St.
George's Church, Brighton, Fri 9th Aug
This
marks, by my reckoning, the fifth time I've managed to see Patti
Smith and every time just seems to enrich the overall experience.
Returns multiply rather than diminish.
The time before last, I confidently stated that her music was
at root about transformation. Though perhaps 'generalised' would be a
better term. Inevitably, for someone so keen on such a suubject, she
was never going to stick to just that.
Transformation
is a description which best fits her first two albums,
'Horses' and 'Radio Ethiopia'.
They're made up less of songs or compositions than tracks;
hallucongenic poetry cross-bred with the convulsive storm of electric
instruments, until the desired systematic derangement of the senses
arrives. You know instinctively, even on first hearing, they're
tapping into something incohate. What you have isn't a finished work
so much as just one mainifestation from a potentially infinite
variety. The two albums finish the only way they could, in the
primordial chaos of 'Abyssinia', Smith less
delivering lines than outpouring shards of imagery.
This
night however, was much more focused on what Patti did next –
become a classic, if unorothodox, songwriter. Perfectly suited to
it's Church venue, grand yet initimite, it was an acoustic affair.
The drummer didn't even show up on stage until several songs in, and
sat on a stiff-backed chair behind his one drum. There were only two
tracks from those early albums, the more song-based 'Redondo
Beach' (with lyrics rewritten on the fly to reflect
Brighton beach) and the classic 'Pissing In a River'.
(The latter, which has always been something of a gospel number,
working particularly well.)
This
threw an emphasis on Smith's singing and words, often drowned in the
multi-tracked cacophony of the early albums. Billed 'an evening of
music and words', it also featured readings from her autobiography
'Just Kids'. (Which I have to confess to being yet to read.)
It was
probably most similar to the Bexhill gig. (Ironically the performance
which led to my ruminations on transformation) It had the same
impromptu feel, with Smith claiming breezily she'd bumped into one
band member on the beach. At the start of the encore, she stopped to
ask if anyone in the audience could play guitar, then promptly handed
the volunteer hers. He stayed onstage for the rest of the night, and
took his bow with them. But overall it was better than Bexhill;
smoother, more relaxed, it's chances more talking flight, it's road
less bumpy.
Smith
has a penchent for throwing in unexpected cover versions, and as ever
these arrived like curveballs. 'Summertime Blues'
was infectious fun, but for example a cover of Lennon's 'Beautiful
Boy' (apparantly first performed at Meltdown) didn't add
much to one of his weaker numbers. While you should expect the
unexpected with Smith, at such times I couldn't help but reflect on
all the numbers we weren't getting. (For example
no 'Paths That Cross', a personal favourite which
would have suited the line-up.)
Notably,
however, the whole audience kept a keen ear. While everything was
well-received, it was the highlights which won the most rapt
applause. Perhaps they were just hard to miss. If you didn't get
goose-bumps during 'Pissing In a River' or
'Beneath The Southern Cross', you probably don't
have a pulse.
In
'My Blakean Year', she sings of the road paved
with gold and the road that's “just a road.” There are not many
butter adverts to contend with when it comes to Patti Smith. She's
walked the long road for decades now, with no sign of stumbling. If
she's not an inspiration, I can't imagine what is.
In the
unlikely event of anyone being interested, here's what I said last time.
There
seems a dearth of footage of this gig, perhaps because of her open
antagonism to being photographed onstage. This version of 'Beneath
the Southern Cross', from Palermo earlier in the month,
looks to be a semi- acoustic break in an electric gig but may convey
some of the feeling...
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