Untitled Document
Whether it’s to allay the anxiety of influence,
honor important forebears, or simply work through a case of writer’s
block, most musicians consider the covers album a necessary rite of
passage. Even such songwriting heavies as Bob Dylan and David Bowie have
succumbed to the temptation; Bryan Ferry, bless his little Dylan-stalking
heart, has managed to turn his idolatry into a cottage industry. So why not
Patti Smith, who, despite her undeniable songwriting chops, is at heart a
fan, a former rock critic who metamorphosed into a rock star by dint of
brute desire? Summoned by the siren song of rock & roll, she forsook
her Jehovah’s Witness upbringing to bear witness for sweatier, sexier
deities. Who can forget the evangelical fervor of her versions of
“Gloria” and “Land of a Thousand Dances,” the white-hot iconoclasm of
her take on “My Generation,” the counterintuitive but somehow
exactly perfect reading of “When Doves Cry”? Really, the most mysterious thing about Twelve, Smith’s first
all-covers project, is that it took her so long. According to the
CD’s liner notes, she began toying with the idea as early as 1978,
compiling countless lists of promising songs. Her selection strategy for Twelve, however, ended up
being much less systematic. Three of the songs just happened to be playing
over the sound system of her neighborhood hangout; another came to her in a
dream and was then mystically reinforced by the blaring radio of a garbage
truck. This isn’t a set of Smith’s favorite songs, an aural Bildungsroman tracing her
development from ardent disciple to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame inductee
that she is today. Instead, it’s a tarot spread, a convergence of
chance and opportunity. Its aleatoric origins might appeal to Smith’s
spiritual side, but they don’t always result in stellar performances.
(Just because your favorite barista has an iPod doesn’t mean
he’s Hal Willner.) Although her reverence for the material is never
in question, several of the tracks (Jefferson Airplane’s “White
Rabbit,” the Doors’ “Soul Kitchen,” Stevie
Wonder’s “Pastime Paradise”) never quite take off —
sometimes because they just don’t suit her style, sometimes because
her interpretation isn’t novel enough to overcome the karaoke factor.
As a longtime Patti partisan, I would gladly listen to her sing Robert’s Rules of Order, but not everyone is so accommodating. Three decades in the making, Twelve should seem more
like a mission statement and less like a free-writing exercise. That said, it’s still a Patti Smith CD, which
automatically makes it better than most new releases. Her longtime band
— guitarist Lenny Kaye, bassist/keyboardist Tony Shanahan, and
drummer Jay Dee Daugherty — is still rock & roll royalty, and
Smith, the coolest sexagenarian on the planet, is still her beautiful,
irreducible, stubbornly earnest self. Her voice has the same deep
brightness, the tender stridency of a golden foghorn. Lesser singers sound
as if the words mean something to them; Smith sings as if the words are
everything to her, as if she would eviscerate herself to get them to you.
When everything comes together — style, sensibility, and source
material — the rush is almost overwhelming. Jimi Hendrix’s
“Are You Experienced” forgoes the standard guitar pyrotechnics
and forges a kind of shamanist boogie from pellucid cello, squawking
clarinet, and flickering drum fills. Twelve’s hidden track (No. 13, but who’s counting?),
R.E.M.’s “Everybody Hurts,” is a wrenching lullaby;
George Harrison’s woefully underrated “Within You Without
You” is a dharmic hymn. The absolute highlight, though, is
“Smells Like Teen Spirit,” a banjo-fueled back-porch dirge that
transforms Kurt Cobain’s orgy of self-loathing into a sorrowful paean
to our fallen world.
Contact René Spencer Saller at
rssaller@core.com.
This article appears in May 10-16, 2007.
