Coney Island Babies

I have always been fascinated by the autobiographies of women in rock music, more so than men, because I am always intrigued with what motivates a woman to follow the paths so well worn by men. You never hear a girl claiming that she first learned to play guitar because she "wanted to get laid", or how easy it was to find a bunch of girls hanging out wanting to jam in somebody's mom's garage. What inspires women to follow the paths not mapped out for them since birth, especially in an age where women's paths were mapped out for them, fills me with more inspiration than reading about Bob Dylan hopping trains when I grew up being told not to drive by myself late at night.

And what's even more interesting is that Patti Smith was not initially out to become a rock star, let alone the future "Godmother Of Punk" when her debut album Horses was released in 1975, her poetry combining her accumulated 1960's upbringing and beatnik influences of Rimbaud and Baudelaire set to spare, minimalist rock 'n roll rhythms. Patti loved to draw and to paint, to write poetry and make jewelry. Leaving her south Jersey home after dropping out of college and giving up a baby for adoption, she roamed the streets of New York City starving and sleeping in empty doorways, wearing long scarves and heavy raincoats even in the scorching city heat to complete her idealistic young Bohemian look, with Rolling Stones records and art tablets tucked under her arm. And it was then that she met Robert Mapplethorpe.

Just Kids, the fresh new autobiography written by Patti herself, chronicles those early lean years together, when two young lovers swore within the first forty-eight hours of meeting each other that they would always look after and protect one another for as long as they both shall live. Smith's first book of prose is just as fluid and descriptive as her verse, simple yet every word well chosen to paint a mental picture for the reader of what life was like in the late 60's and early 70's New York, from the Hotel Chelsea to Max' Kansas City, from the boho sidewalks of St. Marks Place to the seedy grit of CBGB's. Fueled by their creative drive and their shared vision, they set out to discover themselves as well as their places in the art world. And of course, we all know the great things that they each accomplished. But getting there, as per usual, was always half the adventure.

I'm halfway through the book now and I can't put it down for a second. I love being in Patti's mind, hearing the thoughts of a woman I always admired but really knew so little about outside of her music. My friend who was a docent at the Chrysler Museum Of Art in Norfolk learned while working there that the museum was one of the first (if not the first) museum to host an exhibit of Mapplethrope's work when nobody else wanted to touch the stuff. It's one of the reasons why we both take a great deal of pride in our humble little local establishment.

And in a way, the story of Patti and Robert reminds me of the early years when Joe and I were living parsimoniously, the days when we'd decide if we'd spend our last few dollars on food or music, and music often winning out in the end. My heightened sense of a living, breathing counterculture at the time coming out of my middle-class suburban upbringing. Punk bands sleeping on our floors as they breezed through town. Graduating from Ramen noodles to Kraft Macaroni and Cheese when I made a few extra bucks. Maybe not as gritty living as Patti and Robert, to be sure. But I can relate to the passion that drove their creative juices. I used to know that feeling. God, whatever happened to that feeling?