When Elliott Smith awed a TV studio — and silenced the raucous 90s — State of Sound

ELLIOTT SMITH

When Elliott Smith awed a TV studio — and silenced the raucous 90s

At almost the exact midpoint of the 1990s, a relatively unknown Elliott Smith appeared on FX's Breakfast Time. What followed was a quietly powerful antidote to that loud and boisterous decade.

By David Rea

Photo: Everett Collection Inc / Alamy

6 June 2026

'You say your music is not loud but it tends to be kinda angry,' Tom Bergeron says. 'Some of it, yeah.' Elliott Smith glances at Breakfast Time's cohost, smiles for a moment, then returns his eyes to the floor. Bergeron continues, 'Because this is kind of a circus-like environment to drag you into at this hour in the morning...'

It might not exactly be like a circus, but there is the quietly fizzling atmosphere of 1990s live television. The studio has been designed to look like an open-plan living space in a large suburban home, scattered with sofas and armchairs, tables, chairs and lamps. Handheld cameras trailing wires roam about, searching faces, looking for incident, keeping things on edge. Bergeron is interested in Elliott Smith's music but also seems to want banter, to catch a spark; '...and I'm wondering,' he goes on, his tone congenial and teasing, 'if there's potential that any of us might come to physical harm.'

The joke that this small, shy-looking guest with purple dye in his hair might be triggered into violence by a frenetic TV studio because he's 'kinda angry' lands well. The audience laughs. 'No, I don't think you'll have that kind of problem,' Smith answers dryly with another faint smile.

Elliott Smith's appearance on FX's Breakfast Time, to promote his self-titled solo album, took place at almost exactly the midpoint of the loud, ebullient and abrasive 1990s. By then, hip hop, gangsta rap, alt-rock (in the USA), and rave culture and dance music (in the UK) had crossed over into the mainstream. Large-scale festivals were growing in popularity; vast crowds sang along to anthemic choruses at Lollapalooza, T in the Park and V Festival, all of which began in the decade. During a chaotic Pearl Jam performance at Lollapalooza 1992, organisers feared mosh pits would turn riotous as frontman Eddie Vedder stage-dived from second-story speaker stacks. UK nightclubs flickered in strobe lighting and throbbed with mechanised house beats; everyone danced, grinned and hugged in chemically induced, communal extroversion.

Artists, meanwhile, were expected to be variously outlandish, laddish, unpredictable, indiscreet and quotable. Vicious insults earned headlines. Noel Gallagher famously said: 'People hate fucking cunts like Phil Collins, and if they don't, they fucking should', and in the US, hip-hop artists traded lyrics offensive enough to make your eyes water (2Pac: 'That's why I fucked your bitch, you fat motherfucker').

Elliott Smith’s appearance on Breakfast Time now appears a strange anomaly, as if he snuck into the studio — and into the 1990s — when nobody was looking.

Back at the Breakfast Time studio, the interview continued:

Bergeron: 'How would you describe the kind of music you record?'

Smith: 'It's really quiet. Some of it's really angry. Some of it's not. It's not really folk, but it's sort of like that.'

Bergeron: 'So if you're in an argument with a friend, are you the one that'll just quieten down or storm out of the room?'

Smith: 'I'll go write a song about it.' The audience laughs.

Bergeron: 'What are you gonna sing for us from the CD?'

Smith: 'It's called 'Clementine'.'

Bergeron: 'Alright.' Bergeron turns to the camera. 'Elliott Smith.'

Smith begins playing his guitar, picking out bass notes with his thumb; he makes no attempt to emote, sounding like a kid strumming alone in his bedroom. The song's directness disguises its musical complexity. Using an unconventional guitar tuning, the mood-defining open chord is rich, the bright and sunny C major laced with sour or blue notes. It's the kind of chord that engages our unconscious musical brains.

When Smith begins to sing, his voice is sweet, delicate and vulnerable. At the end of the second line, he hits a bum note. It should be all wrong. But the producers are quick to pick up on a change in mood in the studio, which has been retuned to a different emotional frequency. The cameras roam and pan, pushing in on onlookers' unguarded expressions. Around 1.20 into the song, we see a woman staring at Elliott, her eyes slightly narrowed, a faint smile on her lips: an expression of incredulity.

It's easy enough to succumb to the idea that Elliott Smith was a child out of time, a sensitive, beautiful and quiet soul who broke out in a particularly cacophonous decade. (At one point, the camera cuts to Smith's slightly trembling fingers switching between chords.) But he was far more complex than that narrative suggests: witty and well-read, warm and ambitious; he could rock out with the best of them, as the music he made with Heatmiser testifies, and consistently displayed remarkable musical intelligence.

Nonetheless, his appearance on Breakfast Time does now appear a strange anomaly, as if he snuck into the studio — and into the 1990s — when nobody was looking. More than anything, Smith appears indifferent to the Breakfast Time audience; his performance is like a shrug at a decade which rewarded the extroverted and boisterous. His eyes are cast down away from the glaring studio lights, moving between his guitar fretboard and the floor. During the whole performance, he doesn't look up once.