By Ava Shaffer
Patti Smith was the original cool girl. From her signature shag to her innovative union of poetry and rock and roll, Smith is an authentic and credible voice of the times. In her memoir, Just Kids, the American singer, songwriter, artist, and “punk poet laureate,” chronicles her journey as an artist, alongside her companion Robert Mapplethorpe. Set in the 60s and 70s in New York City, Smith embodies the minds of artists, taking readers through the euphoria and depression of changing times. Just Kids is a Tour de France of music, history, culture, fashion, and most importantly– people.
“But secretly I knew I had been transformed, moved by the revelation that human beings create art, that to be an artist was to see what others could not."
Read This Book If You…
Enjoy rock and roll, especially its history
Are an artist of any kind
Wear long black dresses with thrifted trench coats
Appreciate beautiful, poetic prose
Want to feel transported to New York City in the 60s and 70s
“What song is this?”
That question is one I grew up hearing. A quiz, from my father, each time we were listening to the radio during long car rides. A musical assessment to test how well I remember the bands and artists of my dad’s time. Usually the answer was The Beastie Boys, or R.E.M., or more often than not, Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. This is all to say I grew up with my dad teaching me about music. That’s why I got him Just Kids by Patti Smith for Christmas. I knew little about it, except that my cool friend with a shag haircut recommended it and it had something to do with rock and roll culture in the 60s and 70s. My dad read this in one week, and I followed him shortly after. Both of us loved it.
I’ve long forgotten to feel embarrassed about crying in public. That’s why I didn’t mind shedding a tear or two finishing this book in a bustling coffee shop at 9am. Smith’s writing style, combined with the heart that is so deeply embedded in this book, made me misty-eyed– especially the photo and story of Robert Mapplethorpe’s desk.
“No one expected me. Everything awaited me.”
Smith confronts grief and memory in such a beautiful way in her writing. The way she speaks about people of her past showcases her deep appreciation for them and the art they created. This is especially true for every line she writes about Mapplethorpe. You can feel the care and love emanating off these pages, and the photographs mixed into the narrative add wonderful context– bringing the reader close to the smell of cigarette smoke, the look of a cramped apartment in the Hotel Chelsea, and the authenticity of scrawled handwritten poems. Her attention to detail is astounding, crafting this memoir into such a sensory, immersive experience.
“Where does it all lead? What will become of us? These were our young questions, and young answers were revealed. It leads to each other. We become ourselves.”
Reading Just Kids feels like peeking behind the velvet curtain of a party you could only dream of being cool enough to attend. The whirlwind of fashion, music, literature, and iconic New York City locations was delightful to read about. About half of the references went over my head, and maybe even felt a bit name drop-y at times. However, Smith’s intention and excitement about each person she mentions comes through very authentically. She mentions how when she used to write record reviews, she usually connected them to unknown artists. As she writes, “I was hardly prolific and usually wrote pieces centered on obscure artists like Patty Waters, Clifton Chenier, or Albert Ayler. I wasn’t interested in criticizing so much as alerting people to artists they may have overlooked.” I am glad to have read Just Kids and been alerted to this intimate world of art by the most genuine of voices.
“Yet you could feel a vibration in the air, a sense of hastening. It had started with the moon, inaccessible poem that it was. Now men had walked upon it, rubber treads on a pearl of the gods. Perhaps it was an awareness of time passing, the last summer of the decade. Sometimes I just wanted to raise my hands and stop. But stop what? Maybe just growing up.”
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