The life and deaths of Patti Smith Amy Raphael, The Observer,
Sunday November 2 2008
I find Patti Smith in the polished marble lobby of a ritzy hotel in Paris. She is beyond incongruous. It's not the skinny jeans pushed into brown cowboy boots, the paper-thin, black V-neck T-shirt or the well-cut black jacket with its row of buttons on the cuffs. Nor is it much to do with the pitch-black sunglasses. It's the way the staff are gliding around the hotel so efficiently while Patti Smith moves so slowly, shoulders hunched, hair falling over her face. She looks utterly lost, utterly bereft. She is about to make her way to a downstairs bar to find coffee when a brisk woman says it's out of bounds. In return, Smith asks sharply why she can't go anywhere in the hotel today.
We return to the lobby, find a seat in the dark corner of another bar. I am more than a little nervous. Here's the woman who arguably made the first punk-rock record with 'Piss Factory' way back in 1974. Who witnessed the birth of rock'n'roll in America and then became a rock star herself with the release of Horses in 1975. Who always thought of herself not as a punk but as a poet, painter and photographer. Who was influenced by Bob Dylan and Mick Jagger and who has, by now, influenced three generations of musicians. Who, while her male musical peers burned out or faded away, is as vital at 61 as when she was a skinny, stylish, intense girl from New Jersey. And who is now more hippie pacifist than angry young woman.
Still, I'm not expecting our conversation to open with, 'sorry, sorry, sorry'. She is apologising for her grumpiness with the brisk woman. For feeling as though she's had the energy sucked out of her. She orders black coffee with hot water, removes her sunglasses and reveals eyes that are virtually glued together. It's oppressive outside and she is feeling it, with a headache that is threatening to intensify into a migraine. She flew in from New York the day before and was up till 5am, but she doesn't mind jet lag. 'I just couldn't sleep,' she explains in a slow, East Coast drawl. 'I'm sorry. It's the pressure in my head. Anyway ... I guess it's a combination of things. Stress about the American election and ... sorry. I've got to stop talking for a minute.'
We have talked for over three hours. I can't remember why I felt nervous. She invites me to the soundcheck at Eglise Saint-Germain-des-Prés that evening (an empty dark church with candles flickering while Patti Smith sings 'Because the Night' in her beautiful, resonant voice) and we have tea at midnight in her hotel. The next night, she plays at the church as part of the city's Nuit Blanche, a free all-night cultural event.
. . . With her son on guitar and daughter on piano, Smith starts performing just after 9.30pm and, with half-hour breaks, keeps going till 5am. There are still people waiting to see her as the sun comes up. It's an astonishing evening. People are sitting in the aisles, oblivious to the cold stone floor.
She dedicates a cover of Neil Young's 'Helpless' to her children's father. She does a spine-tingling 'Ghost Dance' and a rousing 'People Have the Power . . .
read more:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/music/2008/nov/02/patti-smith
Printer-friendly format
Email this thread to a friend
Bookmark this thread
(1000+ posts)
Send PM |
Profile |
Ignore
