Patti Smith has always had a handle on ‘shaman-poet’ notions, an imperative that some have tragically fallen under as Jim Morrison did in 1971. Cut in Electric Lady Studios – the birthplace of Horses some 37 years ago – Banga comes as a result of a four-year creative streak, ticking things off the Smith ‘to do’ list. In the last two years, she appeared in Jean-Luc Godard’s video polemic, ‘Film Socialisme’, published her award-winning memoir, ‘Just Kids’ documenting her friendship with Robert Mapplethorpe, and collected an honorary doctorate from Rowan University.
While the release has already racked up unwarranted comparisons to her debut, Banga represents a stark dichotomy in its position as ‘earth mother’ rather than the howlin’ wild child of yesteryear. While musically this record is as much a pick 'n' mix as the four years yielding it, the songs are united in their eulogising and nurturing of friends, colleagues and strangers. So, without further ado please welcome our cast: Amy Winehouse, actress Maria Schneider, Robert Mapplethorpe, explorer Amerigo Vespucci, novelist Nikoli Gogol, Johnny Depp, the survivors of the Japanese tsunami and Pontius Pilate’s dog, no less! All the while, the collection is peppered with futurity and the sound is bright and guitar-heavy, making this motley crew coalesce in the strangest of ways.
Smith’s visceral growl has cooled off with age, best emphasised on spoken word pieces like the swirling, 11-minute ‘Constantine’s Dream’; inspired by a postcard she received of an old Dimitri Levas painting. Her voice has softened into a kind velvety lilt, lending a strange gravity to every breath, even during her trademark scats. Opener ‘Amerigo’ reimagines travelling and visiting the indigenous population of Vespucci’s new land. The song unfolds like an old forgotten letter, corners all creased and paper gone brown: the rhythm section strides along smooth as the ink on the page, with rolling italics and curled ‘g’s, while Smith’s vocals play out between a purr and a wheezing catch of the throat. It’s infectious refrain - ‘Where are you going? And are you going anywhere? Where are you going? Send me a letter, if you get there at all’ – is the perfect counterpoint to her more esoteric references, and the simple guitar and string lines beautiful unscramble the prose for the uninitiated.
The stoic ‘Tarkovsky (the second stop is Jupiter)’ comes across as heavy-handed at times, it’s sprawling pace certainly does not careen with past energies. But there is something wonderfully humanising in the etched linguistic idiosyncrasies that continue to permeate Smith’s work – something as simple as her New Jersey pronunciation on ‘wuter’ never fails to raise a smile. An elegy to Amy Winehouse in ‘This is the Girl’, for all the late jazz singer’s blemishes, is idyllic enough to give her gorgeous ‘Back to Black’ another spin. The affecting keyboard parts are vivid, the harmonised chorus moving enough to bring Winehouse to the foreground and, just for second, take on life again. ‘Maria’ (for Maria Schneider) is understated and spare, if not entirely successful. ‘Seneca’ with its minor-key acoustic arpeggios and Mazzy Star-like inflections is sorrowful for sure, and Patti’s sandy vocals are as affecting as anything from ‘Easter’.
If any criticisms were to come, and I’m sure they already have, they would be of the inflated nature of the lyrics. But herein lies the dichotomy of Patti Smith: poet laureate, mother, photographer, activist, rock n roll icon…which is she? To the casual listener, there is something undeniably daunting about the record’s weighty storylines, but on repeated listens, this is a warm and compelling album.
This is not a career high, but in the aural, secular religion that is Patti Smith's music, the singer remains among the precious anointed few to wield considerable power. She can cast a spell on her audience that is seldom broken, and, with the right pair of ears, this collection is yet another bottle of elixir. Her position as ‘Rimbaud with amplifiers’ remains intact.
Sourced from The Yorker: http://theyorker.co.uk/arts
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