PATTI SMITH: ‘in excelsis deo’
The Southern Crescent rolls into Washington, DC
As a toddler, I used to ride downtown with my mother in the family’s Ford Fairlane 500 to drop off my father at the old Terminal Station. There he would board trains for his business trips. He would not fly. Ever. During World War Two he was stationed in a U.S. Army mail depot where sacks of letters and packages were loaded on cargo planes to be delivered to those serving overseas. He witnessed firsthand how those bare bones planes were constructed. Sheets of steel bolted together; light shining through the seams. He swore then he would never fly. He kept his word.
During those trips to the train station, I always worried for him riding the train, whether he was going to DC, New York, or any of the other cities he would visit. Probably more so than he feared getting on an airplane.
My reason was simple. As a four year old, I was certain that Indians (Native Americans, I later learned) would attack the train and I’d never see him again. That, and having the Ku Klux Klan burn crosses in our front yard were my first fears. At least, the first ones I remember.
And why wouldn’t I think that he might be at the mercy of Native Americans? My only encounter with trains at that point was riding the locomotive that circled around Stone Mountain. In the early '60s, Native American warriors always attacked that train. Like clockwork. A toddler’s understanding of what’s real and what is theater is not so well-defined at such an early age. And every time I was forced to ride that train, its steam engine bellowing smoke, I was sure this would be the time the cowboys or whoever fought against the Native Americans, would not ride in to save the day. The Stone Mountain Scenic Railroad was far from scenic. It was a fucking nightmare.
Over Thanksgiving, I took Amtrak train number 19, as the national passenger railroad service has rebranded it, north to Washington, DC. The Crescent, as it is still known in the south, or the Southern Crescent as it was known during my father’s time, was once a grand train, fabled for its sleeper cars and fine dining restaurant cars.
You no longer catch the Crescent at Terminal Station, the grand old terminal that once stood proud on Spring Street. Arrivals and departures are from Brookwood Station, a small outpost, in no way a match for the grandeur and majesty of Terminal Station. Even with its Italian Renaissance-style architecture, Brookwood Station is but a sad reminder of the beautiful buildings that once lined the streets of this city, echoing a past now long ago. As Atlanta became “the city too busy to hate,” those architectural wonders were destroyed in the name of some abstract progress to which we are now supposed to genuflect.
Brookwood Station, or Peachtree Station, as Amtrak officially calls it, is very small. With very little character. Except for those waiting to board the train. Compared to the shopping center across the street, however, it’s an oasis of artful design on Peachtree Street. And you know it’s on Peachtree Street because “Peachtree” is now emblazoned across the bridge that spans I-85 just to the south of the station complex.
Thanksgiving eve proved to be a colorful gathering place, an interesting cross section of people waiting for a train. Blanketed grandmothers closely guarding small babies. Hip-hop mogul wannabes flashing bling. Old hippies in faded tie die and sandals. Staid Amish couples sitting calmly. They weren't all just waiting for the same train, they all had something else in common. No eye contact.
The Crescent had started its journey earlier in the day, as it does everyday. In the morning. In New Orleans. By the time #19 pulled into Atlanta, many passengers had already embarked and disembarked from its eight cars. Still, it was crowded. Riders making last minute attempts to get together with family and friends for the holiday. I’ve never seen Thanksgiving as such. It’s always been an abject celebration of colonialism to me. That is once I started to learn the truth about this country’s history and not unilaterally accept what I was taught in school. The Pilgrims didn’t make peace with those whose land they colonized. And the Native Americans who, as a child, caused me to fear for my father’s life? They weren’t the savages. No. Like so many minorities in this country and abroad, they were the oppressed, wanting what they had before Christopher Columbus. Before the Mayflower landed. Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Values that, for Native Americans, now lie buried under racism, hegemony, and colonialism — the latter three having experienced a resurgence in the United States and are now its chief exports.
I found my way to the seat to which I had been assigned, the seat next to mine occupied by a person who appeared agitated while she anxiously waited in Peachtree Station. These were bulkhead seats. And the woman who was assigned to sit next to me wasn’t going to have it. “Hell, no!” she screamed, though no conductor nor attendant was near. “I’m going to EAT on this train,” she declared. Continuing her rant, she claimed, “Ain’t no one can eat with a seat like this! There’s no tray!” She grabbed her luggage and roared down the aisle. I never saw her again. Thank God. With the seat next to me empty, it was easy to doze off, the click-clack of the train as it made its way along the track a soothing lullaby, occasionally punctuated by repeated blasts from the diesel train's horn. One long. One short. Two long.
When I awoke, I headed to the cafe car where I ordered a cup of coffee. I sat at a table in the car, waiting for the caffeine to take effect. I looked out the window just as we were approaching the next stop. I saw a mural painted on a stone wall that proclaimed “LYH loves you.” Lynchburg, Virginia. In that early morning, half awake haze, I believed it. I was certain every member of the city’s population did, in fact, love me. I’d bet money on it. I could feel it.
The Crescent entered the Blue Ridge Mountains, crossing the James River, heading towards the Shenandoah Valley.
I returned to my bulkhead of solitude. The conductor called out the station names where brief stops were made. Charlottesville. Manassas. Alexandria. I looked out the window. When I did, I saw four Native Americans on horseback racing their way through the forest. They must’ve been tribal leaders, as each horseman wore a distinct war bonnet. But these men weren’t charging towards the train. They were riding alongside it, racing faster than the train itself to some victory known only to them. As they passed on their gallant steeds, I noticed each warrior had a papoose board tied to his back. Yet it wasn’t children they were carrying, but the corpses of four dead U.S presidents. I could just make out the decomposed faces of Gerald Ford, Ronald Reagan, George H. W. Bush, and Donald Trump. As the warriors overtook the train, they ascended into the morning sun rising in the East. Was this real? I could only hope. Suddenly, a voice boomed over the train’s P.A. “If you need to use the restroom, do so before we reach Washington, DC,” the conductor warned. “I repeat, use the bathroom before we reach Washington, DC. The toilets will not work after we leave Washington, DC.”
Of course they won’t. All the shit in this country? Last stop, Washington, DC.
DC is where my locomotive adventure would come to an end, though the Crescent would continue on: Trenton, New Jersey; Newark, New Jersey; and, finally, New York City.
But my pilgrimage, my journey had nothing to do with elected officials. Nothing to do with those who usurp power for their own selfish gain.
My trip was to be a witness. To partake of a holy sacrament. To bathe in the light of Patti Smith and her band one more time. The see the “Horses” 50th Anniversary Tour, celebrating 50 years since the release of the album that struck at rock ’n’ roll’s foundation, creating a “sea of possibilities” for all who heard it. Indeed, I remember the first time I heard it. I had parked at a gas station. I was getting out of my car when the DJ announced he would be playing “Horses” in full. I turned up the radio. Loud. So I could listen to the album I’d been waiting months to hear. I exited the car, filled the gas tank, and paid the attendant, "Horses" still blasting out of the car windows. I drove to an empty spot in the adjacent parking lot to listen to the album to its finish. Everything was different after that. I felt different. Obstacles no longer seemed a hindrance, but conquerable.
In Europe, where the “Horses” 50th tour started in October, only a handful of dates, in even less cities, were played. In the United States, not many more. The shows sold out in minutes, signifying the cultural impact “Horses,” the eight-song album produced by John Cale, has made since its first being released that Monday, November 10, 1975.
The Anthem, the purpose-built music venue where Patti Smith and her band appeared Friday, November 28, is located along the Potomac River in DC’s The Wharf district. It’s one of those new concert halls that have been popping up in major cities over the last few years. You know, for people who want to see rock ’n’ roll concerts but don’t want to get their hands dirty. Modernist architecture at its most basic. Exposed steel and concrete. Multi-level balconies designed to provide patrons with a good view of the stage. Floor seats aligned in such a way to allow somewhat uninterrupted lines of sight. Nothing warm and inviting. But when the house lights go down and the music starts….
Billed as a performance of “Horses” in it’s entirety, the band — Lenny Kaye, Jay Dee Daugherty, Tony Shanahan, and Jackson Smith — casually walked onstage and took up their instruments as Smith sauntered into the spotlight.
Familiar piano chords echoed throughout the concert hall. Smith approached the mic. “Jesus died for somebody’s sins, but not mine.” There was a roar of excitement. “Gloria.” “Redondo Beach.” “Birdland.” “Free Money.” Performed in succession, just like on the record, Smith's voice no longer shy and reverent, but deep and commanding. The frantic wantonness of "Free Money" subsided. Smith addressed the audience.
“And now we turn the record over,” Patti announced playfully. “Kimberly” “Break It Up,” “Land: Horses/Land of a Thousand Dances/Gloria (reprise),” and “Elegie,” followed. With each song the set built in intensity. “Land” was propelled to a feverish pitch,
Smith in a rage over all Johnny, the song’s protagonist, had witnessed in the fifty years since he first “learned how to pony.” She beseeched the audience, “Why? Why?” questioning why two of the many horrendous tragedies occurring in the world — the exploitation of children in the mines of The Congo and the continuous genocide and starvation of the children in Gaza — are allowed to continue. The stage was a maelstrom of poetry, sound, and motion as Smith reached to the depths of her soul to admonish those who facilitate such horrors, finally calling out Donald Trump as a “greedy, narcissistic motherfucker” for his complicity. As the slow and mournful strains of “Elegie,” the last track on “Horses,” was played, it was clear the song was no longer a requiem for only musicians lost, but for every man, woman, and child killed at the hands of oppressors the world over.
As the last piano chord faded, Smith offered, with an air of finality, a simple acknowledgment, “Horses,” then took a bow with those who were onstage with her for the euphoric celebration.
Smith left the stage.
Tony Shanahan, who had been playing keyboards, switched to bass, his usually instrument of choice, and Jackson Smith, Patti’s son, switched from bass to guitar. Guitarist Lenny Kaye stepped to his mic, speaking of the many musicians from the early days of the group, when “Horses” was but a dream, who are no longer alive. In particular, he mentioned Billy Ficca and Tom Verlaine, both of the band Television, with whom they shared many nights, night after night, together at CBGB, the bastion of New York punk that was also home to The Ramones, Blondie, Talking Heads, and many others. What followed was a medley of three Television songs — “See No Evil,” Friction,” and “Marquee Moon” — each a two-guitar power drive that mirrored the originals.
Commanding the stage once again, Smith and the band launched into an interesting “second set,” one that drew more from “Radio Ethiopia” and “Easter,” her second and third albums, respectively, rather than her later releases recorded with many of those onstage. “Dancing Barefoot,” “Ain’t It Strange,” a reading of William Blake’s “The Tyger” in honor of his birthday, “Pissin’ In A River,” “Peaceable Kingdom”/“People Have The Power” poem, and “Because The Night” rounded out the event. Joined by Smith’s daughter, Jesse Paris Smith on keyboards, the band returned for two encores, “Ghost Dance” and the rallying cry, “People Have The Power.”
Throughout the evening, Smith offered insight into how or why many of the songs performed during the concert were composed: “Break It Up,” inspired by Jim Morrison, being written with Tom Verlaine; “Elegie,” written with Allen Lanier during the recording of “Horses” at Jimi Hendrix’s Electric Lady Studios; Smith and her late husband, Fred Smith, writing “People Have The Power.” She introduced “Peaceable Kingdom” as a song she and Tony Shanahan wrote for the people of Gaza in 2003 and explained how she and Lenny Kaye wrote “Ghost Dance” with much respect, in tribute to the Native Americans who have lost their lives from sea to shining sea.
Smith has always championed the disenfranchised, the downtrodden, and the oppressed. She’s never relented. Nor did she in this nation’s capital, a city that has not seen such turmoil, such divisiveness, such cowardice, as it does today. Railing against the current resident of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, she didn’t hold back, angrily calling him a “greedy, narcissistic motherfucker.” The crowd rose from their seats. The applause was deafening.
In the great circle of life, does the beginning signal the end? Will Smith tour again with a full band? Perhaps she’ll continue with the quartet — herself, Jackson Smith, Tony Shanahan, and Seb Rochford — with which she has recently been performing. Certainly, she’s allowed the freedom she’s created for herself, having realized the truth she so provocatively detailed in “Piss Factory,” her first single: “I'm gonna get on that train, I'm gonna go on that train and go to New York City. I'm gonna be somebody, I'm gonna get on that train, go to New York City, I'm gonna be so bad I'm gonna be a big star…oh, watch me now.” —CL—