Patti Smith: Dream of Life

Hail the High Priestess of Rock n' Roll

                                 Jesus died for somebody's sins but not mine."

                                                                                     - Patti Smith

Nor mine, Darling.

I just finished watching Patti Smith: Dream of Life; a nuanced, experimental, biographical documentary not so much on her life as it is a collection of her thoughts, remembrances and feelings on a variety of events, topics and people that have crossed her path. It is the perfect format for Her Highness.

Poet, goddess, musician, artist, mother, activist and radical, Patti Smith has always transcended mere rock icon status.

My introduction to her was in 1976 on Saturday Night Live. My preteen fantasy of staying up late with the adults and pretending I understood all the comedic references on the red hot show was in full throttle. I remember a rather unattractive woman in a white collared shirt and loosened black tie stepping up to the microphone, speak/singing the intro to a song and then bursting out hyper-kinetically with the most rousing version of Gloria I had ever heard. Which I confess, was the only version of Gloria I had ever heard at that point in my life. I also thought she sucked and ruined The Who's My Generation which she covered for her second number on the show.

What do you want from me? I was twelve. I was listening to Deep Purple and BTO for chrissakes.

Four years later, my pimply faced, faux-intellectual ass began fancying itself an underground/New Wave sort of guy (my bourgeoning into a dreamily irresistible Adonis would come one year later) and I purchased her LP Easter. Mostly because Because the Night was on it, but I think that performance of Gloria a few years back had resonated with me somehow (although it would be a few years later until I owned Horses). I also thought it was cool that Patti didn't give a shit about her armpits not being shaved on the album's cover. That was gutsy. That was rebellious. With that single act of feminine underarm assertiveness Patti was saying "fuck you" to this whole lousy world.

Man, I was an insufferable shit.

But the album was not. It rocked. It changed the testosterone infused, male-mongoloid way I regarded women's roles in rock and roll. Up until then the Wilson sisters were my primary barometer.

Patti became my High Priestess.

Well, her and Nico. I've got a thing for big Teutonic broads, don't you know. I've been known to make Simone wear a Viking helmet and scream Wagner lyrics when we make violent love.

But we were talking about Patti.

To me she is the consummate artist. Well versed in literature, poetry, painting, music, politics, she edges along the border of massive pretense but most always comes back around to kick your ass with something feral, raw and deep.

Ten years in the making, Steven Sebring's Dream of Life follows her around the world. Alternating color and black & white footage gives the film a nice visual edge. Patti is seen reflecting on the lives that have touched her and her art. The deaths as well, from her husband (and father of her two children) Fred "Sonic" Smith (of MC5), to Robert Mapplethorpe, to Alan Ginsburg to William S. Burroughs.

There's concert footage from recent tours, archival bits from the '70s, a visit to her folks' place where she grew up, beach talk (centering on clandestine urination) with Flea from The Chili Peppers, interactions with her children, poetry recitations, a cappella singing, protest rallies, etc. It's a unique look at a strangely beautiful artist. I'm not sure I've ever seen a profile quite like it. It's often dreamlike as the title implies, effortlessly fluttering around the ethereal and the grim actualities of life.

It was nice revisiting her. She is as centered and self-actualized as I'd always imagined her to be. A confident voice and talent from a generation that I fear is fast retreating into the ether. And I don't hear or see anyone stepping up to grab her torch. That flame burns way too hot for the girl singers of today.

Praise be to my Punk Poet Rock Goddess. I am a better man for having known of her.

Peace, peace! he is not dead, he doth not sleep -
He hath awakened from the dream of life -
'Tis we, who lost in stormy visions, keep
With phantoms an unprofitable strife,
And in mad trance, strike with our spirit's knife
Invulnerable nothings. -We decay
Like corpses in a charnel; fear and grief
Convulse us and consume us day by day,
And cold hopes swarm like worms within our living clay.

                                                              Adonais

                                                              by Percy Bysshe Shelley