There Was an Old Woman Who Traveled the World

I just read Patti Smith's new book, Year of the Monkey (Knopf, 2019), a memoir of her seventieth year.  I've been following Smith's career since she wrote record reviews for Creem magazine in the early 70s, when she was a poet and not yet a singer, and while I'm ambivalent about her, she's made some great records and I find her very interesting.

Year of the Monkey begins with Smith in San Francisco for a New Year's Eve performance.  She and her guitarist Lenny Kaye had intended to work with their old friend and colleague Sandy Pearlman, but Pearlman didn't show up and they only learned later that he'd had a stroke and was in the hospital in a coma.  (He died the following summer.)  Smith hung around in the Bay area for some time, staying in a motel by the ocean, fretting over Pearlman, trying to work.  As the book goes on, she returns to her home in New York City, prepares for a tour; spends time in Kentucky with the playwright Sam Shepard, who was dying of ALS, helping him to edit the manuscript of what turned out to be his final book; mourns the election of Donald Trump, observes her seventieth birthday.  She recounts dreams and visions and internal conversations with the sign of the Dream Motel, keeps running into a pompous drifter/shaman called Ernest - whose literal existence I somewhat doubt, but hey, Smith is a poet.

Year of the Monkey is an interesting book, though I find her prose unsatisfying. I can't quite put my finger on the problem.  Somehow she writes in such a way that she seems less intelligent than she obviously is.  But what I mainly took away was the realization that Smith was writing as an old woman, a widow with two grown children as well as an artist with decades of achievement.  It says something positive about the changes of the past fifty years that a woman of her age could write about drifting around, staying in cheap motels, finding rides, walking through the desert -- it's the kind of itinerancy that Jack Kerouac dreamed of, but that was traditionally a guy thing, especially a young guy thing. 

Of course Smith is also a settled, financially comfortable adult with an apartment in New York; she's not a hobo, but she has the freedom of movement that is not conventionally associated with women.  It's a picture of an old woman very different than what I find in other old women writers like May Sarton or Doris Grumbach.  I can't imagine either of them packing for a European lecture tour "six Electric Lady T-shirts, six pair of underwear, six of bee socks, two notebooks, herbal cough remedies, my camera, the last packs of slightly expired Polaroid film and one book, Collected Poems of Allen Ginsberg" (page 98).  Aging isn't what it used to be, and what a good thing that is.

Do You Know How To Pony?

I didn't have time today to write a real post, so here's some more queer music from the 70s, "Land" from Patti Smith's first album, Horses (1975). Aside from her own playing with gender, she was best buds with Robert Mapplethorpe (who took this great photo for the lp cover), hung out with William S. Burroughs, and had a fetishistic fascination with Arthur Rimbaud. I'd already heard of her as a poet before she began doing music, and had read her record reviews in Creem magazine. For all her apparent spaciness, she was always tough-minded, and when she signed with Arista she demanded and got artistic control, even writing her own ad copy.

"Land" is Smith's version of "Land of a Thousand Dances", spun out into almost ten minutes of improvised poetry and singing, beginning with a male-on-male rape in a school hallway. I saw her do it live (in Bloomington, Indiana, in 1976), and other live versions have been recorded, including videos on YouTube, but I prefer this studio version. Producer John Cale had Smith record her vocal three times, and the vocal tracks are mixed together, sometimes proceeding independently, sometimes coming together ("the boy looked at Johnny" still gives me chills), sometimes just exhorting the band ("Build it! Build it! Build it!"). It's a great solution to the problem of recording an improvisatory concert piece, and it's an incredibly powerful piece of music.

For this clip, someone edited together some strange video material (note especially the aerobic poodles) to accompany the music. It's quite disturbing in its surrealism -- you wouldn't want to watch this in an altered state of consciousness -- but very well done. My only wish is that the video were better synchronized with the music, instead of lagging a bit behind the beat, but it's still effective.