Patti Smith

Jesus died for somebody's sins but not mine

Melting in a pot of thieves wild card up my sleeve

Thick heart of sins my own

Thy belong to me. Me

(Patti Smith, “Gloria”)

Patti Smith's childhood heroine was Maria Callas. There's every reason to believe that having an idol of that caliber was the finest lesson she could have had before setting out on her own golden path. Like Patti Smith, in rock's crowded nativity scene, there has been no one else quite like her, just as there had been no one quite like her before. The mothers of singer-songwriters are Joan Baez and Joni Mitchell, but she was something else entirely.

Of the three who were “playing with words” in New York in the mid-70s – Tom Verlaine, Richard Hell and Patti Smith – only the last of them wears the poet's laurels without dispute. The first was too reserved, with his awkward passion for the guitar solo, the second too much of a showman. She, on the other hand, claimed the title of “poet” with ease a quarter of a century ago.

Patti Smith's lyrics are among the finest in rock history, but calling her a poet implicitly amounts to admitting that poetry is superior to songwriting. Since these are two different forms, requiring different skills and techniques, that assumption is misguided as well as misleading. Let's say that anyone who isn't satisfied simply calling Patti Smith an excellent lyricist, but feels the need to call her a “poet”, is admitting to an inferiority complex on rock'n'roll's part toward forms with a longer tradition behind them. Smith was a formidable songwriter, performer and punk frontwoman. You could buy all her first three albums without fear of disappointment, and perhaps the fourth too, but Patti had already carved out her place in the annals of rock with just the first single by the Patti Smith Group (Richard Sohl on piano, Lenny Kaye – also the curator of the legendary Nuggets compilation – on guitar, Ivan Kral on bass and Jay Dee Daugherty on drums), “Hey Joe/Piss Factory”, and above all with her debut album “Horses”, produced by John Cale.

It's the least electric of her 1970s records, but also the most convulsive, energetic, original and punk. The most forward-thinking in attitude, even though it's chronologically the oldest. It's the album that brought a new musical language into rock history: a kind of fusion between "free form" spoken-word performance and music, in which the lyrics become a starting point but never a limit; indeed, they're often the vehicle that lets the songs expand and stretch out constantly.

On the cover, Smith apes Frank Sinatra. A perfect poster, like many of her images. The album opens with "Gloria", a cover of the Them song written by Van Morrison. An unpublished poem is embedded within the original blues number. Her voice is beautiful and powerful, but at its peak it snarls. Smith proves a irreverent interpreter of Christian faith: "Jesus died for somebody's sins, but not mine" and "my sins are my own, they belong to me".

"Redondo Beach", on the other hand, is a melancholy piece (it tells of a girl's suicide) set to a reggae rhythm, with the Group producing delicate backing vocals. The nine minutes of "Birdland" lay all the cards on the table. The lyrics were improvised in the studio based on a story by Peter Reich: the boy sees his long-dead father aboard a spaceship, and cries at length begging to be taken away with him, but all that's left for him is to lie down on the grass. Only Smith sings, while the lead guitar respectfully stays out of the way. "Free Money", a frenetic boogie about the relationship between love and money, is another exhausting ride, with Kaye grinding out mile after mile of rock'n'roll, while Smith, with her feverish, guttural singing, does nothing but confirm herself as one of the greatest rock vocalists of all time. "Kimberly" is a typically new wave ballad, seasoned with assorted smirks and organ lines, with scattered echoes of Velvet Underground. In "Break It Up" you can hear Tom Verlaine's guitar howling. Worth appreciating, in the background, is Sohl's work.

"Land" is further split into three parts: "Horses", a hysterical crescendo for voice and rhythm section, "Land Of A Thousand Dances", pure dreamy rock, and "La mer(de)", a whispered continuation at times. For another nine minutes, a certain Johnny, borrowed from William Burroughs, is first brutally killed, then goes through strange adventures. In "Elegie", Allen Lanier of Blue Oyster Cult also appears on guitar, bringing in a certain solemn, melodic atmosphere.

What's disconcerting about this record is how current it still feels: it could easily have been recorded a month ago. Which is rather unsettling, given that seemingly no one has managed to broaden or update its themes since. Although it's not clearly credited on the cover, as would happen with later works, this is the work of a band. Atypical and excellent. Without fear of contradiction, it's an album unique in flavor, backdrop and intent, as well as one of the most influential pages in rock history.

Austere melodies cut through hazy atmospheres, and over everything sits a one-of-a-kind voice. Anyone who hears it will always remember that smirk and that girlish timbre, and can't help but associate it with a sense of sadness and courage at once. Even though the lyrics never tackle the subject head-on, it's also a formidable record of struggle: the anger you can feel in every note is unmistakable.

As with bands like Television or Velvet Underground, when discussing Patti Smith's records people also like to highlight their "arty" attitude. While that's entirely fair for her later, more formally rock-oriented works, it doesn't apply to this debut. Which is "arty", in the good sense, in form, but rock 'n' roll in attitude. The best rock record with a woman's name on the cover, and one of the best with any name on the cover at all.

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09/11/2006