Patti Smith will survive the media blitz and everybody’s hunger for another "superstar,"
because she’s an artist in a way that’s right old-
What must be recognized is that she transcends bohemian cultism to be both positive and
mainstream, even though her songs go past a mere flirtation with death and pathology. She
just saw that it was time for literature to shake it and music to carry both some literacy and
some grease that ain’t jive. The combination makes her an all-
Her sound is as new-
Which brings up one of the truly ballsy things about this album: that she is meeting the
Mademoiselle articles and Earl Wilson columns, not with some slicked up
tech-
Which is not to say that there’s not musical sophistication working here; it’s just that it’s
gut sophistication, unfaltering instinct rather than the clammily cerebral approach
of the old "poetry and jazz" albums. Horses is a commanding record, as opposed to
demanding
Each song builds with an inexorable seethe, a penchant for lust and risk that shakes you and
never lets you forget you’re listening to real rock’n’roll again at last. Meanwhile, every
song contains moments that go beyond raunch into emotional realms that can give
you chills. In "Birdland" it’s the breathtaking "It was as if somebody had spread butter on all
the fine points of the stars and they started to slip"; in "Break It Up," Patti’s truly cosmic
sequence of "I cried ‘Help me please’/Ice it was shining," and suddenly through that
line you can actually hear her hitting her chest metronomically with her fist, leading into
"My heart it was melting..."
Throughout, she plays with roles and masks, combining sulky stalking cat and assertedly
male aggressor in "Gloria," where she expands the Van Morrison original into a wild fantasy
that’s a celebration of raw lust and personal primacy over any god or law. One of the
amazing things is that even though she is still learning to sing her voice is all over the place,
from the horny yelp of "Gloria’s" "sweet young thuing" to the demonic way her
tongue whips the word "locker" first time she says it in "Land" to the brief unearthly but
heart-
Horses really defines itself in "Kimberly," "Land" and "Elegie," the latter two
fitting together in one shattering epic of violence, flight, death and mourning that is
ultimately purgative. "Kimberly" is the most haunting song I’ve heard in a long time
(enough so that by the time I’d had the record 48 hours it was pulsating straight through not
only my days but my dreams at night), a sort of Ronettes bolero cum "Waiting For
the Man" celebrating the act of giving birth as cataclysm (as it is) in stunning lyrics: "Oh
baby I remember when you were born/It was dawn and the storm settled in my belly/And I
rolled in the grass and I spit out the gas/And I lit a match and the void went flash/And the sky
split/And the planets hit...And existence stopped/Little sister, the sky is falling/I don’t
mind..."
"Land" establishes an eerily malevolent sexuality in the opening build leading to the rape
scene, then the wild surge, each word an explosion, of "Suddenly/Johnny/gets a feeling/he’s
being surrounded by/horses!/horses!/horses!/horses!" and then into a raw, tearing chorus of
"Do you know how to pony" from the old Chris Kenner hit "Land of a Thousand Dances."
After that the song takes off almost literally into space, Patti’s three vocal tracks weaving in
and out of phase, merging splintered images as if by magic: "He picked up the blade and
then he pressed it against his..smooth throat/and let it dip in/the veins/to the sea/of
possibilities/it started hardening/to the sea/in my hand/and I felt the arrows of desire..." all
rising in one raging floodgate of sound and image to explode in choking death chillingly
envisaged, life ebbing with one decelerating drumbeat to "Elegie," a gust of pure
melancholy stilled just short of whole anguish in Patti’s finest vocal and the loneliest piece
of music since Nico’s "Elegy To Lenny Bruce."
Patti’s heroes may be gone, but she is both with us and for us, so strongly that her music is
something, finally, to rally around. For one thing, she has certain qualities that can make
her a hero to a whole generation of young girls, and may not be what you think. Suffice to
say that Patti has done more here for woman as aggressor than all the Liberation tracts
published, and has pushed to the front of the media eye that is just as much a process
(ordeal) of learning to "become" a "woman" as it is for men wrestling with all this
ballyhooed "manhood" business. It’s this tough chick who walks like Bo Diddley and yet is
all woman that we’ve been waiting for for so long, a badass who pulls off the feat of being
simultaneously idol of women and lust object of men (and women, no doubt).
And even more than that. Patti’s music in its ultimate moments touches deep wellsprings of
emotion that extremely few artists in rock or anywhere else are capable of reaching. With
her wealth of promise and the most incandescent flights and stillnesses of this album she
joins the ranks of people like Miles Davis, Charles Mingus, or the Dylan of "Sad Eyed
Lady" and Royal Albert Hall. It’s that deeply felt, and that moving: a new Romanticism
built upon the universal language of rock’n’roll, an affirmation of life so total that, even in
the graphic recognition of death, it sweeps your breath away. And only born gamblers take
that chance.
Copyright © Lester Bangs 1976
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