It is a specific kind of quiet. You know the one—where you can hear the tape hiss before the first guitar string even vibrates. When Elliott Smith released his third album in early 1997, the world was preoccupied with the loud, neon glare of the late nineties. The Spice Girls were everywhere. Grunge was cooling into something more corporate. Then came this guy from Portland with a whisper so close it felt like he was standing right behind you in a dark hallway.
Elliott Smith Either/Or isn't just a record. Honestly, it’s a vibe that hasn't aged a day since Bill Clinton was in office. It’s the sound of someone trying to decide if they want to be part of the world or just watch it from a safe distance.
The Philosophy of the Big Nothing
Most people know the title comes from Søren Kierkegaard. Smith wasn't just being a pretentious art student, though he did study philosophy at Hampshire College. The "either/or" concept basically boils down to a choice between two ways of living: the aesthetic (living for pleasure and the moment) or the ethical (living for duty and others).
Smith was stuck in the middle.
You can hear it in "Speed Trials," the opening track. The song starts with a mechanical click—the sound of the eight-track tape machine starting up. It’s lo-fi, sure, but it’s intentional. He’s "running speed trials, standing in place." That’s the record in a nutshell. It’s a paradox of incredible musical movement and emotional paralysis.
How a DIY Record Ended Up at the Oscars
The production story of this album is kind of insane when you look at what happened next. Smith recorded most of it on a Tascam 388, which is an eight-track tape machine that looks like a piece of office equipment from 1984. He used cheap gear: a Behringer compressor, some SM57 microphones, and a Mackie mixer.
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He did it in houses. In kitchens. In his friend Joanna Bolme’s basement.
- The Setup: Simple.
- The Result: Atmospheric gold.
Then Gus Van Sant heard it. The director was a fan of the Portland scene and basically begged Smith to let him use the music for a little movie called Good Will Hunting. Suddenly, the guy who recorded "Angeles" in a basement was wearing a white suit at the 70th Academy Awards, standing next to Celine Dion.
"Miss Misery" wasn't actually on the original album—it was an outtake from the same era—but it carried that exact same DNA. It’s funny because Smith reportedly lied about when he wrote "Miss Misery" just so it would be eligible for the Oscar. He told people he wrote it specifically for the movie, but it was just another piece of the Either/Or puzzle that didn't make the final tracklist.
Why the Songs Still Cut So Deep
If you’ve ever walked through Portland in the rain, "Rose Parade" makes perfect sense. He captures the grayness. But he also captures the weird, biting sarcasm of being an outsider. He’s watching the "tripped out kids" and the "marching band" and feeling absolutely nothing.
The Master of the Double-Track
One thing Smith did better than almost anyone was double-tracking his vocals. He’d record the lead vocal once, then record it again, trying to match every breath and inflection perfectly. It gives the songs a ghostly, shimmering quality. It’s not a choir; it’s one person arguing with themselves.
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The "Say Yes" Miracle
The album ends with "Say Yes." It’s probably the most "pop" thing he ever wrote, and he supposedly knocked it out in about five minutes. It’s a rare moment of optimism. After 35 minutes of heartbreak, addiction references, and social anxiety, he finally decides to give life a chance.
"I'm in love with the world through the eyes of a girl who's still around the morning after."
It’s simple. It’s beautiful. And it’s a lie, or at least a temporary truth, which is what makes it so human.
The Legacy of the Eight-Track Masterpiece
Twenty-five years later, we have the "Expanded Edition," which Larry Crane (Smith’s friend and archivist) put together. It’s got live tracks from the Yo Yo A Go Go Festival and some unreleased stuff like "I Figured You Out." Listening to the remastered versions, you realize how much detail was actually there.
Smith wasn't just a "sad guy with a guitar." He was a phenomenal arranger. He played every single instrument on most of these tracks—the drums, the bass, the keyboards. He was a one-man Beatles.
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If you’re looking to really "get" this album, don't just put it on as background music. It’s not lo-fi study beats.
Here is how to actually experience it:
- Listen on Headphones: You need to hear the fingers sliding on the strings in "Angeles."
- Look Up the Lyrics to "2:45 AM": It’s one of the most vivid descriptions of urban loneliness ever written.
- Watch the 1998 Oscar Performance: See the contrast between his quiet intensity and the Hollywood glitz.
- Explore the Outtakes: Check out the song "Either/Or" (the track that didn't make the album). It’s on the New Moon compilation.
This album remains a benchmark for indie music because it doesn't try to be cool. It doesn't have the "studio sheen" of his later major-label records like XO or Figure 8. It’s just a guy in a room, trying to figure out if he should stay or go. And honestly, isn't that what we're all doing most of the time?
To get the full technical picture of how this sound was achieved, look into the Tape Op archives where Larry Crane breaks down the specific mic placements used during the Portland sessions. Seeing the "cheap" gear list serves as a permanent reminder that great art is about the person behind the faders, not the price tag on the console.