Patti Smith In Her Own Lights

There was a Patti Smith concert in Cleveland and everybody was there: you had the local cognoscenti hanging out making sure they were seen 'cause Patti is the next big thing & maybe if they're seen enough times they can land that A&R job in New York. You had the local band members maybe secretly believing they should be headlining the concert, swapping who-quitwhat stories. You had the she's-one-ofus lesbian contingent, you had the hardcore fans who'd followed her ever since Seventh Heaven was published and overlapping with these the basement people in droves. Cleveland is full of them, pouring out of their parents' houses and their obscure paint-peeling apartments leaving their Flaming Groovies singles behind to come hear Patti, all there for two sellout nights to hear a cult figure with 'lotsa promotion try and almost but not quite make the jump from New Jersey ugly duckling fan hanging on the stage at Stones concerts to rock 'n' roll star on her own stage facing the audience and not in it.

Cleveland was a good towp to pick for the transition since it's maybe the number one cult figure city in the U.S. Maybe the only city where a Kevin Ayers concert would sell out instantly — a place that might be ready to appreciate Patti's homage to the great Dionysians of Sixties rock. The audience was rooting for her brainwaves filling up the hall — come on kid you can do it — and though Patti was jittery the first night she'd eased out by the second and she was nervous cause this is all new to her, playing in strange cities for strangers and five times as many as at home base CBGB's. Taking what was an exclusively New York presence to the country at large. She's changed her stage act since New York, it's now more rock'n'roll oriented instead of the hesitant Stiff gestures. There's a wild woman who crawls around in classic Iggy Pop postures grinding her crotch against Lenny Kaye's guitar back, almost touching the floor doing the Rimbaud limbo, stirring up lust juices in the audience on both sides of the gender divide. The core of her performance is the same from the opener (the Velvets' "We're Gonna Have a Real Good Time Together") through the spoken parts of the songs, varied each •time to suit what she knows that day. In. Cleveland she'd been reading about the Tower of Babel in her Gideon's Bible and she shouted from the stage "Genesis II, it's all in there." She talked about being a little girl praying in church to her namesake St. Patrick and a nun whacking her 'cause she didn't kneel right "...and I never went back." She talked about a sailor down on his knees fucking the sand fucking the earth. She doesn't want to get caught in the do-itlike-on-the-album trap though the audience pressure for that got a little strong at times. She finished up with a kickass rendition of "My Generation" on which John Cale joined in. The first night's version was recorded for the flip side of her single, the second night's shoulda been-videotaped. A fan in the audience slipped Patti a cream pie which she mashed into Cale's face and he got all tangled up in his guitar cord; fell over kicking and flailing like an ergot-crazed monk taking bites out of his guitar and $lso out of Lenny Kaye who was trying to help him up.

Whether playing kissy-face, doing the double-back head-stand squat, or just strutting her stuff, Patti Smith spews forth the joys of womanhood like a gyser gone gonzo. Hips pounding like a punch press in high gear, bazoombas bouncing sweeter and more succulent than Alaskan melons in the spring; this is the stuff little girlsare made ofl

But if it was a wild show it was a shy one at times too, even sometimes littlegirl coy. Patti has a love affair with her audience but it's still a sort of ugly duckling's I -can't -believe -you - really - like -me. One part of her is still on the other side of the stage wishing the big star would talk to her so she comes on eccessible, almost too accessible. She explains her songs till she apologizes for them and seems amazed that they go over. She thanks her audience profusely for liking her well — she really wants to be liked and it's nice to be human but part of the rock'n' roll stance is to not care if you're liked or not. Patti's still a little shaky on her own version; still holding somebody else's hand, not quite stepped away from the rock'n'roll figures she reveres — not sure what an audience is for. She doesn't have to sue to anybody for her grace but she doesn't quite believe that and it's a real weakness in her performance. One minute she's got balls, the next she's scraping her foot against the folding chair praying for you to ask her to dance.

But if she can make the transition from fan to performer — and there were more than enough moments at the Cleveland show when it seemed like she could— she will survive the hype blast surrounding her first album and make it on her own. Not many people have combined the poetic and the rock'n'roll traditions as successfully as she does and there is a real strength, a real star charisma in her that had the audience wild cheering on its feet both nights. It is her wonder in a way at finding herself suddenly leading a band in front of a crowd that ties her to the people who watch her. It's their dream too, the surprise and awkwardness she shows at being there should and will go but her basic insight — that fans and stars are in this thing together — let's hope that stays 'cause there haven't been many stars lately who believed (yeah it sounds Sixties) that their fans could get up and do it too and the point is to open the mind.

As the audience slid back out into the night one excited voice was heard above the surrounding yeah wows burbling "Yeah and Patti Smith's got TITS. I saw 'em, wait'll I tell the kids at home." Yeah Patti's got tits — does this begin anew rock lingo for calling something badass? Wow yeah they got tits man tits.