Patti Smith: "Hope you like the non-merch!"

How a non-fan became a late to life convert.

I can’t claim to ever have been a Patti Smith fan, or for that matter even not a fan. I suppose I could be considered a non-fan—as in I have no frame of reference. I’m embarrassed to say I am of an age where I should have at least enough familiarity to have formed some opinion about this artist who has had a seminal influence on generations of artists I do adore. But until 3 months ago I could not name one song of hers. While her unread memoir sat in my TBR pile, I chose merely to follow her Instagram along with 1.1M other “fans.” A growing curiosity prompted me to experience the magic of this artist in person.

The stakes for art to effect magic can be high. Any performance comes with more than the ticket price. The artist and audience enter a contract of expectation long before the “event”—There is the calendar date, seat choice, price tiers, the “plus one” or more, transportation/parking, potential meal stops, arrival and departure times. Adding all of these factors to the ticket price still can’t quantify a “magical” evening— because there are always unexpected factors like weather, mood, traffic….

When I bought tickets to “see” Patti Smith at McCarter Theater last night it was the during the thick heat of summer and buying two tickets without a plan seemed low stakes high yield magic. After all, it was an easy hour drive to Princeton, a great walk about town without the city travel stress. So—low stakes stress investment, high yield magic.

What actually happened was like this: The “plus-one” ticket I bought on faith kept changing. Originally intended as a birthday gift, this plus-one went to that plus-one went to finally do you know plus-anyone? On show day, I tried to not think about the wasted ticket, but truth be told the $100 price tag increased the demand for an evening that now better be transformative since I paid double to sit next to an empty seat. An irrational criteria for any experience.

Then, weather. Hurricane Ophelia visited and challenged the walk about town plan. It so happens that I enjoy braving feisty weather and, anyway, I had planned to spend a couple of hours at the university museum before the show. More art, more magic! When I got there, the museum was closed for renovations. Less art, less magic.

I wandered about, at first ignoring my irritation in hopes of heading off an irreversible dark mood, then attempting to acknowledge my disappointment in hopes that I could at least embrace the moment. I sat in the university cathedral hoping setting alone would invite Spirit. She wasn’t there, and apparently I didn’t bring her. I browsed Labyrinth Books hoping to find treasure in distraction, but left empty handed and empty hearted. I settled at Kung Fu Noodle to find solace in solitude and food. I ordered ramen and green tea, only to leave $5 for the tea and awkwardly cancel my order so I could find my car and charge my nearly dead phone…..which I needed to find my car at a garage somewhere 10,000 steps ago.

(Collage evidence of my attempt to combat expectation induced disappointment.)

It was in this lonesome context that I arrived at the theater, wet from rain, sore from walking, disoriented from getting lost, and yet weirdly encouraged by a bizarrely buoyant hilarious hope (make that delusion) that I would happen upon another solitary soul needing a ticket to the sold out Patti Smith show. That did not happen. In fact, I didn’t even make it on time to the box office to donate the ticket for a $25 theater credit, much less scalp it for face value.

But something else did happen. I sat in the lounge, put my phone down, and did not order a drink. I just sat, without distraction, and minded the moment of waiting. I noticed the disappointment that was simply a result of my expectations, expectations based on my own demands not the artist’s gift. Expectations had prevented me from experiencing the unexpected. No art deserves expectation, only anticipation. I shed all expectations then and there.

And then, the unexpected. A woman asked to share my table as we waited. She also did not want to scroll her phone and also was not overly familiar with Patti Smith. We chatted briefly about what brought us there, about art and artists, and even the spirit of the divine feminine somehow in the few minutes before curtain. We seemed to be there for the same reason: to experience this iconic spiritual voice of art in person. I invited Katerina* to switch her back balcony seat to the “empty” seat next to mine. Just a little pre-show stranger magic.

And then, the real magic.

When Patti Smith walked on stage, she brought the Holy Spirit with her and I immediately started to cry. The set was sparse—just the instruments with a screen that projected a few simple images throughout her show. Her band was minimal, three other musicians, one being her son. She lacked any of the typical stage affectations, and was neither self conscious nor confident—more like just Self. She was a presence that did not promise anything and gave everything she had come with.

The joyous affection of the audience was audible and palpable and she reciprocated that affection. More than once someone would call out “Patti we love you” and each time she responded with a gentle humor that accepted the gesture and returned it in kind. At one point, in between instrument changes she said in passing, “Hope you enjoy the non-merch.” It was then I realized I would not be going home with my usual evidence of participation T-shirt**. It was then I realized Patti Smith was a true artist. She did not participate in the commerce of selling an artistic image. Selling the art itself was enough.

Her performance was communicated as much by her hands as by her words. She was shamanistic (to use Katerina’s term) in the way she moved her hands, with deliberation and intention, often open out toward the audience, almost like she was, dare I use an old church term, extending a “laying on of hands.” The entire theater singing Gloria was nothing short of a full congregational hymn sing-along. During “Shake Out the Ghost Dance” she raised her hands above her head and shook them—which then rippled throughout the auditorium flooded with quivering hands hovering over bobbing heads. It was both beautiful and startling as it reminded me briefly of my own communal experiences of spiritual ecstasy in pentecostal church services—Dare I participate? I took my time, but eventually both the infectious devotion of her fans and the raw, organic presentation of her voice invited me into the feral fellowship—without expectations. I ended the evening on my feet, hands in air, empty of expectations and full of love.

Her last three words bellowing out over the crowd’s encore roar still ring my ears:

Use your voice!

There I was, foolish seeker that I am, back at church, singing, raising hands, and still believing. After all these years, I simply can’t help myself. I believe in it all. Art, God, Music, Joy, Disappointment, Holy Spirit, Rain, Fear, Truth, Persistence, Strangers, Peace, Individual, Community, Faith, Hope, Love, all of it.

Shake out the Holy Ghost. Dance.

Thank you, Patti Smith. Thank you.

*Meet my Row W seat mate and check out her work, artist Katerina LanFranco.

**While I didn’t score a T-shirt, I confess to defying McCarter’s directive against photos/videos. Are they kidding? How else can we hold on to, revisit, document moments of magic. One of the few things I can say about technology is that it at least helps accommodate my foggy spotty memory. Thus, the clandestine pic.