“Go, go,” he said, smiling.
I ran to the stage, and Patti Smith knelt down right beside me to talk to the security guard. “Listen,” she said, “these are my people. They won’t cause you any trouble.”
That’s when I said, “Thank you, Patti,” and touched the arm of her jacket. I didn’t mean thank you for talking to the security guard. I meant thank you for everything. And while she was so close, I held onto her arm and added, “God bless you, Patti. I love you, Patti.” I don’t know why I said that, God bless you. I never say that. It just came out of my mouth.
Patti Smith stood up and said, “Security guy is cool. I told him that you were all harmless and they let you out just one night a year.” Before she sang “Gandhi,” she took off her shoes, emptied her pockets and threw yellow rose petals into the audience. They swirled around me like the pink and white blossoms in Exeter had one windy and rainy afternoon. I remembered my shoes grinding wet petals into mud and the sensation of being under God’s confetti-dropping hand.
A minor-chord prologue to “My Blakean Year” put her in the mood for a spontaneous rant.
They called out from the crowd
tell me something
tell me something
I got nothing to say absolutely
nothing McDonald’s is gonna
sponsor be the food of the
Olympics
it’s evil food
it gives our children
high blood pressure
no fucking athlete
worth his salt
would eat that sodium fat-filled food
athletes should stand together
and speak out against this atrocity
it’s another kind of terrorism
McDonald’s and all this fucking fast food
and all the corporations
and business
and a billion dollars worth of fucking advertising negativity on the TV
demographic public and negative ads cost one billion dollars
when people in Africa
can’t afford their medication for AIDS
and their children are dying of starvation
and we’re fucking up the infrastructure of Iraq
we’re trashing Afghanistan
I’ve got nothing to say.
At the applause breaks between songs, I shouted for Patti to sing “Pissing in a River.” But I didn’t think she would. When she walked out for an encore, Patti Smith leaned over to whisper into Oliver Ray’s ear, and he started plucking out the opening to “Pissing in a River” on his black Telecaster. I couldn’t believe it. Lenny Kaye played the solo. She sang gently, “What more can I do here to make this thing grow?” Then as she snarled, “Don’t turn your back now when I’m talking to you,” she bent right over me, her hair in my face. I felt myself melt completely into the music and disappear. It was like the revolution had happened, like bright lights were swirling all around me, like I could see everybody’s halo—everyone who had one, that is. Patti Smith growled, “What about it, I never doubted you,” and I got a chill deep inside me.
Being in Patti Smith’s presence as she performed “Pissing in a River,” with guitar instead of keyboards, being close enough to get her spit on my “Rats Have Rights” PETA T-shirt was a religious experience for me. After the concert I rang up Melissa and practically screamed, “I have Patti Smith’s spit on my T-shirt! I’m never going to wash it! I’m going to put it in a frame and hang it on the wall! Tell Nick!”
And Melissa said, “Love, that’s perfect.”
TRACK 59 How Deep It Goes
My dad drove me to LAX and we talked about Patti the whole way. As I waited for my flight back to England, I saw the newspaper headline, “Man Held as Terror Suspect Over Punk Song.”
According to the article, British antiterrorism detectives stopped a flight from Durham to London and hauled Harraj Mann, twenty-four, off the plane after his taxi driver turned him in for singing along to “London Calling” by the Clash. The taxi’s music system allowed Mann to plug in his own mp3 player, and he’d been playing songs for the driver from the Clash, Procol Harum, Led Zeppelin, and the Beatles.
The taxi driver became alarmed on the way to the airport when Mann sang along to the Clash lyrics, “Now war is declared, and battle come down.” Another line containing the phrase “meltdown expected,” he took as an imminent threat. “‘He didn’t like Led Zeppelin or The Clash but I don’t think there was any need to tell the police,’ Mann told the Daily Mirror.” Though Durham police released Mann after questioning, he missed his flight.
As I boarded the plane, I was singing,
a nuclear error but I have no fear
‘cos london is drowning and I live by the river
the avian flu is coming but I have no fear
‘cos london is drowning and I live by the river
Melissa picked me up at Heathrow. I launched myself at her, almost coming out of my sneakers. “God, I missed you!” I flung my arms around her neck.
“I missed you too, baby.” Melissa hadn’t brought Nick along because there wasn’t enough room for all three of us plus my guitar and bags in her car. “Nick’s waiting at the flat.”
Melissa slung my army-green, carry-on bag over her head, the strap running diagonally across her chest. She was wearing a gray hooded sweatshirt I’d got her, based on one Jello Biafra from the Dead Kennedys had worn, that said “Nobody Knows I’m a Lesbian” in big, black letters.
As we got in the car, Melissa asked, “How was it? Did you regress?”
“Patti Smith helped,” I laughed. “As soon as we get home, I’m going to download a copy of the concert so we can listen to it together.” I knew I’d find it on my favorite live-music tracker, which only allowed people to post music from artists who permitted taping. Patti Smith was cool that way.
Melissa had her arm around my shoulders and was playing with my hair. “I really missed you, you know?”
“Mmm, I missed you, too.”
We’d been a little awkward at first but now, when I pressed my face into her body and breathed her in, I was at home. We kissed for a while before she finally pulled herself away from my embrace with a sigh and started the car.
“Wait.” I reached into my bag. “I’ve got something for you.” I’d got Melissa a signed copy of Patti Smith’s new album Trampin’ at the concert. Melissa slipped it into the car stereo and drove to Hampstead. It was so glorious to see the city again.
Nick wrapped her arms around me when I walked into the flat.
“Hey baby,” I said, ruffling her hair, “I missed you.” While I was away I’d perused a local record shop and finally found what I’d been wanting to give her since the night we first met. “Nicky, I’ve got something for you.” From my bag I pulled out the same T-shirt of Kurt Cobain hugging his black “Vandalism” Strat that Nick had worn the night she was attacked and tossed out because of the blood.
The most famous appearance of that guitar was at the 1991 Reading Festival where Kurt played “Molly’s Lips” with Eugene Kelly of the Vaselines. He said it was one of the greatest moments of his life. The second was at the Paramount Theatre in Seattle on Halloween in 1991. Earnie Bailey, Kurt’s guitar tech, had put a Seymour Duncan JB humbucker in the bridge position for him.
“Oh, cheers, Amanda. I’m really chuffed, mate.” Nick kissed my cheek.
After a second cup of tea, I said I was exhausted. Nick said goodnight, and Melissa and I went upstairs. There was so much pent-up electricity between us it was a relief to get her alone. After a week apart we were tentative, almost nervous. We knelt on the bed. I brushed my hand through Melissa’s thick, chestnut hair then lifted her fresh, black “Jesus Loves The Stooges” T-shirt so I could kiss her breasts, sucking on her dark, honeyed nipples. She sighed deeply and pressed
me to her. “Don’t go away from me again, love,” she whispered.
TRACK 60 Smells Like Teen Spirit
In Germany Nick, Adele, and I recorded the first official Lesbian Raincoat CD simply called Out! Adele and I added keyboards to some of the songs. Nick thumped her bass and sang backup vocals. I played all the guitar tracks and used a Jerry Jones sitar for a psychedelic lead on “Working for the Jihad.” I recorded a solo, acoustic version of the song “Punishment Friday, 3:30 p.m.,” which I’d written for RAWA.
Later Adele added tambourine, which was just the thing, and we donated part of the proceeds of our album—there wasn’t much—to RAWA. Melissa donated the money she got selling her prints to PETA. I used my Gibson SG and blue Fender for recording. Besides Jake’s Fender, Nick had found a used sunburst Epiphone Beatles Viola bass, something she’d always wanted, to add a Paul McCartney vibe to some of our songs. It was beautiful, with gold knobs and inlaid headstock, and was smaller than her Fender. Because it was hollow, it was light, and she could hear it well without being plugged in, which allowed her to practice more easily on the road and in bed.
I recorded the new song I’d written for Melissa, “Pour,” with a lush guitar sound, using my blue Fender for the lead and the studio’s six- and twelve-string Rickenbackers and an acoustic Martin for rhythm. Nick played a Rickenbacker bass. Adele handled all the drums and percussion. We recorded some of my older songs like “Thanksgiving Day,” “Automatic Rifle Dance,” and “Crawl.” Adele gave a reggae-fueled percussive feel to “Holiday in Afghanistan” and “Lipstick,” the first real song I’d written for Melissa.
For our European mini-tour I found a used Orange amp, made in London, and a used pedal board. I had added a white Mexican Strat with a custom lavender leopard-print pickguard to my arsenal and brought that along with my trusty white SG. I didn’t use my blue Fender live because I wanted to save it just for recording. We played small venues except for a few festivals. But we didn’t play the main stages. We let it be known that we allowed people to tape our shows and post them on the Internet. We arranged with the different venues to let people in with their personal recording equipment. Playing live, we felt that once our music was released into the air, it belonged to everyone. Like the rain. It was a great first tour for us, and we learned how to coexist in a van even when we were wet and tired. Some of the Fesbians had come with us to work as roadies and manage the merchandise tables.
On the last night of our tour, we played a lesbian club in London. I put on an ACT UP T-shirt and white faux-leather punk bracelet with turquoise and silver studs. I’d also been wearing Melissa’s red tartan bracelet throughout the tour for luck. Since we didn’t have to conserve any energy for a next show and the stress of the tour was over, we were at our most raucous. We did wild, extended versions of “Taliban Radio Bulletin” and “Taliban Don’t Dance.” We ended the set with “Pour.” I was aware of Melissa watching from the side of the stage—in her untucked, long-sleeved blue shirt with the black collar, pocket and cuffs, the black braces dangling over the bum of her black trousers—as I belted it out. “When you rain on me you pour . . .”
Then I ended the song the way Patti Smith finishes her live versions of “Dancing Barefoot.”
“Oh God I fell for you.
Oh God I fell for you.
Oh God I feel the fever,
Oh God I feel the pain,
Oh God forever after,
Oh God, I’M BACK AGAIN!”
For an encore we played a smashing cover of the Clash’s “Protex Blue,” the lesbian version. The last thing I did was pick up an acoustic guitar and do a solo rendition of Patti Smith’s “Pissing in a River.”
I walked off the stage with my guitar, sweaty and smiling, into Melissa’s firm embrace.
It was late and I was exhausted by the time we finally packed up all our gear and got it loaded in the hired van. I was getting ready to climb into the front seat and tell Melissa to meet me back at the flat when Nick pulled me aside and told me to go home. “Really,” she put her hands on my shoulders, “we can handle it. We’ve got the entire Fesbian crew. We don’t need you. Go home with Melissa and I’ll ring you tomorrow.”
We kissed and said goodnight. With the strong, efficient women who were now our friends, Nick and Adele were going to drop off our equipment at her mum’s garage for us to sort out later. Then they would return the van and head over to an after-hours club with their mates and the full contingent of Fesbians to celebrate. But all I wanted to do was go home.
Once we were out in the cool London air, I felt free. Melissa put her arm around my shoulders and we walked to the car in silence. I was so hoarse I could barely speak. All I wanted was a cup of tea, a nice hot bath, and her. Smiling, she started the car and took me to the one place where I didn’t feel like an outsider.
About the Author
Lorrie Sprecher is the author of Sister Safety Pin and Anxiety Attack. "It's a Heteronormative World, No!" is a punk song from her band Sugar Rat, and appears on a compilation by Riot Grrrrl Berlin. She lives in Syracuse, New York.
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