Patti Smith at Abenberg

This woman is no joke

Patti Smith is one of the most well-known beatniks of the 70s. A modest childhood with working class parents meant a dirt-poor, working class upbringing. After highschool Smith had a brief stint in a Philadelphian pram factory, later writing about the experience in ‘Piss Factory’. In 1967, she moved to New York City, and befriended famous writers, poets, musicians, and artists the likes of Bob Dylan, William S. Burroughs, and Allen Ginsbourg. There is a common misconception that she was one of the drug-ravaged hooligans of early rock and roll, but if you read any of Smith’s books you know her feet have been planted firmly on the ground since day dot.

My fascination with Patti Smith has been a slow burn, and began when I read her first novel, Just Kids, in 2014. It was gifted or lent by my sister, Wednesday, under the premise that it was the ideal book to earmark my own move to the Big Smoke. Smith’s music didn’t land for me until 2020. When covid hit, clubs closed, and I downloaded Spotify. Hers was a sound I had been searching for, for a long time. At some point in the next few months I sat down and wrote Lay Down in one Smith-inspired burst - an ode to Patti Smith’s Gloria.

Often not one to plan life out in advance, I noticed Smith was playing shows in Europe about a week before the date in Germany hit. The closest and cheapest venue to Zürich (though still a 4 hour drive), a very small village in the South, named Abenberg.  It turned out to be an open air, inside a castle on a hill, with no transport in or out of the village between 9pm and 5:30am. With this in mind, I booked the ticket and believed I would get there somehow. Luckily my mate, Beni, offered to drive us. At 11am on Sunday, June 25th, we made the pilgrimage to Abenberg for Patti Smith.

At the half-way mark, we stopped at a town called Sindelfingen, and ate traditional German fare. This included Spätzli, and fleischküchle - which literally translates to beef cakes. They were essentially a more moist and salty rissole. There was a side of potatoes and pickles, and everything was covered in an unnervingly gelatinous and luke-warm sauce. But it was a strong meal, and kept us going till we arrived.

As we approached Abenberg, we had a view of the tiny village on a hill, with the high walls of the castle at its centre and a tall tower watching over the surrounding farmland. It’s said the man who built the stone walls in the 11th century, Friedrich II, was a friend of the poets - according to Tannhäuser, a gnomic poet. This sent me down a rabbit hole figuring out what gnomic poetry is, I landed at the ancient Greeks. A Patti Smith-esque tangent, but maybe you can read up on Hesiod in your own time.

The gates of the castle opened at 6pm, it was 29 degrees and the yard was in full sun. We managed to get a spot a few rows back from the stage, and waited an hour or so in the relentless Summer sun for Patti to grace the stage. When Smith entered, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and the stage was still bathing in the dregs of afternoon sun. An orange glow beat down on the drum kit, heating the guitars out of tune. The entrance was the first time I shed a tear. Something out of my control overcame me. I didn’t expect to cry, but in that moment I was overwhelmed by being so close to somebody I had listened to and observed in a strange covid induced, para-social arrangement.

Patti Smith began by worshipping the Sun, and also wished it might leave a little sooner. She spoke about never learning to tune a guitar, instead asking guys at the Chelsea hotel to do it for her. I think it’s very cool to hear somebody with such a staunchly feminist and punk reputation speak about just being a bit ‘helpless’ in some situations, simply ‘cause she didn’t want to tune her own guitar. I respect that attitude. Maybe because I’ve spent so much of my life trying to do everything on my own, to make sure I’m the person responsible for everything I do, when actually I’m beginning to learn life’s better when you’re doing things with other people, or people are doing things with you. Or for each other.

Despite its glare, Patti read Allen Ginsbourg’s Footnote to Howl to start, the end punctuated by a glob of spit. The crowd was completely silent aside from a few whistles, and remained this way for most of the gig, only responding when she said something that necessitated a laugh or woo.

The rest of the gig is an excited blur by now. I should have written this the immediately afterwards. I do remember that Patti played for two hours, and maintained a balance between reverence for her most popular songs and intertwining lesser known yet fitting music. The group played two Bob Dylan covers, including Along the Watchtower, and another softer sonf which Smith used to sing to herself as a young girl, imagining there was a boy out there who loved her and wrote prose in her honour. It was sweet and accompanied only by her son on guitar.

About half-way through, Patti recited what seemed like an ad-libbed story, about a sea captain of the skies who was invisible but also loved, and who was friends with swans, and ravens, doves, and sparrows alike. She pointed to the tower looming over the crowd and said that once the captain had stopped there to take a piss over the trees. I imagined a big stream of piss spraying over the crowd.

The second last song was After the Gold Rush by Neil Young, which was a beautiful moment. By now the light was almost drained from the sky, and looking behind us all we could see were the tops of heads until the red horizon began. There were a couple of moths flying around the stage, and somehow a spider had managed to spin to a web above Patti, which occasionally reflected the stage lights. They played People Have the Power to end, which I never fully appreciated until now. I think it held a greater weight to hear it live. The crowd sang the main lines of the chorus, and it was an uplifting finish to an epic chronicle of Patti’s 50 year-long career.

During the concert I was taken aback by Smith’s artistic integrity. Patti is somebody who has clearly never compromised her sound or ideas for anybody, and to feel her energy in the flesh was incredibly inspiring. At one point toward the beginning a girl on somebody’s shoulders was trying to a throw a book on stage as a present. Patti told the crowd not to gift her anything, and the girl threw it anyway. The book sort of landed on stage but close to the edge, and Patti just said: ‘well, that was pretty shitty’. This mix between being so kind to others and conscious about the world, but also saying exactly what’s on her mind is a rare thing.

I wouldn’t say we’re in the same league, but often I’ve felt like a bad person because I try to say what I think even if it’s a bit sharp. As a woman this can lead to being dubbed a bitch, mostly by men, and so I thought maybe I was for a long time. Rather, I think I can’t turn a blind eye, or shut my mouth, or think before I speak. Qualities I now believe are actually some of my best, though I’m learning when to walk the line and when to pull back. This is partly why I cried four times during the set, in the presence of a true poet. A true punk. A real person with no bullshit and no self concern. Amy Taylor of Amyl and the Sniffers is the only other live act I’ve witnessed with comparable verve.

Beni and I drove home that night, leaving Abenberg at 10:44pm. We drove to Schaffhausen and only stopped once at a German servo for a snack of Coca Cola and a chocolate bar. By the time we arrived I was exhausted and content. I slept deep and long, dreaming about gods and castles. The next day we went for a swim in the Rhein, and I took a piss in the river in Patti Smith’s honour.