elliott smith
written by simon triquet, taken from les inrockuptibles, 10.11.95

two american flees electricity and tries another way of making folk by pouring acid in honey. elliott smith comes from adorable spinanes and pete krebs of hazel.

elliott smith and pete krebs thus come from nowhere and, however, they incarnent an enthralling american tendency: turning into a desert. their formerly gouailleux and electric punk-rock'n'roll is here in fallow: this music rests, takes again the strong ones. it returned from the amplification, returned of the city and its systematic bazaar. with the back of their respective small pockets, elliott smith poses, a daisy bunch to the hand, and pete krebs was completely erased behind a monumental oak. not very cbgb' s, environment. the american hour is not any more with the din; give us another thing, the larsens, one knows by heart and even in télé 7 days, that does not throw them into a panic any more. there are a few years, them, same albums would have felt obliged to invite electricity, bad adviser. but since the brothers de luxe hotel became a reference without nobody measuring - except this newspaper the fundamental importance of this group, one na plus fear of trotting itself with hair in america. as much the guitars in the red would have crushed these too frail songs to polish the electric shocks, would have levelled them with the road roller, as much the dry guitars underline the melody facility dece folk dirty. because not question here of return to larsac, music empestant goat's milk cheese and the devotion bottom-blesses with dylan saint. this folk is out of wood, but not yet ready for the markets of local arts and crafts: too many splinters, too much acid in honey, too much shift between the apparent quietude of the wise melodies and the fractures which shelter. this double game, elliott smith is certainly more the extremist, singing the depression and the discomfort with a smile and a prettiness - often disturbing (the white lady loves you more or christian brothers). less shaken - and thus less disconcerting -, pete krebs moves away only at the time of the campfires, obviously less at ease in the darkness, less courageous in wood dark. but when it skids of the honest routine (splendid orleans parish), its voice -- the most beautiful young person voice since ron sexsmith allows him to only return luxuriants to it of the pieces however to pained inhabited by a starveling banjo and a guitar to a chord. refused with the input of all the mjc, transfered with feathers and tar of all the fest-noz, this folk holds the good end.

thanks to mully