Patti Smith

Wed Aug 18

Crystal Ballroom

1332 W Burnside

A well-positioned sticker on Trampin’–the fourth record this decade by the somewhat recently resuscitated “punk rock poet laureate” Patti Smith–informs us that the record “is to this decade what Horses [Smith’s debut] was to the ’70s: a repudiation of its time, and the promise of a way forward.” The comic ridiculousness of this claim is matched only by the quote’s source–one David Fricke. For those with better things to do than keep up with the painfully parasitic world of rock journalism, the acclaimed, perpetually jean-jacketed Fricke is the Senior Editor and last bastion of credibility at Rolling Stone–a dinosaur who’s been writing for the magazine since well before I was born. To be fair, I haven’t read the rest of Fricke’s five-star review, but the remark seems so much like that of self-preservation: as if pretending that Patti Smith was again a relevant force in contemporary pop music might somehow elevate himself to some sense of relevance by proxy.

But irrelevance and quality aren’t always mutually exclusive–and with her new record company’s packaging choices aside–Trampin’ is easily the most passionate performance Smith has mustered since the halcyon days. Again working with Patti Smith Band compatriots Lenny Kaye and Jay Dee Daugherty, Trampin’ is crafted in a very “post-9/11” sort of motif–with subject matter largely of political railing and revolutionary hope. Though vague politicism has long been a part of Smith’s mystique, politics always felt properly subdued by the personal on her best records–a balance that has made a resounding shift with her latest. And though Smith’s politics are certainly more beautifully articulated than that of nearly any other political reactionary in music today, it’s still a little difficult to stomach a 57-year-old rock star mom harping on (over a largely flaccid classic rock band) about civil liberties, shock and awe, Martin Luther King, Ghandi, and, most offensively, “us” versus “them”–regardless of her conviction.

Don’t get me wrong–I’m not trying to tarnish the glory of one of rock history’s most singularly important icons, who today maintains a credibility that (with the arguable exception of Dylan) exceeds any of the genre’s ancient torchbearers; a brilliant figure whose voice and performance defy her years. It’s just impossible to argue that–pushing 60–Smith’s social relevance has any relationship with the stark, androgynous Smith of her ’30s. Unless, perhaps, if you’re an aging rock journalist.