Listening to Razorlight’s “In The City” today reminded me of Patti Smith. Some people hear Bob Dylan in this track - all I hear is “Gloria.” The pacing, the tempo, the crescendo - I think, I hope, it is an homage to Patti.
There are two times I have “lost it” with an artist. And by “lost it” I mean I went from my normal level of artist-admiration to a bright red, tongue-tied girl. Actually, three times if I count running into Robert Plant in “Antique Boutique” on Broadway back in the ‘80s and nearly going into cardiogenic shock, but I am only counting the work-related times.
The first time was when Mick Jones and Paul Simonon came up to our floor when we released The Essential Clash. But that is for another time.
The second time was with Patti Smith. Patti still scares the crap out of me and I don’t know why. She has been nothing short of charming whenever I have met her, which is exactly three times. Actually, the second time I met her she was very pissed off at the security detail of a midtown radio station, but she took a few moments out of her mega-sulk to look at me and say “Nice coat.” (This coat will always be my “Patti Smith Coat.”) Moments later she was sitting next to me gushing over early production samples of the Legacy Edition of Horses. I thought she might even cry.
She has a small but warm voice with a reassuring everyman accent. She has a smile that lights up her face. She is very funny. But she is a legend, a great living artist, “like freakin’ Picasso” as my old boss once said, so at the outset I worried about saying something incredibly stupid, or showing her a layout that she thought sucked.
A lot of artists are described as “electric,” but I believe she really is. I saw her once, years ago, on a rainy day with her shopping, and even in that most mundane and civilian environment, she had that look of unknown current, like a familiar appliance with an exposed wire.
And despite being virtually monochrome, a black and white halftone in signature blazer, boots and jeans, with long gray hair that drifts down her shoulders, the vibrancy of her performance really is electrifying. She is not afraid, nor embarrassed, to sing loud, shout, spit, recite poetry, be moved to tears, be contradictory and, in the case of her New York show back in April, read a bad record review to the audience. In short - to be exactly who she wants to be. Self-consciousness is for the lame hipster. She makes me want to quit my job and be an “artist.” That is her electricity, her “legendary-ness.” When I watch her perform I think she is the freest person on earth.
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