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Patti Smith


PATTI SMITH, Glasgow Royal Concert Hall



She reads "Piss Factory" clad in Rimbaud-fixated rock-waif rags, down to a "Horses"-style skinny black scarf. Time may have added flecks of grey to the original pre-Morissette swaying black mane but, despite personal loss and two lengthy breaks from the rock arena, Patti Smith retains her emotive voice and instinct for intense celebratory performance.
On "Piss Factory"'s culminating cry of intent: "Oh watch me now!", the band - including Tom Verlaine and long-time Smith cohorts Lenny Kaye and Jay Dee Daugherty - launches into the New York reggae of "Redondo Beach". Adept and adaptable players, the sound the Concert Hall gives them is pristine. On 'Wing" it's as clear, calm and wide as prairie at dusk. Smith's voice glides sublimely over acoustic guitar, rolling bass and brushed drums while the seated Verlaine, resplendent in floppy hat, supplies a discreetly keening slide.
The upbeat "Dancing Barefoot" is addressed literally: American punk always retained a hippy element. Smith sits on a monitor, shedding shoes and socks. then dispatches strident single "Summer Cannibals" with extrovert vigour. But as you meditate on the bohemian maturity on display, birthday boy Jackson Smith appears from the wings, heavy metal axe in hand, Usurping his mother's spotlight, teen-dude Jackson squalls through his party-piece; "Smoke on the Water", vocals courtesy of Lenny Kaye. Significantly, Verlaine coolly disengages his elliptical prairie-picking from this and a later Kaye -sung aberration.
"Beneath the Southern Cross" - modal, acoustic - and the incantational "Ghost Dance" redress the balance, which only slips briefly as Smith follows a tender, near-immaculate "Crystal Ship" with a wandering reggae-fied extrapolation of Prince's "When Doves Cry".
The home strait is cruised in some style. Patti dances "Because the Night" away in the eight foot pit between stage and audience - a killjoy imposition she's decried all evening. During the encore medley "Land"/"Gloria" the fevered front rows spill to the lip of the stage, grasping the singer's naked feet, shaking her hands and cheering as she mounts the P.A. Solo encore "Farewell Reel" closes a show of impassioned rock, shimmering elegies and occasional taste-free indulgences. I don't expect Patti Smith will care what's considered cool. As she proclaimed in "Babel": "i am an american artist and i have no guilt".
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