This story starts at the end. In his life, we saw in Elliott Smith’s songs a side of ourselves; exposing the frightened, vulnerable valve beneath our chests and hearing it singing through our speakers. Ringing in our ears. In his death, we are not only confronted with questions of what this says about us, but also doubts in the power that music has to save our lives, to make us better. Frustratingly, these are questions that are too big for any record to answer alone, but it comes as some comfort to know that even right up to his death he was still struggling through, still writing songs, and still trying to figure a way out of the mental basement he’d locked himself in. In the end, maybe we shouldn’t think of this record as a reminder of what we’ve lost, but of what’s been left behind. That makes From A Basement On The Hill the most fitting of testaments – a flawed, courageous, beautiful and intimately human portrait of the self. Simple, sweet, melodic songs about the heart. Where it hurts. And the hope that things will get better.