we're going to move to japan and start a post-rock band
[this is a post from the archives - originally sent january 15th, 2018]
Patti Smith's birthday was about two weeks ago and I've been trying to put something together to include here for three. I thought this would be an easy birthday to celebrate, after all the All-Gram Parsons' birthday-palooza email was a thirty minute brain dump, and my ode to Tom Waits was a ten minute prayer before rushing off to work (as if you couldn't tell...) This one, though, this one's been tough. Each email since has had scraps of nonsense tossed in and then chucked out before I hit send, but it's gotten dull trying to find exactly the right words so, anyway, here are the wrong ones.
Patti Smith is not at the top of the list of my favorite musicians, but she is very near the top of my favorite people-who-exist-in-the-world-in-interesting-ways list. Which might be why this is harder. I can talk fast and furious and at length about the music I admire/need/inhale, but I've never been so good at describing people and what they mean.
Don't get me wrong - it's not that I don't enjoy her music. I do, and if provided with the right amount of tequila, could probably be easily persuaded to do a karaoke triple feature of Gloria, Because the Night, and Dancing Barefoot. But, I've spent far more time with her other work than any of her recordings and it's Patti off the stage that I turn to more often for inspiration. I read three of her books before ever listening to one album straight through. There are currently six books by or about Patti Smith on my nightstand; it would be seven but my copy of M Train seems to have disappeared. (There are currently 37 books on my nightstand, but even so.) Woolgathering is one of my favorite books (It can be inhaled in one sitting! they have it at the library! go!). If someone can find me a copy of Witt that won't cost me an arm and a leg, we can be new best friends.
Patti Smith is not perfect, but heroes shouldn't be. They should stumble and curse and fall off stages and throw sandwiches at the press. When they write autobiographies the stories should change a little from book to book, with the telling and with time because memory isn't permanence and why write if you can't rewrite? They should lay it all out there and love hard and loud but know that some things and some people are too sacred to put into words. They should go on pilgrimages to the graves of their heroes, humbled, and hoard objects knowing that a small thing can mean nothing but also everything. They should forget the words to the songs sometimes, and especially when it's not their words to sing or their award to accept. They should admit that sometimes you just need to hide in a hotel and watch detective shows because the world is a big and crazy place even when you're Patti. Fucking. Smith.
Happy belated 71st, Patti. Thank you.
(Go listen to Horses. Make up your own lyrics to Because the Night - they started as Springsteen's anyway; mine are about road rage. Read M Train and Just Kids and Devotion and Woolgathering and if you want to borrow my copy, you probably can.)
At the start of this year, I had the decidedly horrible experience of spending a couple days having to wonder (and worry and wake up at 3am to wonder and worry more) if I had cancer and what that would mean. I do not. There is a particular type of gratitude reserved for a doctor that tells you that results will take a week but calls to give you them after just two.
During the sleepless nights of cold sweats and ceiling fans, I leaned heavily on this particular Wes Montgomery compilation because it goes down easy enough to coax out something like rest but moves fast enough to be a serviceable distraction when sleep just definitely isn't coming.
During the day I needed music that was louder and faster and had lyrics to sing along to so that I could silence the scared and stupid thoughts running through my head. Maybe it was building on the Patti Smith vibes, or maybe it's because one of the ridiculous arguments my brain kept circling back to late at night was "But I haven't even started learning to play the drums yet." * but most of the soundtrack for those days ended up being female-led rock, something I usually stumble upon rather than seek out. Albums that worked well to drown out the fear:
* I don't really have a bucket list and I wouldn't have thought this would be on it if I did, but apparently it's important enough to argue with fate over (or insignificant enough to focus on to avoid the truly scary thoughts). Drums, though? A surprising bargaining chip. I knew a part of me has always wanted to be Alison Mosshart, but I guess there's a little more Meg White in my aspirations than previously thought.
** I don't think there's been a week since this album came out that I didn't put it on at some point. This is my first pit stop when I need to dwell on Feelings but not get bogged down in the overwhelming sad kind. It's so so good. Listen to it.
"What does one desire. A partner. A freewheeling moon. Or perhaps to hear again as one heard as a child. A music - curious, optimistic, as plain and elusive as the call of the reel permeating a summer night. Expanding squares of laughter and delight. Everyone dancing, just dancing."
- Patti Smith, duh. From Woolgathering, also duh.