It's very easy for record reviewers to be distracted by notions of "relevance," "influence" and "importance" when discussing an album, but listening to From a Basement on the Hill-Elliott Smith's posthumously released final album-I've never felt more disdain for this seemingly "academic" approach to reviewing. After Smith took his own life at the age of 34 on Oct. 21 last year, music journalists almost immediately proclaimed him "the Nick Drake of our generation," "the decade's most talented singer/songwriter" and other similarly meaningless titles. Maybe some were apt, but I'd rather think of it simply: Elliott Smith spoke to people. His music functioned as an outlet for his inner demons, and as a result, people understood him, sympathized with him and related to him. His frail, angelic voice touched people, and ultimately, that is why his death was so tragic, that is why his legacy will endure.

I remember waking up on Oct. 22, and learning about Smith's apparent suicide. The web became filled with striking entries dedicated to the fallen musician. By day's end I was looking at pictures taken in front of the famous muraled wall of Solutions, the background for the cover of Smith's 2000 album Figure 8. That evening, it had become a site of vigil and memorial lined with candles, pictures and notes from fans. I recall being drawn to one image in particular: a simple black and white photo of Smith, with the word "hero" printed across his T-shirt. I think it was the only picture I ever saw of him smiling.

Like many fans, my first exposure to Smith was his performance of "Miss Misery" at the 1998 Academy Awards, but it wasn't until two years later that I would obtain a copy of XO, his major-label debut on DreamWorks Records.

In many ways, it was impossible not to listen to Smith without developing a personal connection to his songcraft: From his hushed vocals and dramatic harmonies to his intricate guitar pluckings, there was an intimate quality to his work. But it was his lyricism, at once joyful and resigned, pained yet triumphant, that truly forged his devoted fanbase.

Smith had battled with depression, alcoholism and drug addiction since his youth, and these topics were often prevalent in his poetry. But it was his songs of love, both lost and found, that seemed the most consummate. In the a cappella "I Didn't Understand," he mourned: "You once talked to me about love/And you painted pictures of/A never-never land/And I could've gone to that place/But I didn't understand/I didn't understand."

Following the release of Figure 8, Smith spent much of the three years were spent writing and recording his sixth album. In the last year he was reportedly clean, having found a new focus in the studio. But he would be treated and medicated for depression until his death, a condition still highlighted prominently by his lyrics. In "King's Crossing," one of the earliest-written songs recorded during those sessions, he writes, "I can't prepare for death more than I already have."

Originally intended as a double album, From a Basement of the Hill finally arrives in stores this week. It's been shaved down to a single disc, but its 58-minute running time leaves it Smith's longest album. And while it is unclear which songs were completed by Smith and which by longtime co-producer Rob Schnapf and ex-girlfriend Joanna Bolme following his death, the album sounds fully-realized beyond the most devoted fan's expectations. Largely recorded in Smith's home studio, Basement combines the sparse, low-fidelity inwardness of his first three albums (Roman Candle, Elliott Smith and Either/Or) with the grand pop aspirations of Figure 8, exploring many of the same themes addressed in those older recordings.

The pummeling "Coast to Coast" begins the disc with the same subdued ferocity as XO's "Amity," layering a wall of distorted guitar over Smith's tender musings. Likely addressing himself, he sings, "Last stop for a resolution/end of a line, is it confusion?/so go see what's there for you/nothing new, nothing new for you to use," again tackling his persisting struggles against drug abuse. As the opener barrels to a close, the listener hears several of Smith's poems, read by his friends, emerging from the chaotic wind-down. When Smith's voice finally whispers "that's why" during the haunting piano coda, it immediately establishes the mournful and often cryptic tone that permeates From a Basement on the Hill.

Like "Coast to Coast," the distortion-laden "Don't Go Down" may remind fans of Heatmiser, Smith's former band. "She had a dream/woke up in shock," he sings, continuing, "She had seen her own body outlined in chalk." These are among Smith's most morbid lyrics, only a step removed from his self-titled album's "The Biggest Lie," in which he sang, "I'm waiting for the train/the subway that only goes one way." While Basement may be Smith's darkest album, it is almost certainly his most candid.

The album delves further into the Smith's tortured psyche more than any other. In the completed "King's Crossing," he sings, "I've seen the movie and I know what happens," continuing, "It's Christmas time and the needle's on the tree/a skinny Santa is bringing something to me/his voice is overwhelming but his speech is slurred/and I only understand every other word." In his final years, this was Smith's reality: an uncomfortable, hellish chasm, only furthering his torturous existence and even tainting the very music that had been his salvation.

Led by ambient guitars, piercing organs and crashing drums, the song hovers like impending death before culminating in its exhaustive chorus: "frustrated fireworks inside your head are going to stand and deliver talk instead/the method acting that pays my bills keep a fat man feeding in Beverly Hills/I got a heavy metal mouth that hurls obscenity and I get my check from the trash treasury/Because I took my own insides out."

But for Elliott, music had always been his source of convalescence; somehow, he was able to translate his pain and suffering into moments of beauty. This is immediately obvious in "A Fond Farewell," recorded only with a lightly strummed acoustic guitar and some subtly noodled electric. Singing, "A dying man in a living room/whose shadow paces the floor/who'll take you out in the open door," his bittersweet, layered vocals then remind us, "This is not my life." It's difficult not to place Basement's lyrics in the context of his death; he didn't even finish the album. To Smith, maybe there was hope; but perhaps in the end, his music was simply not enough.

There are no moments like Either/Or's sweetly endearing "Say Yes" here. From a Basement on the Hill is crestfallen and tortured through and through. Even at his most restrained, Elliott has conceded defeat. In the somber "Twilight," he explores this hopelessness: "Because your candle burns too bright/well, I almost forgot it was twilight/even if I think that you are right/well I'm tired of being down, I've got no fight."

From a Basement on the Hill is almost certainly the darkest and most depressing album released this year. Unsurprisingly, it's also the most beautiful, and easily among the year's best. Ending with its strongest track, "A Distorted Reality is a Now Necessity to be Free," Elliott delivers a discourse on heroin, depression, death and eventual hope to a background of guitars reminiscent of Abbey Road, resonant piano and a chorus of his own vocals. It is the year's most haunting moment, reminding us of Elliott's still-shining talent, reminding us that his light never burn out, nor will it ever fade away.