![]() ![]() “No one knew where I was,” she reflects, stuck in a taxi in the London fog. Everywhere she goes she is pursued by melancholia, a sense that the best days of her life are behind her. She is obsessed with TV detective shows, to the extent that one weekend she flies to London from New York and checks herself into a “small favoured hotel” to spend days watching them uninterrupted – now that’s what I call rock’n’roll. ![]() She also talks to her floral bedspread and her TV remote (“Oh the haughtiness of a handheld device!”). ![]() As it turns out, Smith really is the kind of woman who talks to her cats. ![]() I occasionally wondered what had happened to that all-powerful rock goddess as I meandered through her memoir. Even when she tripped and fell on her backside, she just got up and snarled: “I don’t care – I’m an animal!” There she was on the Pyramid stage – with her unkempt grey hair and crow’s feet, looking for all the world like the kind of ageing lady who talks to her cats – radiating anarchic energy, urging us all to see things differently, and demonstrating just how kick-ass a woman in her late 60s can be. I feel like that about Patti Smith’s performance at Glastonbury this summer. A mid all the hideous things going on in the world, I’m always grateful for something that reminds me now is a great time to be alive. ![]()
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