Rural Britain, is there any greater value out there than giga-clear full-fiber from only 19 pounds a month? It's out of this world! Speed and reliability! Vast upload and downloadiness! Right here in Rural Tranquility! Saturn's Dreams! Is that a bull? Gigaclear! Faster broadband for Rural Britain from only 19 pounds a month! Season C's apply! 18 month contract! Prices may rise during contract! Check availability at gigaclear.com This is the New Yorker Radio Hour. A co-production of WNYC Studios and The New Yorker. This is the New Yorker Radio Hour. I'm David Remnick. Jesus died for somebody's sins, but not mine. That line, the opening to Patti Smith's album Horses, has got to be one of the best openers to an album ever. Amazing to think that Horses, which still feels fresh and raw and transgressive, came out almost 50 years ago this week. Horses launched Patti Smith to musical and avant-garde stardom almost overnight. And yet being a star wasn't Patti Smith's intention at all. She was a poet. She was publishing poems years before the record came out. She'd written a play with Sam Shepard. Music was a kind of afterthought, as she tells it, an accompaniment to the words. Becoming one of the founding figures of punk was something that happened almost by accident. But in recent years, many people have come to know Patti Smith as a writer, as well as a performer. Her memoir Just Kids, about her friendship with the late photographer Robert Maplethor, won the National Book Award. M-Train reflected on her withdrawal from music as she raised a family. And in Bread of Angels, which was just excerpted in The New Yorker, Smith writes intimately about her life and music. And also her personal life, particularly her marriage to Fred Sonic Smith and his early death. At times, she shares deep revelations about her past, and it's nothing if not a book of tremendous honesty. You say somewhere in the book that this book took you 10 years to write. Is that because life is just so busy, or the act of memory and the act of writing is difficult? Well, I mean, I was writing about difficult things, but also certain things in my life and things that came to pass, as you see in the book. Things that were revealed to me made me, I had to stop for a couple of years and process. You know, I kept having to process things that were happening in real time, or really make certain that I was, you know, articulating fact properly, especially when I'm talking about other people. The same thing with just kids. It took me a very long time. I mean, I write profusely, fiction, fairy tales, all kinds of things that aren't even published without a care. But writing a memoir, writing, bringing other people into it, one has to really be prudent and search themselves and make sure that they're presenting the right picture. What was the most difficult thing to encounter? You obviously write about the death of your husband, but toward the end of the book, you write about revelation about your own family, and that seems particularly complicated, no? That was the most difficult part. Tell the story of that. The most difficult part of the writing process and just my process as a human being was the revelation that my father, who I pretty much worshiped and modeled myself after, and who I had spent a lot of time in the earlier part of the book, bringing to life, was actually not my blood father. I never knew this, of course, and although there was always a little speculation, because I am a bit different than my siblings, I never resembled my father physically, though I modeled myself after him. And in learning this, it took me a long time to process. I wasn't angry, I didn't feel any bitterness or anything of my mother. I admired her stoic-ness. My mother knew that how I felt about my father, in fact, I often showed more love for my father than my mother, but instead of being resentful, I think she did everything she could to protect me. How did the revelation come to pass, and when? How did you specifically find out about it? Specifically through a test. After my mother died, my sister and I, we got curious, and just out of curiosity, which I thought really would not come up with anything, we did a test, but we didn't do a paternal test, we did a sibling test, a blood test, because we didn't know the difference. And so, when we did the blood test, it showed that we were only half siblings, which was heartbreaking. It was heartbreaking only because I love my sister so much. I love my father so much. It was just the romance of blood, you know, really. She was still my sister a million percent. My father was still my father. So that produced a certain amount of pain, but also, I had to, in terms of the book, I had worked so hard for this book to be a monument to truth and to be exactly as it was. And suddenly, I didn't know where I stood. I didn't know how to, I didn't know if I had to rewrite the book, I didn't know. And I really put it away for a couple of years until I figured all of this out. And my sister and I together reconciled this. She was so helpful because we talked about it endlessly. And one day, she said she had an epiphany, and it was that she loved me so much, and she realized that the person she loved only existed because of the union between my mother and my blood father. And when she realized that, she suddenly felt immense gratitude to him. And so that is how we proceeded. And I feel the same way. I mean, he's in my prayers, he's in my thoughts. It turned out I was his only child. So he died young. So I, you know, I keep him with me. My father will always be my father, and he is the one I aspired to be like. You write of him that my father lived in his own world. He left the new world to my mother. Yes. My father was, well, he studied all the time. He read, my father worked in a factory, but he was reading Socrates and Plato and Young and Euphology and the Bible. He was hungry for knowledge, and I aspired to be like that. He was hoping after the world wars that we would have man would be, would wake up. And the inhumanity, man's inhumanity to man, his favorite line from Robert Burns. He was hoping that that's what the new time would be. And he was so, you know, disgusted with, you know, the humanity. I mean, I am, if anything, I'm glad he's not seeing our world now. And my father loved Ralph Nader, always voted for him. Still very much with us, Ralph Nader. Yes, and a good friend. Part of the book early on is kind of accounting for in a collection of the deep influences, almost talismans that you, first is the recording of Madame Butterfly, then a biography of Diego Rivera. Yes. And then Rambo, which is not the usual thing for somebody that young. And then maybe most faithfully, your mother at a drugstore buys for less than a dollar a copy for you of another side of Bob Dylan, which is not the first Dylan album, but it's early on. No, I had heard of him and I'd listened to whatever I could hear on the radio, but I never had a record. And just looking at him in that picture and reading his liner notes. And I associated him so much with Rambo, a song like Hard Rain's Gonna Fall, very Rambo-D. And many of his, even his face is very like the young Rambo. So, and he was alive. Finally, I had somebody I could. That's not unimportant. Well, I had so many, you know, you know, I loved Robert Louis Stevenson and Louisa May Alcott and all the people I loved, you know, they were all long gone. And Rambo long gone. Finally, somebody in real time that I could fantasize about or follow or, you know, learn from. And he was alive and yet a little bit out of reach too, which added to the allure. Oh, of course. I remember being fanatic on this subject. We've talked about this before, but so rarely would you hear his speaking voice. And once I remember listening to WPLJ, I think it was, or any WFM. And he was being interviewed by Mary Traverse and he was answering questions and he was irritated in the usual things. But it was something, it's very hard to explain now. Oh, I still remember. I saw him in Philadelphia in like 65 and he introduced visions of Johanna before he recorded it. And I remember he came to the microphone. He said, this song is called, obviously not a freeze out. Obviously not a freeze out. The first words I hear from Bob Dylan and I've never forgotten them. I can hear it in my, you know, it's just, it was amazing to hear him speak. So many artistic memoirs, including Dylan's Chronicles, have that moment where you arrive. You physically arrive. In your case, the arrival at the gates of New York and you write this, I stepped out of board authority, bus terminal with my plaid suitcase. I love that the plaid suitcase. My greatest desire at the time was to surrender as an artist. What a word, surrender. And then you go on, perhaps I let the necessary skills, but I had the willingness to develop them for I believed in the truth of my calling and was single minded in my pursuit to find work. It had come to me as if struck with an ecstatic paralysis. And then the next paragraph, you're off to the races. But when did you start to get the idea of this is what I could be? You know, you start writing poems and then you get the idea to be backed up by musicians while doing so at St. Mark's Church, an old church downtown where they have poetry readings. When does the penny start to drop? And this, this is the path I can pursue that will fulfill the vision of who I might be and what I want to say. It was a little actually because it wasn't my first pursuit. I wanted to be an artist. I by then I had a feeling that I really didn't have the necessary physical skills that I was always going to be good at what I did. I was, you know, I felt that I had certain gifts, but I had really embraced being a writer and it was Sam Shepard who, you know, I did Sam Shepard. And you wrote a play together. Yes. But I had been to poetry readings and they seemed so boring to me and I didn't want to be boring. And I was talking to Sam and he said, well, you know, you sing little songs like little Blu, we used to do little blue songs together. Like, why don't you get a guitar player and do a couple of songs. And I had just met Lenny Kay and he had said that he played some guitar. So I recruited him on one poem to do a car crash. You know, he had like a really tiny little champ amp and electric guitar and he did like a car crash to one of my long poems. But it caused quite a commotion. That I didn't expect. And the fact that we had an electric guitar in the church. This is at St. Mark's? Yeah. And a girl doing that got a lot of negativity. But also... You got negativity. Both. How was that expressed? Well, desecration of the church. And also, you know, a little blasphemous poems, I suppose. And I don't know. I don't... I don't... I can't say to this day why it made such an impression on people. I mean, I was offered after that a record contract. I was offered all kinds of things and I thought it was really stupid. Stupid? All that attention over that, you know, I thought, now I'm not going to get involved in all that yet. I just thought it was an awful lot. And I wasn't prepared for it. I was just... I just didn't want to be born, you know. You just want to be boring at all? No, I didn't want to be boring. Let me ask you, one of your first utterances, you know, recorded utterances that, you know, I remember hearing this record, is Jesus died for somebody's sins, but not mine. And yet you were brought up in a highly religious or religiously inflected or infused household. Your mother became a Jehovah's Witness if I recall correctly. Yes. What was your relationship to God and Jesus and religion by the time you were... I mean, I was going to Bible school at two and a half. I was asking questions about prayer. I made my mother crazy asking her, you know, what is the soul? What color is the soul? Will the soul come back if it goes away while I'm sleeping? And my mother finally sent me to Bible school. And I had a very strong Bible education. My father read the Bible. My father loved to argue with... If any religious person or any organization came to the door, he'd bring them in. And usually, like, truthfully wiped them out because he knew more about the Bible than they did. But... And I was a Jehovah's Witness until I was 12 or 12 years old. But I felt at 12. I was grateful for all my education. But I felt that I was not a candidate for organized religion. But were you in rebellion toward it, do you think? It wasn't rebellion. I just... I didn't rebel. I just understood that it wasn't... It wasn't... It wasn't right for me. Did you become an atheist? No. No, I still love God. Even when I wrote... I didn't think so. I mean, people would say, oh, when horses came out, you don't love Jesus. You don't believe in Jesus. I said, I believe in Him so much. He's the first word of my record. That was not against Jesus. It was really more my statement about organized religion. With a lot of young bravado. I wrote that poem in 1968. And recorded it in 1975. But I had written it quite some time before. And not long after even I recorded that in studying Jesus in a different angle, not through religion, I came actually to deeply admire Him. And I still study the New Testament with my sister. Or actually the whole Bible with my sister, because she's a very devout witness. And we have Bible studies, because I love to talk about and interpret or think about different things in the Bible. Also the language. I mean, the revelations was another influence on me. Aesthetically, because of the language, the King James version, it's quite poetical. But I'm still the same way. I have my own relationship with God. It might shift through the years. How would you describe that relationship? It's one of... I trust that... Basically, I trust that God understands my heart, knows who I am, knows... He knows my trespasses. And I never petition God. Even when Robert was sick, I never... Your friend Robert Maple Thorpe. Yep. I prayed for him. I prayed for everyone. I prayed for the hostages for the Palestinian people. I pray for everyone. I don't have... I'm not discriminating and praying for people. But I pray for their... Just as I prayed for Robert, for the strengthening of their heart to endure what they have to endure. This is the New Yorker Radio Hour, and I'm speaking with Patty Smith. We'll continue in a moment. How does AI even work? Where does creativity come from? What's the secret to living longer? Ted Radio Hour explores the biggest questions with some of the world's greatest thinkers. They will surprise, challenge, and even change you. Listen to NPR's Ted Radio Hour wherever you get your podcasts. This is the New Yorker Radio Hour. I'm David Remnick, and I'm speaking today with Patty Smith. This is a pretty big week for Patty Smith. Her debut album, Horses, came out exactly 50 years ago, November 10, 1975. An anniversary reissue has come out this year. And Smith has also just published a third of an extraordinary series of memoirs dealing with a pretty extraordinary life. The book is called Gred of Angels. The book arguably pivots in the mid-70s. It's not the whole of the book, but there's a kind of pivotal two things happen in the mid-70s. The first thing is that you record, and it's now remarkably, to my mind, the 50th anniversary of Horses, I think, in November 10. And some of these songs you still play, yeah, to this day. And then something personal happens. You meet the man who'd become your husband, and eventually you withdraw from that life that you were having as a rock star, as a public persona. Tell me about that falling in love and then this withdrawal, because it is, in many ways, the heart of the book and extraordinarily moving. Well, thank you. I mean, one of the reasons I wrote this book, and this book is really, you know, it's in the Gred of Angels is really the idea of its gratitude or gestures of kindness. And I wanted to, I wanted these people to be remembered as I knew them, not as how they're, you know, speculated upon or written about. And I wanted Fred to be remembered as the man that I loved and shared, you know, albeit brief, but very condensed and wondrous time together. What's amazing, you encounter Fred Sonicsmith in Detroit. You're on tour. Yes. And even after we get to know him in this book, there's a degree to which he's hard to penetrate as a person for you. Well, he was very private. He was very private. And there was aspects that were impenetrable. But, you know, that was part of that understanding or understanding that I'll never completely understand him was part of the mystical contract. But I never thought of myself as getting married and have a family. But, you know, it was 1976, March 10th, our first show in Detroit. We were on the horse's tour. We were at a briefly, at a party thrown at us for us. I stopped in because I don't really like parties that much, so I didn't want to be there too long. But everyone was so nice. But then I wanted to leave. And just as I was about to leave, I saw him. He was standing there in a dark blue overcoat by a white radiator right at the door. And we looked at each other. And it was like in movies where everything stops, you know, and everybody dissipates. And it's only a second, but it feels like it could be several minutes. And I knew instinctively with all my being that that was the fella I was going to marry. And, you know, we had, we developed a long distance relationship for a few years. And all that parting became increasingly difficult. Sometimes months and back then you didn't have cell phones, you didn't have zooms. You couldn't see the person. Long distance calls were really expensive. I remember gathering every piece of change in, I think it was Ireland, found a phone booth and filled the phone booth with like, you know, so much change to talk to him for two minutes. And finally, it was just too difficult and the conflict was difficult. And also, I wasn't really growing as an artist. I wasn't really writing. I neglected my notebooks. I wasn't studying. And finally in 1980, exactly four years later, we did marry. You made a decision to stop. I threw it all away. Love is all there is. You... Well, it's not... It's not... It wasn't just for love, you know. It was... That was yet at the heart of it. But it was also for self-preservation because I could see my future and I could see that I would get bigger most likely. I don't know what kind of music we'd produce. But because I didn't even know if I had more, you know, records in me or anything, I just... As a performer, we were so... We were quite big in Europe. But I wasn't evolving at all. And I was getting, I thought, I think, more high strung and just... I wasn't happy. You were not... As I understand it, you weren't, you know, self-destructive. You... No. Drugs were not your thing. No. No, I was never... I mean, I was such a sickly kid. I mean, my mother had to... I had to be nursed through bronchial or pneumonia at birth and tuberculosis and scarlet fever and then the pandemic flew of 1958. And then, you know, mononucleosis. I had so... I was so... Plus all the measles, monks, chicken pox. I had had to struggle so much to live. And then when I came to New York and when Robert and I moved to the Chelsea in 1969... Your friend Robert Mabel Thorpe, yeah. I saw a lot of great people destroying themselves and who never made it past 27 or other people who did make it for a while but had so, you know, damaged themselves. And I never wanted to be like that. In fact, at the Chelsea because I didn't do anything. I didn't even smoke pot. There was rumors for a while that I was a narc. Because I was from... Patty Smith, narcotics agent. I like that. I swear to you that... And Robert even told me, he said, you know, some people are saying that you're, you know, you're a narc. We thought it was funny but, you know, they were suspicious of me. So let's go to your time at home with Fred. How did you experience life after this unbelievably tumultuous time and exciting time? You're at home. And how did you live your life and how long did that last and your experience of kind of domestic happiness if that's what it was? I missed my brother. I missed being on the Amin East Coast person. I missed the ocean. I missed all the cafes. I missed the camaraderie of my band. I missed traveling. But I... Because I'm very lucky because I have other outlets of, you know, creative expression. I wasn't wanting. I wasn't suffering because I wasn't on stage. I didn't depend on adulation for my self-worth. So I didn't... Those kind of things didn't come into play. One of the things I missed the most was cafes. Yeah. Just to be able to walk out my door and go to a cafe. But... This is something we share. You're also a coffee freak. Yeah, I'd like my coffee. But I liked our life. And, you know, Fred, like me, was always studying. You know, he studied to be a pilot. And he got his pilot's license. He was studying navigation. He studied, you know... So we both love that aspect of learning. And we wrote music at home. And we're just... I don't know. I'm not domestically inclined. I wasn't the greatest housekeeper. But I'm good at laundry. I did the laundry. And I washed the diapers. And my kids. I love my kids. What year did Fred die? The end of 94. You were left with just this gigantic loss and hole in your life. And what was your determination to do the next days and months? Well, I had two children. They were seven and twelve. So I had... And also I had the promise from my brother when he died that he would help me raise the kids. And just unexpectedly, he had a massive stroke a month later and died at 42. So it wasn't just the loss of Fred that I had to deal with. It was the loss of my brother, Todd. And... Did you think you could come back from all of that? Well, I had to. A mother. You came back to music with a record called Gone Again. Yes. What did that moment feel like for you? It was very painful because Fred and I had worked on a record toward the end of his life. He wanted to call it Going West. We did a lot of work on the record. And I had to take that work and sort of transform it and write new work for a new record. And it was very necessary because we had lived so frugally and simply. And there were many doctor bills and all kinds of things. And I was really obliged to return to work. And of course, I have very good friends that all help me get my feedback on the ground. And even though, yes, it was wonderful to record with them, it was great. But I think I said in the book, I had to take the photographs without Robert, play music without Richard Sol, my beloved pianist who also had died of heart failure at 37, without my brother at the helm, without Fred by my side. So it was not, it was something that I had to navigate. And I was very lucky to have, you know, all kinds of people helped with that record. I got through it with the help of friends. And, you know, eventually in returning, the idea of returning, performing was really daunting. But it was Alan Ginsberg, another friend who, you know, kept in treating me to go back to public life and go back on stage. And I believe it was Alan that talked to Bob Dylan. And then Bob Dylan offered us a East Coast tour. And it was my first tour in 16 years. Patty, there's a remarkable passage that opens the last chapter, I believe. I wonder if you could read that for us. For a long time, I maintained a vestige of innocence, a feathery wisp adrift somewhere inside me, affording me a generous measure of enthusiasm, tempering loss and disappointment. I held a constancy with my youthful calling, a blood vine circling the ankle of a 12-year-old girl, a messenger attaching his wing and bruising her heel. I felt blessed with the aspiration to produce worthy work. But recently, I've sensed a pulling away, macorial droplets tapping my skull as I fitfully seek sleep. My ears press against the pillow, a repeating phrase pulsating. We who no longer believe. When did I write that? And why? It disturbs me. Have I really felt that for more than a few silent moments? Patty, tell me about that feeling of no longer believing. It still shocks me that I, even reading it now, because I haven't... I was just... I actually, if I really deeply think about it, think it's part of the aging process and going through so much loss, so much experience, and maybe fatigue, almost losing motivation. Like, why am I creating? What is the point? You know, it's trying to pray. You know, I've always had a one-to-one relationship with God, but after each person died, Robert and Fred and my brother, my father, my mother, I sometimes wondered, who am I praying to? And I sometimes just didn't know. Now I think it doesn't matter. Prayer is always beautiful. But I just... I think for a while I felt disconnected with everything. And when I wrote that, it did disturb me. It disturbs me still because I'm filled with belief. I believe in so many things. I believe as I wrote in the book. I believe in belief. I'll believe in someone else's belief wholeheartedly. But my belief does not cancel out another person's belief. And I believe there are many, many beautiful truths, not many evil truths. There's just one evil truth, but many beautiful truths. Do you find it harder of late because of what's happening in the public world to sustain that? I find it very difficult. You know, I have a sub-stack and I tell the people freely sometimes. I find it very hard sometimes to post and tell them funny stories or read the Uncle Wiggly or just go into some, you know, abstract mode. I sometimes feel strange posting something on Instagram because I have a sense of frivolity in the face of so much suffering. And I can't get the suffering of the people out of my mind. It wakes me up in the middle of the night. It's on my mind when I wake. But I still feel that, you know, I'm 78 years old. I have still much work to do. I have to do my work. I'm a mother. I have to, you know, be there. I have three kids. I have to be there for them. I have to, you know, well, I have to celebrate the life I've been given. What gives you joy now? What gives me joy is when my kids seem good. That's one of my great joys. It gives me joy when I write something and I think it's good. And in fact, I was writing all morning. And I, you know, I've been struggling a bit and I wrote all morning. And when I finished, I went, oh, good work. Almost out loud to myself. Well, I hope you feel that way about Bread of Angels because it brought me enormous, enormous joy. Oh, David, thank you. Well, it's just, you know, I like to see people happy or I like to do something. It's one of the great joys still of performing, you know, to see people, you know, spirited and full of energy and hopeful. And if it's helpful or inspires people, you know, in their own struggles, that'll make me happy too. Patty Smith, thank you so much. Thanks, David. Bread of Angels is the new book by Patty Smith, and you can read a beautiful excerpt from it at NewYorker.com. It's called Art Rats in New York City. You can, of course, subscribe to The New Yorker there as well, NewYorker.com. 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