I know that Patti Smith is a musical icon, this symbol of the modern artist, but the more I listen to her eleventh album, Banga, the more disinterested I become.
I know some will scowl at my intolerance. I know that some will call for my head on a stick. All because of my blasphemous remarks about a pillar of popular music. However with songs lamenting the death of Amy Winehouse and being chummy with Johnny Depp, Banga is trite and often boring.
I admit that it takes talent to write an entire song about Amerigo Vespucci (the guy from whom America gets its name), but it doesn’t guarantee that a song about a sailor from 1497 will be any good. Smith has forgotten that just because something can be done, doesn’t always mean that it should be done.
*a version of this review was previously published by Rip It Up Publishing issue #1204