In most hip recording studios realworld time doesn’t exist — but in Electric Lady it’s denied. Past a closed circuit TV eye and down a flight of stairs from Greenwich Village’s seedy 8th Street is another world. The hallway is curved and long, dim lights accent the floor to ceiling murals of golden-haired children piloting spaceships thru Hendrix-skies. Inside the studios, lights glow" in colors and strengths of your choosing, acoustic sound panels flow into walls — and in the control booths there are more floor pillows than chairs. Sure, there are a few digital display clocks counting silent minutes, but you have to look to find them. Tape machines and mixing boards wait to be fulfilled — and no matter what the weather outside, it’s always the same time here — do it time.

Poet/singer Patti Smith and her band (known as “the boys” for now) lived here most of the month of September, recording and mixing Horses, her first album for Arista. They ran on rock and roll time — some sessions starting at 5 AM and going till 11 at night, next day it might be noon to 6 AM. The hours shifted, sleep was sporadic, days became nights, nights became dazed, everybody was caught in the common obsession of getting it down. It don’t take many times of working all night and leaving, wasted in the dawn, only to find the streets full of sunshine and people going to offices before all that’s real is the mania of the sound you’re making.

Patti’s no stranger to slow mania and obsessions, and in one way or another has been a performer most of her 28 years. Her birth set the stage: “My pink cheeked mother held me in/but 1 was hot as hell to get out/and 1 howled like fire” Patti wrote. What she left out was that the event took place at the Ice Follies, and stopped the show just as Sonja Henie was introduced.

Let's time telescope a bit: grew up in Chicago and South Jersey, ugly duckling child with an eye-patch and skinon-bone body.. .father a track star, poet, classical tap-dancer, mother waitress.. .began to read Rimbaud in 8th grade, went to rock and roll drive-in shows hidden in trunks of cars, danced barefoot in the gravel to people like Ben E. King, Smokey Robinson, the Miracles.. .wrote “dirty epic tragedies” in the style of Lorca, dreapit of growing up to be the mistress of an artist and smoking hashish in Paris.. .worked lots of jobs to pay rent at home, got beat up in factory washroom for reading Rimbaud’s “Season In Hell” (the bi-lingual edition) by two dyke forewomen who accused her of reading “communist language”...

Got scholarship to teachers college, kicked out when knocked up.. .spent pregnant months alone in cabin by the ocean playing Blonde on Blonde for her child who was adopted on birth... went to NYG to live with an artist — “I wanted to be like Modigliani’s old lady and hustle booze and canvas for him,” he’d split, she got gig in bookstore, lived on subways at night, sleeping in hallways or graveyards... met Robert Mapplethorpe, they “conspired to commit art together”...

eventually got a lot of bread together and split to Paris — “I wanted to go where Soutine ate, I wanted to be where Rimbaud wrote his ‘Drunken Boat’ poem, my romanticism was never jaded”... worked on streets as fire eater’s assistant, joined troupe of musicians... had a week of dreams forecasting Brian Jones death, “I was dreaming like he drowned in a heavy rain — ”... headed to London to try to warn somebody, papers headlined his drowning death.. .she headed back to NYC, began writing a “Black rock and roll mass, based on numerology and spells — like in medieval language, but with rock and roll rhythms”...

met Johnny and Edgar Winter, went to recording sessions to write to music, met Bob Neuwirth (best known than as Dylan’s road-manager and scene maker)... he turned her on to people like Kris Kristofferson, the Band, Janis Joplin, Johnny Cash, encouraged her writings.. .she began to be published in little NY papers, articles and record reviews.. .worked for Rock magazine till she went to interview Eric Clapton, dressed all in black with a Tshirt that said “Twist” on it — showed up at hotel, plugged in tape recorder, asked him his five favorite words, he

...if you have an electric chair you need someone to electrocute, you don’t bring in another electric chair.

mumbled a few, she said thanks and split, stomping off down the hall, leaving him in the doorway, scratching his head...

her poetry was changing, language more street than classic, rhythms more diddybop than iambic.. .hung out late weekend nights in Village Oldies record shop with clerk Lenny Kaye (now lead guitarist and oldest member of her band, 3 days older than Patti in fact), dancing and digging old Philly sound 45’sbythe Dovells, Gene & Eunice... six months after they met she asked him to accompany her at poetry reading, they had two days to practice, Lenny worked off the rhythm in her words, following her flow, accompanying her beat.. .gig was at St. Marks Church, the hotshit poetplace, opening up for Gerard Malanga (a Warhol outgrowth)

— her electric presence and piercing imagery knocked people out — (“I never wanted to be like some simp reading poems at the YMCA —” she said).. .pieces included “Jesse James,” “Bad Boy,” “Fire of Unknown Origin”

— and for an oldie “Mack The Knife” (see CREEM Sept. 1971)...

media and scene freaks smelled a hot new property, everybody wanted a piece of the action.. .Patti pulled away and formed an allegiance with playwright Sam Shepard, wrote and appeared in “Cowboy Motith” with him (see CREEM June 1972)...spent decadent weekends at Plaza hotel, crashed a Salvador Dali dinner party, he blessed her with champagne.. .later met and began working with Alan Lanier, from Blue Oyster Cult.. .did ocassional small reading/performances, worked on poems that were included in Seventh Heaven, her first book (see CREEM October 1972)

... did rock and roll and reminiscence articles for various magazines on people like King Curtis and Rod Stewart, but was getting more and more into her own artistic obsessions...

a thing was happening — when she performed she began to hear guitar solos in the middle of her poems, or drums...got restless, wanted to gig more, Jane Friedman gave her opening act work at Mercer Art Center, fronting groups like Eight Ball and the New York Dolls... got $5 a night out of Jane’s back pocket... did her first annual Rimbaud Tribute at Mercer, Jane was impressed by response, became Patti’s full-time manageress, encouraged her to work more with backup musicians.. .Patti working on poems for Witt (rhymes with bite), getting more into William Burroughs-like dense prose, “not what people called the rock poetry”...

in 1973 got back together with Lenny and hired piano player for another Rimbaud reading at Le Jardin... knocked out jet-set audience, she was singing more instead of just spoken/ strutted word-slinging, added “standards” to her repertoire in tribute to Chris Conner, for one...did a “One Touch Of Venus” riff, telling story of falling in love with statue of Rimbaud, kissing it and when it materialized into him sang “Speak Low” to him...

gig was written up and the pace quickened — started looking for a fulltime pianoman, put an ad in the Voice for keyboardist with “relentless rhythm,” chose Richard (DNV) Sohl whose classical background added lots of rhythm possibilities.. .Patti and Lenny tried to get him to “reduce Mozart to three chords”.. .they began to work as if a jazz trio, blowing free and loose... “The boys held the foundation down and encouraged me to do word solos, improvisations”. . .now Lenny was free from rhythm chores and began to snake screaming lines behind her words.. .“I always think of myself as a human saxophone” Patti said...

in mid 1974 cut first record for Robert Mapplethorpe’s label, MER.. .“Hey Joe” (with heavy Patty Hearst references) /“Piss Factory” — a long prose/ poem slide of autobiography.. .the record, pressed in limited edition and now a collectors item (see CREEM Nov. 1974) set the stage for sounds to come... after a gig at Whisky in LA decided to add another guitar player, Ivan Krai fit the bill, loved the sound and feel more than the bread or future possibilities...

band played a memorable 3 week gig at CBGB’s, splitting the bill with Television — Tom Verlaine (guitarist) found the bar, built a stage and made the scene happen... “one of the happiest times performing I ever had,”

Patti recalled... model types came next to kids passing out on the floor, everybody equal.. .Jay Daugherty was running PA at club, sat in on drums when, they did numbers like “Gloria” and “Land Of a Thousand Dances”.. .“it got so we missed him when he wasn’t there,” Patti said, “so he came in too”...

now band had “all five fingers of a hand” and began to cook.. .halfway thru the gig a contract was signed with Arista Records.. .band did one last gig before sessions, at Other End, one night Dylan was in audience.. .Patti was both honored and bugged — he’d obsessed her for years but she moved away from emulating him in street stance and style... “I was trying to do my songs and he was on my mind, in my improvisations I’d be trying to talk to him — it was real neat for awhile, then I didn’t want to be bothered, cause I got other responsibilities. The turmoil I went thru created a new electricity, there was a fantastic energy in the air

later he came backstage and they sniffed each other out, circling like dogs as amazed photogs shot their wads... hung out, went from bar to bar.. .“He’s so restless — at this point we’re not chemically suited to be around each other — both of us have so much electrical energy we need some kind of calming factor. It’s like if you have an electric chair you need somebody to electrocute, you don’t bring in another electric chair — ”... he sang some new songs and Patti was inspired by his heart.. .“He’s never been really captured on record — just in a room he sings like he’s in Madison Square Garden — that’s the best singing lesson I ever had, that you don’t hold back, ever...”

End of Timescope: Then recording time, the brain draining, body wracking, nerve burning process of putting your soul on tape. The producer was John Cale; Patti’d loved his Fear album. “I was concerned cause in some of my songs I take on different personas, some people might not understand — like ‘Gloria’ is a guy singing to a girl — but I didn’t want to have to think about my sex on the record. Cool thing was that John was into the chameleon thing, the changeling aspect — and I wasn’t made to feel guilty or nervous about any of the subject matter.”

Hassles happen in studios, nerves fray, edges are exposed, tensions developed. “John kept pushing me to improvise and extend — ‘Birdland’ used to be four minutes onstage, but it flowered in the studio and ended up about nine minutes long.” The record was planned in front, songs changed, grew, metamorphosed into new forms.

The sessions were closed, reporters and photomen allowed in only on breaks. People showed from Crawdaddy, Detroit Free Press, a mag from Holland, people researching cover stories for Rolling Stone and NY Times Magazine, Esquire for photo layout. Though ill a lot and working hard, Patti still found time to rap with everybody. “I tell some of my best poetry in interviews,” she said once. She hasn’t changed much in the four years I’ve known her — still the same sweet mix of punk and fragile, giving interviews while “the boys” worked over the fiveball free-play pinball rriachine in the coffee room between takes.

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CONTINUED FROM PAGE 39.

“If there’s a concept to the record, it’s voyage. It starts with ‘Gloria’ and ends almost with ‘Land of .a Thousand Dances,’ which has the same chord structure. In between, ‘travel is the key.’”

As in most of her works, she pays homage to her heroes: Jim Morrison, Rimbaud, mainly Hendrix. “He’s still here, he was so alive I can always feel him.” The song for Morrison, “Break It Up,” came from a dream Patti had of walking in misty forest, coming to a clearing where a T-Bird was parked by a weird ritual fire, Morrison laying on a marble slab “human, but his wings were made of stone, merging with the slab.” He was clawing, trying to get away; Patti urged him to “break it up,” break up the stone, finally he did and flew away, leaving her alone. She woke up and wrote the song.

Hendrix’s spirit hovered in many of the songs recorded for the second side of the LP. “Elegy,” co-written with Alan Lanier as a tribute to Hendrix, ended up being cut on the anniversary of Jimi’s death. “It wasn’t planned that way, studio time wasn’t booked like that; Alan played the solo in it and that night was the only night he wasn’t gigging, it clicked in.”

Jimi’s aura entered “Birdland” too. It’s a long song and Patti isn’t strong — halfway thru she faltered, feeling her voice and words going, closed her eyes and had a vision. “I saw him with his head thrown back, veins standing out in his neck, the color of his skin — suddenly there was like two people talking — he’d say ‘don’t give up’ — I’d answer ‘I won’t give up, I won’t’ — and then I could go on...”

“Land Of A Thousand Dances” was one of the most incredibly eerie trips I ever been on. Patti’s version is basically the old song, jacketed by improvised images and stories. Originally, she told me, she’d wanted it to be an exploration of the last 30 seconds of Hendrix’s life, but it developed differently and she went with it, “We went thru all kinds of voyages — usually there’s Mexican boys and space guys, weird Burroughs stuff like Arab guys and Christian angels fucking in the sand, pulling out each other’s entrails — or like there’s Johnny in a blue T-Bird going off the cliff while ‘Thousand Dances’ is playing on the radio. People used to come to CBGB’s night after night to find out what was gonna happen to Johnny next — and I was curious to find out what was gonna happen to him on the record.”

Patti snuck me into the booth that night, a haunted warp time of day. On the first take Patti did the singing part fine but when it came time to do the poetry, Patti went blank and just threw out occasional words, or urged the boys on, saying “let it come down, come down,” or screaming “build it! build it! build it!” After the take they decided that the instrumental track was just what they wanted, so Patti would just overdub the vocal. She went back into the studio, and as the boys and I sprawled on the floor pillows and Cale hunched over the board, a superstrange flow came into the air.

“On that second take something weird happened,” Patti said later. “The Mexican boys and spaceships were gone — instead there was a black horse, and all those electrical wires and a sea — a ‘sea of possibilities’ — I didn’t know what direction the song was taking, there was all this strange imagery I didn’t understand.” When the take ended it was as if the whole room was holding its breath — silence was thick and charged. Patti came into the booth drained, but agitated. “Whataya think?” she asked. Everybody thought it was great, but she wanted to do. one more. “It ain’t quite —” she drifted out to the studio, gulped some tea, took a deep breath and they rolled the tape one more time.

“On that last take it .was obvious that I was being told what I wanted to know about Hendrix’s death. The Song is like 8 or 9 minutes long, so it’s obvious I’m gonna lose control sometime — but I felt like it was I The Exorcist, or somebody else talking thru my voice. I said ‘How did I die.. .T-I-I tried to walk thru light’.. .and it ended up with ‘in the sheets, there was a man’ — it really frightened me. After I was done I felt like all three tracks had the total information of his last seconds, sol decided to mix ’em all together.”

The mixing sessions were as possessed as the recordings — Patti spent hours listening, picking out key phrases or words like “spoon” or “mad pituitary gland” or “eyes of a horse,” three volume controls at her fingertips, one for each vocal track. As the engineer (Burning Bernie, whose eyes were getting mad now too) mixed the instrumental parts, Patti cross-faded and wove the narrative together. The aura was of controlled insanity as holes in one track intersected perfectly with phrases of another — Patti ran on pure nerve, and after 7 hours emerged with a chilling and affecting piece of true art. I had trouble sleeping for several days.

The sessions were mixtures of magic moments and hours of just plain assbusting work — and the result is an album unlike any you’ve heard. Trashy rock and roll mixed with inspired imagery, haunting ballads and pure sound, “It’s nothing we premeditated,” Patti said. “We didn’t sit around and say we were gonna create a new form —• new forms just happen, like sacred accidents.”

“We defer to Patti,” added Lenny, “but we function internally as a band. We’re into sound, not just technique. I don’t care how I get sound out of my guitar. When we’re really out there, beyond ourselves, we’d like to leave rhythm and melody behind and just exist in ether, where everything is a constant. We want to use our instruments as instruments — something you use to get somewhere else instead of as an end in itself.”

Some people seem to think that Patti is too “New York” to gain acceptance all over the country, but they’re wrong. If anything, Patti is more “street” than “New York” — and there’s streets all over the world. She reaches the dreamer and demons in herself and opens us to our own as well. There are a couple more poem books coming: Merde (“a lot of French shit, sorta female homosexual brainiac amour stuff”) and Neo Boy (“about new generations of frenzied kids that dream in animation”) — and there probably will be a major collection of her earlier poems and writings soon.

Patti ain’t on a star trip, she’s been around too long and seen too much to fall for that trap. All the record advance money was spent on band equipment and she still lives and writes the way she used to. One night after everybody’d left the studio we talked about what happens from here on. She was exhausted and seemed fragile as a fall leaf in a November wind — she was down to 92 pounds, after losing 11 pounds in the month of session work.

“The thing is, art always wins. Art will survive, and I’m gonna die — so I’m not gonna give art all the best moments of my life. If you live in the moment, nothing comes first — but the energy I have left after my art I save for love. What you have to do is try to capture meaningful moments—and we got some incredible frightening moments on this record. ‘Land’ still frightens me ...When we start touring it might be fucked-up for awhile, but I keep thinking that if everybody will keep believing, I’ll just be what they want to believe in. I’m not afraid of blowing it — I just want people to understand I’m totally with them.”

And totally committed to the joy of rocking with her band. As Lenny said, “Just as Patti projects personas and refuses to be defined as a woman or rock and roll singer, she just goes with whatever is happening to the boundary of art — we want to shatter that boundary and get out there.

It’s gonna be one hell of an interesting trip for everybody. “Travel is the kgy.”