The emboldened young men who'd surrounded me moments before walked away with signed copies of various Patti products, which instantly spiked in value. I could visualize their eBay listings in my head. And I stood there with my pristine copy of Witt, her rare 1973 poetry chapbook that I knew she’d be so happy to see, untouched by its author.
A small coterie of us said goodbye and thanked her as we tucked her into her host’s incongruous chariot. And gratefully, as Patti had given a funny, heartfelt, sweet, honest, and intimate performance—all the while exuding the Jersey girl she is. She’d sang, played guitar, brought out REM’s Peter Buck to accompany her on “People Have the Power,” read from her new book, fielded audience questions (even when they were ridiculous), and seemed to crack herself up as she presented herself, in ski cap and oversized bifocals, without affectation.
Seconds before I had been 6 inches away from her, leaning in as she signed 2 album covers for the troll-like young man who had lurked by the stage door with me. He had a bit of a Mark David Chapman vibe that scared me, and by God, he was going to get his vinyl signed no matter what. Standing immediately behind him, I had pulled out my vintage volume and had it at the ready. But for some reason, Patti zigged when I thought she would zag, and our paths did not cross, our eyes did not meet, and…sniff, sniff…she didn’t even know I was alive.
And given the icy stare Mark David had received when he’d asked her to sign, the way she’d said, “Got a pen? I DON’T have a pen,” I could tell that it was not the right moment. Not the time for me to tell her that I’d cried the whole way through one of the songs she’d played. “Beneath the Southern Cross,” the lyrics to which I’d posted on my blog at the depth of my depression when I fervently desired to be “not anyone…gone.” At that moment I had no inkling that I’d ever see Patti Smith in my very own state, be alive for her giving such a touching performance just a few rows in front of me. I connected with this person who has experienced so many deaths in her life and realized how profound such a cord can be between spirits. This in fact seemed the point of my 5-hour drive: that when the depths of despair corner us, when we feel hopeless after years of continual anguish, we need to trust that transcendent, amazing moments lie ahead of us—moments we may be happy to be alive for. Even if all we can see are the murky depths of a void that howls not with chaos but with still, black despair.
I’m never terribly skilled at meeting my idols, as many times as my career as a music critic has cast me in that role. The first time I met Jackson Browne, after having talked to him over the phone and written several long pieces about him, he acknowledged me politely but then took a huge shine to Michele, whom he mistook for a woman who’d baked him a loaf of bread 10 years ago in CA. They had a long conversation while I stood and watched from the sidelines, clearly a third wheel. Then there was one of the times I met the Indigo Girls. We were riding on their tour bus through Taos Pueblo. At one point, we disembarked to see the large buffalo herd. Amy Ray turned to me and said, only half-jokingly, “Let’s feed the journalist to the buffalo.” Well, at least she had addressed me, I guess.
I’m never terribly skilled at meeting my idols, as many times as my career as a music critic has cast me in that role. The first time I met Jackson Browne, after having talked to him over the phone and written several long pieces about him, he acknowledged me politely but then took a huge shine to Michele, whom he mistook for a woman who’d baked him a loaf of bread 10 years ago in CA. They had a long conversation while I stood and watched from the sidelines, clearly a third wheel. Then there was one of the times I met the Indigo Girls. We were riding on their tour bus through Taos Pueblo. At one point, we disembarked to see the large buffalo herd. Amy Ray turned to me and said, only half-jokingly, “Let’s feed the journalist to the buffalo.” Well, at least she had addressed me, I guess.
In the mid-'90s I created a small stir with Rory Block, after having spoken with her on the phone for 2½ hours and hung with her in her tour bus after the show. The next time she came to town, I went to see her almost blind drunk. After the show, I went backstage and hugged her, which was probably more like careening into her arms trying not to fall down. I said, “Hey, Rory. You got married! That’s great!!! I just got married too!” I turned to introduce her to my spouse, whom I had in my stupor forgotten wasn’t backstage. Or in the bar. In fact, she'd never even been at the show. Darn, I hate it when that happens. Rory looked at me with all the bizarreness her eyes could conjure and made it clear that I should get my pillow and she would drive me to rehab.
With all this history behind me, I did not want to make any of the same mistakes with Patti. I wanted us to meet in a moment of profundity, on a mystical cloud of spirit and poetry only she and I inhabited. I wanted our souls to touch and meld together for all time. And if that couldn’t happen, I at least wanted her to look me in the eye, smile, and take some sort of joy, however minor, in apprehending me. Attachment. I craved a wee bit of genuine attachment.
As the Magic 8 Ball is known to utter, “Ask again later.”
After having been around a lot of celebrities, I believe many things about those we choose to idolize, idealize and fashion into public figures. One is that we must nurture their spirits as they so nurture our own. If an artist looks tired, it behooves us not to bug them, but to allow them to exit graciously, go home, and get some rest. If we want that artist to continue giving shows and interacting with fans at all, it is helpful if we don’t so push our agendas that they grow their nails 10” long and never leave their private screening room like Howard Hughes. We should treat them with dignity and respect, as we would a political dignitary or religious figure—not instantly assume that they are obligated to serve our whims simply because we’ve plunked a few bucks into their savings accounts.
I’m happy to say that I partially met Patti Smith tonight, and yet…part of me wishes I had simply left it at the sublime performance. At the hammy one-liners and self-deprecating wisecracks. At her quipping (after a particularly dumb question), "What are you, on pills??"
Seeing the performer’s mask get dropped and the cranky, impatient, all-too-human being come out ached a bit. And yet, much of why we respond to Patti and other poets in the ways we do is because their humanity shines through their work—and catalyzes us to shine through ours.
Seeing the performer’s mask get dropped and the cranky, impatient, all-too-human being come out ached a bit. And yet, much of why we respond to Patti and other poets in the ways we do is because their humanity shines through their work—and catalyzes us to shine through ours.
