In art and dream may you proceed with abandon.
In life may you proceed with balance and stealth.1
The first time I ever saw Patti Smith was in 1974. She was doing a poetry reading in celebration of the French poet Arthur Rimbaud. She inspired my heart and soul. In December of 1975, her debut album, Horses, was released, and just like what happened when I saw Alice Cooper, my life went through a radical shift.
It was as if Patti was from another planet—that whole androgynous look of hers in the now-classic photo by Robert Mapplethorpe—there was a true Frank Sinatra swagger to it—very cool and confident.
Right after I got the album and devoured it, I was obsessed with her. She was a true visionary in her music, art, and poetry.
charms. sweet angels—you have made me no longer afraid of death.2
After Horses came out, I felt an intense need to get hold of everything I could about her. I picked up the phone and called the Wartoke Concern—the company listed as her publicity agent on the back of the album. When her publicist, Jeffi Powell, answered, I said: “Hi, I’m Michael Alago, I live in Brooklyn. I’m a big fan of Patti’s and I bought the Horses album. Is there any kind of press kit that I could get?”
She was pretty abrupt with me. I actually could hear her sighing. I’m sure she was rolling her eyes too. It sounded like she had been fielding a lot of media and my phone call just added to her nerve-racking day. Who was I really? Not the press, not a concert promoter, but she said she would send me something soon.
Well, I waited, and I waited, and I waited, and after about two months, a big packet of press info arrived, and it was a real shock—it had everything I could have ever wanted about Patti in it. On top of that, Ms. Powell sent me a letter with the packet, apologizing for the delay. I was amazed, and in hindsight, I realized that was a real stretch for her—I was just another teenage fan.
I went to see Patti a few months later with my friend Lori Reese. Lori worked at Outrageous Records in Brooklyn and we had met at City-As-School. We were both rabid Patti fans, and in July of 1976, we got tickets for her show at the Central Park Schaefer Music Festival. We were dancing and screaming, pumping our fists in the air. Patti was exactly what we wanted and needed. After the show, Lori and I walked to the backstage area to see if we could catch a glimpse of her and the band leaving the venue.
In fact, as they were walking out, we got that chance and were able to say “Hi” to Patti and Lenny Kaye and Richard Sohl. I also took a picture of Lori and Patti with my Kodak instamatic 110. We were both so overwhelmed by her. Since then, I have had a number of profound moments with Patti, and we also became close at a very painful point later in my life.
In the eighties, Patti retired from performing to move to St. Claire Shores, Michigan, to live with her husband, Fred “Sonic” Smith from MC5, and raise their two children, Jessie and Jackson. But beginning in 1989, with the passing of her closest friend, Robert Mapplethorpe, death began to surround her. Five years later, her husband died of a heart attack and a few weeks after that, her brother Todd died from a fatal stroke. Around that same time, I was suffering from full-blown AIDS and I received many loving phone calls from Patti. She knew I had been her devoted fan for the previous twenty years, and I can only assume the compassionate spirit and kindness which generated this series of phone calls to me came as a result of the overwhelming losses she had recently been going through.
Phone Call March 1994
Patti: Well, you sound great Michael.
Me: Well, you know, Patti—I thank God I’m feeling good right now.
Patti: ’Cause I’ve talked to you when you sounded very different, and you sound really good.
Me: Well, my stomach is back in order, I really don’t even know that anything is the matter.
Patti: Robert always said if he could get his stomach together, he could handle anything.
Me: Right!
Patti: And that’s what got Fred—his stomach was worse than his heart—his stomach, and he had bad nerves his whole life. You don’t think much about the dark stomach until you need it!
Me: Yup. yup. You know, when the stomach starts to go it just triggers everything else, and you wind up having to run to the bathroom and becoming dehydrated—oh, its hideous!
Patti: Well, stay up there, Michael.
Me: I’m tryin’, girl!
Patti: You’re doin’ great! You’ve been working. I think that’s great. I think you really—you’re an inspiration to people, you keep going . . .
Me: Thank you.
Patti: I hope everything works out.
Me: Me, too. So Friday, Washington Square Hotel?
Patti: We’ll go to the library together.
Me: That’d be fun, fabulous. Oh, it’s so nice to hear your voice!
Patti: You, too!
Me: Bye.
Patti: Bye.3
During one of those many phone calls, Patti also read “The Day of My Death” by Pasolini, from his book Roman Poems.
In a city, Trieste or Udine,
along the linden boulevard,
when in spring
the leaves change color,
I’ll drop dead
under the ardent sun,
blond and tall,
and I’ll close my eyes,
leaving the sky to its splendor.
Under a warm green linden
I’ll fall into my death’s darkness,
scattering linden and sun.
The beautiful boys
will run in that light
which I’ve just lost,
flying from school
with curls on their brows.4
Later, she told me how excited she was about going into the studio to record a few demos. She played me her voice-and-piano versions of “Don’t Smoke in Bed” by Nina Simone and “When the Hunter Gets Captured by the Game” by the Marvelettes. A few days later, she mailed me a cassette of the songs. Needless to say, I was over the moon.
In early 1995, Patti sent me a draft of her book on Robert Mapplethorpe entitled The Coral Sea. Her editor, Amy Cherry of Norton Publishing, asked me not to circulate it because they weren’t planning on publishing it until the following year. It covered Robert’s life as a young man, his relationship with Sam Wagstaff, his professional accomplishments, and his struggle and death from AIDS.
And the eye became a body, the murky heart of a rose. The sinister shadow of an orchid. Or the indolent poppy balanced behind the ear of Baudelaire.5
The Coral Sea references Robert’s photos, which are elegantly displayed throughout the book. To my shock and deep appreciation, Patti acknowledged six people at the end of The Coral Sea, including myself.
In my opinion, Patti Smith is the smartest and most charismatic artist living today.
—Michael Alago