On 4 October 2021, a sprightly Patti Smith—dressed in her customary attire: a white t-shirt with a black blazer, black trousers, and black boots—ambles onto the stage of the Royal Albert Hall as if having stepped out into a Parisian street after having been holed up in a garret for months on end writing. [...] Anyone slightly conversant with Patti Smith knows that she speaks out on environmental and governmental issues and personal strife. This, along with her seer-like qualities, screams a prophetic bard. Oh, and that she can write—well. Thus perhaps Smith was always destined to recite “Piss Factory” at the Royal Albert Hall, complete with the tincture of her blue-collar, South Jersey accent emphasising how far she has come. And, even if not, it still worked and lost none of its vatic meaning. Yet this is in recent history, not half a century ago when a twenty-eight-year-old sinewy Smith entered Electric Lady Studios to record “Hey Joe” and ended up with a take of “Piss Factory.”

There are certain long-established rules for describing Patti Smith. Google her name and the words ‘shaman’ and ‘priestess’ and you’ll see what I mean. For the best part of 50 years she’s been treated as though she’s a mystical object, a human convergence of ley lines, as much as a rock singer. [...] Her status as one of the progenitors of punk – and as a feminist hero – meant the crowd was startlingly varied in age, from teens to people as old as Smith herself (she’s 77), who were rapt and devoted. She remains charismatic – still in black jacket and jeans, as she has been for ever. Her voice was always idiosyncratic so age hasn’t affected it; she sang powerfully throughout. And she has not done the thing some older singers do, of surrounding herself with lots of musicians to bolster the sound.

There was a full moon out there somewhere, watching over us at Somerset House as the Patti Smith Quartet concluded this year’s Summer Series. The moon has been an enduring symbol in Patti’s world, with her career and personal life shifting like its powerful phases, so the July Buck Moon (and all the spiritual symbolism it holds) solidified an idyllic Patti Smith Quartet set. Opening with a rapturous rendition of ‘Summer Cannibals’, Patti’s charisma was immediate and magnetic, raspy drawls flitting in the space. It felt as though little time had passed since she and Fred “Sonic” Smith first conceived the song.

At Brighton Dome, 25st June, four songs into her set, Patti Smith starts to cry: “First tears of the tour!” she sighs, wiping her eyes. [...] At 77, however, Smith remains a genuinely compelling performer. Music seems to have a transformative effect on her. Between songs she’s far goofier than her reputation as the epitome of New York punk cool suggests, but once her band kick into the Velvet Underground-ish chug of Nine or a surging version of Pissing in a River, she appears to be genuinely transported. She dances with an enviable insouciance, and as her eulogy for Kurt Cobain, About a Boy, collapses into abstraction, she appears to be close to speaking in tongues.