Patti, Paul and Me
Patti Smith has a new book out, detailing her relationship with the
photographer Robert Mapplethorpe in the New York of the 1970s. I read
about it in the Guardian but, having the attention span of an easily
distracted goldfish, I didn't get to the end of the article.
Mapplethorpe Schmapplethorope. I wanted to know more about her records.
To be honest, only the one LP, 'Horses'. And to be brutally honest,
only two songs from it. 'Land' and 'Gloria'.
I made the mistake of buying three of her early LPs and can't hardly find a decent punk rock tune anywhere. Yes, I know I'm missing the point, and I'm sure she's lying awake at night worried about my opinion of her music, but I can say that I know someone who did make an impression on her. Not a very good impression, unfortunately.
She was appearing at the Art College in Belfast a few years ago - not sure of the actual date but I'm sure it was this century. An acoustic show, which could have been an artistic decision or a financial decision, I'm not sure. I went in the company of a good friend, who I shall call Paul. He hadn't been out of the house in days and possibly got over excited at the prospect of seeing a New York music legend live in his home town. He also got drunk. The venue wasn't that large, neither was the crowd, so we managed to get a spot about three or four rows from the front. Paul clapped loudly. He whistled. He cheered. We all did. But Paul started to suggest songs. Loudly. I knew Patti heard him, because she started to give odd looks in our direction. By now, Paul was dancing dangerously as well. I positioned myself close behind him.
"Gloria!"
It was the tenth time of suggestion from Paul. Patti wasn't amused. Patti started to make comments about a certain person in the hallway, who was certainly not 'drinking a glass of tea'. Patti looked at Paul. Paul didn't run.
To stop ourselves being thrown out, I ended up with my hand over Paul's mouth, only allowing him to breathe, and , stupidly, to take more swigs from his beer. Suddenly...... we get the feeling .......we're surrounded by ......not horses, but Patti Smith fans who don't share Paul's fascination with shouting at the stage.
Then, without any great ceremony, Paul went home. Leaving Patti and her guitarist still on stage, untroubled by any further attempts to change the set list. And when Paul went, so did my interest in the rest of the show.Ìý Of course, when she comes up in conversation I say 'yes, of course I saw Patti Smith in the Art College - small crowd, but what a great night!'
I made the mistake of buying three of her early LPs and can't hardly find a decent punk rock tune anywhere. Yes, I know I'm missing the point, and I'm sure she's lying awake at night worried about my opinion of her music, but I can say that I know someone who did make an impression on her. Not a very good impression, unfortunately.
She was appearing at the Art College in Belfast a few years ago - not sure of the actual date but I'm sure it was this century. An acoustic show, which could have been an artistic decision or a financial decision, I'm not sure. I went in the company of a good friend, who I shall call Paul. He hadn't been out of the house in days and possibly got over excited at the prospect of seeing a New York music legend live in his home town. He also got drunk. The venue wasn't that large, neither was the crowd, so we managed to get a spot about three or four rows from the front. Paul clapped loudly. He whistled. He cheered. We all did. But Paul started to suggest songs. Loudly. I knew Patti heard him, because she started to give odd looks in our direction. By now, Paul was dancing dangerously as well. I positioned myself close behind him.
"Gloria!"
It was the tenth time of suggestion from Paul. Patti wasn't amused. Patti started to make comments about a certain person in the hallway, who was certainly not 'drinking a glass of tea'. Patti looked at Paul. Paul didn't run.
To stop ourselves being thrown out, I ended up with my hand over Paul's mouth, only allowing him to breathe, and , stupidly, to take more swigs from his beer. Suddenly...... we get the feeling .......we're surrounded by ......not horses, but Patti Smith fans who don't share Paul's fascination with shouting at the stage.
Then, without any great ceremony, Paul went home. Leaving Patti and her guitarist still on stage, untroubled by any further attempts to change the set list. And when Paul went, so did my interest in the rest of the show.Ìý Of course, when she comes up in conversation I say 'yes, of course I saw Patti Smith in the Art College - small crowd, but what a great night!'
Comment number 1.
At 1st Feb 2010, An Cruiskeen Lawnmower wrote:You're obviously not a violent man. I once punched a mate, who I'll call Paul because that's his name, in the elbow (my mistake) for continually screaming the names of 'Men They Couldn't Hang' songs at the Wedding Present in, handily enough, the Art College around 1988. About two years later, I elbowed (beautiful symetry) another mate for shouting at Loudon Wainwright in the Europa. He kept screaming 'Rufus' and 'Samson and the Warden' and after being ignored, he began calling, 'Rufus and the Warden'. Hilarious. Then, around '04, my sister bought me almost front row seats for John Prine in The Waterfront. Great, except she came too and squealed the names of songs he was always going to do anyway at him. John, of course, listened to the barrage before civilly replying, 'Yip, I know them all, wrote some of them too'. But you can't hit your sister. Not when she's pregnant anyhow.
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