Twice a year, I pay a visit to the affectionately christened Elliott Smith Memorial Wall. Located on Sunset Boulevard in Silver Lake, the wall — which to most simply stands as the exterior of Solutions, an electronic store — has become a sacred site for nostalgic Smith fans since the singer-songwriter’s untimely death in 2003.

The whimsical swirls of red, blue and white paint served as the cover art for Smith’s 2000 album, Figure 8, the last record the Los Angeles-from-Portland musician would complete before his death. Although photographer Autumn de Wilde’s picture of a shy Smith, hands in pockets and shoulders slouched, is a prominent image that has undoubtedly been inducted into album cover hall of fame, it is now better known as a makeshift memorial with scrawls of Sharpie-outlined messages and lyrics that attracts numerous sad, hands-in-pockets and shoulders-slouched indie-rock devotees.

Like Jim Morrison’s grave in Pere Lachaise Cemetery in Paris, the Elliott Smith Memorial Wall serves as a site where fans not only pay tribute to a beloved artist but also wonder — and perhaps dream — of what could have been if Smith’s career were not cut short.

It’s an unfortunate but altogether natural sentiment that often surfaces with the loss of an artist, especially when he seems to have a vast vault of material to offer. On a more trivial level, this feeling also materializes with the announcement of the breakup of a popular or cult-favorite band.

Some fans are satisfied with remembering the artist or band the way they were, whether alive or together, and the music they have already produced and released. Others, however, are left wanting more.

Fortunately for those who cannot let go, the music industry knows how to capitalize on this need.

The art of rehashing, remixing and re-releasing material from late musicians is not exactly a new practice. Rock pioneer Buddy Holly had a majority of his work released following his unexpected death in 1959; for nearly 10 years after his passing, Coral Records unleashed both singles and full-length albums onto the music market.

Similarly, Otis Redding’s “(Sittin’ On) The Dock of the Bay” became the first posthumous single in chart history in 1968, while rock idol and heralded guitarist Jimi Hendrix has seven posthumous albums to his name.

In the last decade, deceased hip-hop artists, such as Notorious B.I.G., Tupac Shakur and TLC’s Lisa “Left Eye” Lopez, have also joined the list of artists with posthumous records.

And even Smith’s wall was not enough, as From a Basement on a Hill was released in 2004 (a record that was already four years into production); New Moon, a two-disc compilation of tracks excluded from albums, followed in 2007; and the reissue of Smith’s debut LP, Roman Candle, is due out this April.

But in recent years, the music pipeline has been inflated with not only posthumous records but also reissues and compilations from bands that may have flatlined but whose members are still kicking.

In 2009, seminal yet little known all-female punk band The Raincoats re-released its self-titled debut album, while Pavement, the godfathers of indie-rock who disbanded in 1999, has publicized a reunion after its newfound resurgence of cultural relevance and is launching its best of compilation, Quarantine the Past: The Best of Pavement, in March.

And just last week, the Rolling Stones announced it was going to release a re-mastered version of the band’s most critically acclaimed record, the 1972 blues-rock tour de force Exile on Main Street. The reissue, which will also be available in an ultra-deluxe package that includes a 30-minute documentary DVD and 50-page collector’s book, features 10 brand-new tracks as well as alternate takes of “Soul Survivor” and “Loving Cup.”

Akin to the movie industry, which has its sticklers for film preservation (with Martin Scorsese leading the way), remastering an artist’s recordings, whether he’s deceased or retired, is often backed by the altruistic undertaking of protecting the artist’s work.

Larry Crane, editor of Tape Op Magazine and archivist for Smith’s family, contends that the decision to reissue Roman Candle primarily resulted from a production concern.

“The intention that I had was to make the album more listenable,” said Crane in an interview with FACT. “I felt that a lot of the guitar ‘squeaks’ were jarring and very loud and that many of the hard consonants and ‘S’ sounds were jarring and scratchy sounding.”

But others, including Stones guitarist Keith Richards, believe it is in the fans’ best interest to maintain the music’s production purity.

“I really wanted to leave them pretty much as they were,” Richards said in a recent interview with Rolling Stone. “I didn’t want to interfere … They still had that great basement sound.”

For the musicians who are still around but are not producing new material and the music industry that’s currently coping with digital media and relatively meager record sales, these reissues are certainly money makers. From legends like the Rolling Stones and the Beatles — whose 1 compilation album, released in 2000, was the best-selling record of the last decade — to formative indie rockers like Pavement — who are scheduled to play its first show in 10 years this month — these reissues are a surefire way to cash in on an already existing fan base.

Yet there’s more truth in a legacy an artist has created on his terms, even if it is in the form of an artfully painted wall belonging to an audio-video repair shop.

Certainly, the fancy packaging, hi-fi sound and prospect of never-before-heard material is intriguing, but sometimes it’s easier to simply let go and let the music live on.

Lauren Barbato is a senior majoring in writing for screen and television. Her column, “Sound Check,” runs Tuesdays.