Planet ofthe Arts vol.4._no.1 a dream of | “Outside of society, that’s where I want to be. Outside of society , if you’re looking, that’s where you'll find me...” “Faster,” 1978 Several months ago my brother phoned me from Toronto. “Hey, do you want to hear a Patti Smith story?” He knows I have always harboured a secret desire to sing like Patti Smith. “Well, it was when she was living in Ann Arbor (a sleepy univer- sity town near Detroit). The locals knew they hada celebrity living among them, so they contacted her and asked if she’d be willing to contribute to the local Church Bazaar. She said she’d be delighted. So they set up a small stage and found some microphones. They assumed she was going to sing. But as the bazaar drew to a close she still hadn’t appeared, and the church officials began to get anxious. Then somebody noticed on a corner table a pile of macramé with a small note on which was scrawled ‘Made and donated by P. Smith.’ “Ts that a ‘real’ story?” I asked my brother. He assured me it was. ‘Real’ stories like this one serve to fuel the growing, ambiguous folklore surrounding the mysterious disappearance of the most revolutionary Punk shaman the Seventies produced, Other ‘real’ stories have reported everything from Patti becom- ing a kindergarten teacher to a born-again evangel- ist. In reality, Patti Smith’s nine year hiatus from the music scene was only a meditative hibernation from which she has re-emerged, creativity intact, albeit somewhat different and considerably mel- lowed. Patti Smith is now the wife of Fred “Sonic’ Smith, and the mother of Jackson and Jesse Paris. 10 Marriage and motherhood have certainly changed her direction. The tortured spitfire has been replaced by a concerned and matured woman. As Patti says herself, she has sacrificed energy for clarity. Patti Smith was born in 1946 in rural New Jersey. At 21 she got on a train to New York, to become an artist. Her circle of friends at the Chelsea Hotel where she lived included Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison, William Burroughs, Laurie Anderson, and Sam Shepard, with whom she co- wrote the play “Mad Dog Blues.” But just as her pen and ink drawings gave way to poems, so in turn, her poetry readings became wildly successful performance art concerts. By 1974, with the recording of her first single “Piss Factory,” a manic ode to the demoralization of assembly line work, Patti had established herself as the most daring, most original performer in her field. Collaborating with Lenny Kaye, she produced some of the most searing, visionary rock of the decade. A slight, androgynous stick of a woman wielding an electric guitar, she spewed forth a hallucinatory world of venomous philosophy and French Surrealist poetry. Where else but in a Patti Smith song coulda leather-clad Rimbaud wander the Ethiopian desert reciting the 23rd Psalm? Patti Smith also represented a turning point for women in rock. As one U.K. critic decreed: without Patti Smith, women in rock would still mean go-go dancers. Patti wrote in Babelfield, “The cross is the true shape of the tortured woman.” Religious imagery is abundant in Patti’s writing. She upholds the Old Testament as a OH, HENRY MOORE TI SMITH classic text. However, she doesn’t have any par- ticular religious affiliations. She was quoted recently in NME as saying, “I don’t align as a member of any organized religion. I think the spiritual aspect of the human condition is very important and I’ve always been fascinated with the religious artifacts and rituals that man has devel- oped.” Patti’s performance life came to an abrupt halt when she blacked out during a concert, falling 14 feet off the stage, breaking her neck. Recuperat- ing, she wrote “Bable”, her fourth book of poetry, and prepared her album “Wave,” the title track a meandering soundscape/conversation with “the Pope.” Some listeners may find her new work “Dream of Life” disappointing. One must remem- ber it is the work of a mother trying to look posi- tively towards the future. “I’m not going to be pessimistic for my children.” Nevertheless, it is a big jump from the raw sound of “Poppies” (Radio Ethiopia) to a new song like “The Jackson Song,” a soft lullaby for her son. “The Jackson Song” is too personal for my taste. And “Looking for You (I Was)” has syrupy lyrics and a dreadful M.O.R. chorus that should make it a hit on AM Radio. Only on “Up There, Down There” does she retain some of her old bite. “Paths that Cross” is the best track, and her 12 inch single of “People Have The Power” is worth buying for the bonus track “Wild Leaves.” But for those unacquainted with the opus of P. Smith, I would suggest investing in “Horses” or “Raster” first, before buying her latest effort. Sandra Lockwood Seated woman sitting still bathed in soft, natural light Pe ed so beautiful TOMORROW'S MEMORY what would you say | wonder WHAT! would it take for me to take if | told you that to you all the things you desire loved you Your love. your silence scares Forgotten blood stains of yesterdays knee scrape Strangers broken teeth in daylights harsh your rippled beauty crevice of sight upon visual stimuli urges others to stare ahead ay and walk by THE CITY OF FLOWERS yet, you sit there alone What would it take for me to understand languid | know where love has gone. It has fled into darkness itall. The old man bending the tree saying making me want you Intimacy has retreated To wrest itself Why we are all so scared and trembling “| don't give a fuck!” while touch you It has lost the battle, (Please bring arms like wet mice in a grey bloodsoaked festering the police pull a bead on two oh tormented love! Not yet the war To those that are open October rainstorm. black dealers from the great U.S.A. Ay mak (Run guns quickly Please bring arms.) nee a So while people eat people starve, fuck, ae to the front lines, Shivering cold wet dark eyes glaring into” piss, gestilate, fart, breathe and Send help to the wounded | woke this morning What would it take for my words to act like god on the inner For they have not long) In my heart seize your mind and say HEY here fringe of that forgotten memory To live is to To the sound of a nightingale | am. and there are you! that forgotten morning of blissfull Make arms. And believed The fuzzy pear in the old fridge says that the brocolli will be returning to college for another semester of conversational skills. in sight into the realm of black The war. ghosts, and sirens explode It has hidden in caves (Thy will be done.) very rapidly in a crazy for fear of the light mixed up crazy man. Man Become useless and furtive There are no clear lines any more. crazy. | am... James... time And restless with shame. | believed in my side WHAT is strange as | stand in this old No, (Whichever that was, is this dusty spider web of feeling cloak and boot room of relived Proud love | no longer know) What are you feeling days of childhood in a two people Worthy of worship The army had plead for help What is feeling world on me and I. The battle was lost on land Escaped to the hills Splash soap on my anus while stooping Not at sea. Hoping and preparing to strike in the bath of our congress Does it work he asked One more time. forget the old skin that himself. Maybe. Maybe the It was cornered in cracks and hidden with hair flakes off in the water and watch memories are all on tape And now as reality of tomorrow is the forgotten somewhere and all the Sweet, sweet. sweat Send help for the wounded dream of yesterday is tomorrows memory good ones will be saved Laid naked and bare A sign to give them hope Examined and denied So that they may The old sac between these legs But this poem is already a memory Its very existence, at least sleep have felt the desire so as is it tomorrow already. For the moment. (tonight in peace.) the feel as though 4000 ants crawled on the inside of my left eye. J.E.T. John Wertschek Planet ofthe Arts vol.4 no. 1 Ti a dream of I “Outside of society, that’s where I want tobe. Outside of society , if you're looking, that’s where youl find me..” “Easter,” 1978 Several months ago my brother phoned me from Toronto. “Hey, do you want to hear a Patti ‘Smith story?” He knows Thave always harboured a secret desire to sing like Patti Smith, “Well, it was when she was living in Ann Arbor (a sleepy univer- sity town near Detroit). ‘The locals knew they had a celebrity living among them, so they contacted her ‘and asked if she'd be willing to contribute to the local Church Bazaar. She said she'd be delighted. So they set up a small stage and found some ‘microphones. They assumed she was going to sing. But as the bazaar drew to a close she still hadn't ‘appeared, and the church officials began to get anxious. Then somebody noticed on a corner table pile of macramé with a small note on which was scrawled ‘Made and donated by P. Smith.” “Is that a ‘real’ story?” 1 asked my brother. He assured me it was. ‘Real’ stories like this one serve to fuel the rowing, ambiguous folklore surrounding the mysterious disappearance of the most revolutionary Punk shaman the Seventies produced, Other ‘real stories have reported everything from Patti becom- ing a kindergarten teacher to a born-again evangel- ist. In reality, Patti Smith’s nine year hiatus from ‘the music scene was only a meditative hibernation, from which she has re-emerged, creativity intact, albeit somewhat different and considerably mel- Towed. Patti Smith is now the wife of Fred “Sonic ‘Smith, and the mother of Jackson and Jesse Paris. TOMORROWS MEMORY WHAT! wou take for moto take toyovall the things you desire Your love. Fgaton blood stains of yesterdays knee scape ‘broken tooth in dayghts harsh reve ol sight upon visual tin Marriage and motherhood have certainly changed her direction. The tortured spitfire has been replaced by a concerned and matured woman. As Patti says herself, she has sacrificed energy for clarity. Patti Smith was born in 1946 in rural New Jersey. At 21 she got on a train to New York, to become an artist. Her circle of friends at the Chelsea Hotel where she lived included Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison, William Burroughs, Laurie ‘Anderson, and Sam Shepard, with whom she co- wrote the play “Mad Dog Blues.” But just as her pen and ink drawings gave way to poems, soin tum, her poetry readings became wildly successful performance art concerts. By 1974, with the recording of her first single “Piss Factory,” a manic ‘ode to the demoralization of assembly line work, Patti had established herself as the most daring, ‘most original performer in her field. Collaborating, with Lenny Kaye, she produced some of the most searing, visionary rock of the decade. A slight, androgynous stick of a woman wielding an electric guitar, she spewed forth a hallucinatory world of venomous philosophy and French Surrealist poetry. ‘Where else but in a Patti Smith song could a leather-clad Rimbaud wander the Ethiopian desert reciting the 23rd Psalm? atti Smith also represented a turning point for women in rock. As one U.K. critic decreed: without Patti Smith, women in rock would still mean go-go dancers. Patti wrote in Babelfield, “The cross isthe true shape of the tortured Religious imagery is abundant in Patti's ‘writing. She upholds the Old Testament as a ‘OH, HENRY MOORE. ‘Seated woman ‘iting sil bathed nso, natural ght sobeautiul what would you say wonder ito you that owed you your silence scares strangers your fppled beauty MITH classic text. However, she doosn’t have any par- ticular religious affiliations. She was quoted recently in NME as saying, “Idon't align as a ‘member of any organized religion. I think the spiritual aspect of the human condition is very ‘important and I've always been fascinated with the religious artifacts and rituals that man has devel- oped.” Patti's performance life came to an abrupt halt when she blacked out during a concert, falling 14 feet off the stage, breaking her neck. Recuperat- ing, sho wrote “Bable”, her fourth book of poetry, and prepared her album “Wave,” the title track a meandering soundseape/conversation with “the Pope?” Some listeners may find her new work “Dream of Life” disappointing. One must remem- ber it is the work of a mother trying to look posi tively towards the future. “Tm not going tobe pessimistic for my children.” Nevertheless, it isa Dig jump from the raw sound of “Poppies” (Radio Ethiopia) to a new song like “The Jackson Song,” « ‘soft lullaby for her son. “The Jackson Song” is too personal for my taste. And “Looking for You (I Was)" has syrupy Iyries and a dreadful MOR. chorus that should make it a hit on AM Rac Only on “Up There, Down There” does she retain some of her old bite. “Paths that Cross” is the best track, and her 12 inch single of “People Have The Power” is worth buying for the bonus track “Wild Leaves.” ‘But for those unacquainted with the opus of P. Smith, I would suggest investing in “Horses” or “Baster” first, before buying her latest effort. ‘Sandra Lockwood ugesohestosie heed aT and vay THE CITY OF FLOWERS Yel, yous here alone ‘What woud it tke for me to understand languid hoon where ove has go. thas dint darkness ital THe lft bord bi is coe making me wat you Inimacy has retested Towrstisal Win wo ao also scared and tring {don gv aoc? who touch you thas lth bat, (Please bing ams Tio wet mice na grey Bodsoake fetring to plicepul aboad on wo ch tormected evel Nat yotho war Tothose tha ar open October rainstorm. black dealers from the great U.S.A. pebn (Pun guns quickly Please bring arms.) Sovwhie people eat poope starve, ck, cd tothe ont ines, ‘Shivering old wet dak ayes glaring topics, esate, fa, real and Send heb tothe wounded woke this mong Wat would ittako for my words to act He god onthe ler Fer thay have not ng) In heat seize your mind ad say HEY here agra bal eke nena Tohwisto Tothe sound of nightingale lam and there are you! ta! xgatenmevring of stu Make ams. And bsleved Tho zy pear inthe ogo insight the eal of back The wa. opis ue hosts, and srns explode Ith ido in caves {Ty wb doe) airing cbs or eco very rapid ina erany tortor ofthat semester of conversion sis. tise Become vee and tative There are no lar ines any more, eazy, lam. das... ‘od ests wih shame Ibvedin ry sido war fs strange as stand inthis old No, (Whichver that was, ee ae —— oni ae ays of cildhood in a two, oy of wos amy Whats teling wet on ead ‘The bate was ston and Escaped the his ‘Splash soap on my anus while stoping Nota sea. Hoping and preparing to stiko inte bath curcongess Does two he asked (One moe tne. {orga toot kina Hise. Maybe. Maybe the Iwas comerad in cracks and ion wth a Soe memos areal on tape ‘And now Be rely oltomovrows th fxgoton CT Sweet, swe swoat the wounded ram ofyesterdy istamerows memory good ene vile saved Laid naked and bare oe Examine ad dvi may ‘The ol sacbetwoon hese logs But this poem is areata memory Is very existnoe, atleast ep ave foto deste sas jena sea Forte moment. (orig in peace) tho fe asthough 4000 ants raed onthe inside of my et oye. JET. John Wortschek