Before Portlandia made my hometown’s quirks the object of loving ridicule, the most common complaint against the city was the rain. Fair. But in Portland, the rain is more ambient than pounding, surfaces reflecting the opalescent sky. Elliott Smith is the soundtrack to a wet Portland day–and he’s still in my head on green-gray day in New York. This October marks the 10-year anniversary of Smith’s death, and there’s a new biography: “Torment Saint: The Life of Elliott Smith,” by William Todd Schultz. What is the thing that Smith had that we haven’t heard since? I asked Schultz to propose a few theories why Elliott Smith is still in our heads.