "Waltz #2" and "Say Yes."

Through it all, Smith was his usual reticent self, performing as though he didn't notice that he was perched on stage in front of a packed house and only occasionally mumbling a word or two between songs. That's wasn't particularly a problem, though, since the crowd -- mostly 20-something white kids -- seemed to want it that way, as nary a soul danced and most preferred to stare in quiet awe at the biggest anti-hero in rock. (Question: How many Elliott Smith fans does it take to screw in a light bulb? Answer: 1,000 -- one to screw in the bulb, 999 to stand around wearing hooded sweatshirts while staring at the floor and shuffling their feet).

For his final encore, Smith and his band covered Blue Oyster Cult's "Don't Fear the Reaper" while some guy in a grim reaper costume, scythe and all, pranced around the stage. Was Smith poking fun at his image as a gloomy melancholic? Maybe. It's equally likely that Smith, ever the misunderstood rock poet, just likes to keep us guessing.