During a rehearsal with a band I was in the subject of Dashboard Confessional came up. Dashboard was probably first mentioned negatively, maybe as a joke about the band’s overly emotional nature but the bassist of my band reacted strongly against our jest saying that “Dude, Chris Carrabba means every word he sings!” If you don’t already know, Chris Carrabba is the songwriter, guitarist, singer and original member of what was a one-man side project he started after quitting Further Seems Forever in 2000 (or in 1998—before joining Further Seems Forever—depending on which historical revision you’re following.) This idea sparked some debate between the members of my band, “does he really mean everything he sings?” “That cannot be possible. The guy is like 30! There’s no way he really gets that torn up about every girl he meets.” One member took the stance that he was doing it simply for the money and popularity, not to mention all the girls who screamed his name.

I wasn’t exactly sure what I believed about Carrabba as a person. I wasn’t sold on his being completely legit, but I was also not overcome with my friend’s pessimism. There had to be some explanation that Dashboard’s songs could be an authentic reflection of Carrabba and his inner teenage boy. There had to be some part of him that hadn’t left behind high school emotional logic. There must be some part of him that is a child and speaks like a child. There must also be a part of him that has experienced deep pain. And this brings about the obvious question and the reason for this investigation. Is he serious? In what world does a 30 year old man write songs like he is 15? Is he for real? I think I may have a few ideas how.

In 1993 Elliott Smith, upon the prompting of his then girlfriend, recorded 8 acoustic songs that didn’t seem to fit with his current band Heatmiser. The songs were recorded to a four track tape machine Smith borrowed and were not meant for anyone to hear. He even tracked them underneath a stairwell in a basement to ensure complete privacy and emotional security. Listening to the record makes me red-faced; like Smith was writing secret letters to himself. They read like his private diary. The lyrics confess feelings of violence, hatred, self-immolation, and most of all, pain. The record was never meant to be released; it was more of a way for Smith to exercise some inner demons but the same girlfriend who encouraged their recording also encouraged their release and, fortunately for us, released it was.

Much like the making of Elliott Smith’s debut record Roman Candle (actually, it’s pretty incredible how similar both Smith and Carrabba’s rise to solo careers is,) Dashboard Confessional’s Chris Carrabba had a few songs that didn’t fit with his former band, and he needed to get them out. The resulting The Drowning EP evokes the same feelings as Roman Candle: pain, regret and an emotional honesty only found in death row inmates who discover Jesus while awaiting the axe to fall. The songs were written in July 1998 and recorded later by friend and producer James Paul Wisner, a rising emo recordist from Florida. The EP caught the attention of Fiddler Records which gave Carrabba an opportunity outside of Further Seems Forever; a band he felt increasingly awkward as a member (and had quit before returning to record their debut The Moon is Down.)

Stylistically, both EPs are very similar. Mostly acoustic guitars and vocals. A little harmony here and there. Roman Candle is colored with some electric guitar, while The Drowning EP is fleshed out with keyboards. Accidentals and key changes abound but both EPs are sparsely ornamented, naked songs left so to convey the inner pain of the tortured songwriter. The lyrics speak to an unnamed “you,” known only to the hand which scrawled the words in his private journal now sung for everyone to hear. Ambiguous and poetic enough for us to project meaning and to create meaning all our own which is one of the main appeals of Smith’s and Carrabba’s lyrics. But there is a distinct darkness present in Smith’s lyrics and music that just isn’t in Carrabba’s. Smith’s albums do not sound like an outlet as much as we are actually given residence inside his head. We see what he sees in the mirror, and it cannot escape him. Carrabba, on the other hand, sounds like he is purging his inner demons. The songs call out the demons by name which compells their escape.

On “Drowning,” Carrabba confesses a proclivity to imbibe by analyzing the behavior of others. “Are you drowning your fears in a glass of deception?” he asks to the object of the song and us, but mostly to himself. A confession that “truth is in a tall beer” and a revelation that one cannot take the easy way out or forget about problems at the bottom of a glass. And on “For Justin,” Carrabba is telling himself the past year of mourning over the death of his friend has caused growth, and resolution to “live a life you would think is sane.” Through the emotional bleeding, Carrabba wants to become better.

But for Smith it is not that simple. His problems seem bigger, heavier, more tragic and wrought by someone else’s hand. They cannot be erased by a simple chorus. All of the “No Name” songs, “Roman Candle,” “Condor Ave.,” “Drive All Over Town” all seem to deal with Smith’s father’s (or perhaps step-father’s) physical abuse of both himself and his mother. A pain that is deep, difficult to really understand and lasting. There is less hope here. The pain haunts Smith throughout his life, and he eventually commits suicide under very strange circumstances (a lot of which was motivated by drug use and alcohol among having an anxiety disorder and panic attacks. Again, heavy stuff.)

After Fiddler agreed to release The Drowning EP, they immediately rushed Carrabba back into the studio for him to record a proper full length. The songs that would become The Swiss Army Romance which marked a transition in Carrabba’s lyrical subject matter. More songs about girls! And this time with prettier sounding chord progressions and guitar tunings. The songs became lighter and simpler and somehow more naive. This naivety brought to light a whole new person of comparison for me: Michael Scott.