Pitchfork

Ever since witchy punk diva Patti Smith came out of retirement in 1988, her music has been mired in a serious creative stasis. True, she's endured some personal tragedies along the way-- namely, the untimely death of both her husband and brother. But the real tragedy, I'd say, is her growing inability to write a decent song. Hobnobbing with hip celebs at trendy Manhattan bistros may indeed be a hard-won privilege she deserves. But regular indulgence in the archetypal fruits of success also brings to mind an age-old Faustian trade-off: she'll be financially stable, globally worshipped, and able to enjoy all the perks acclaimed rock legends are showered with, but she'll never again be visited by the same demons responsible for inspiring her best work.

By best work, I mean, of course, 1975's Horses, and songs like "Pissing in the River," from Radio Ethiopia, and "Rock n' Roll Nigger," off 1978's brilliant Easter. This exemplary stuff was obviously fueled by true starving-artist anger, and borne out of a life "outside of society," as she once sang about. Yep, she regressed from being the 20th Century female answer to Baudelaire to a pretentious, incoherent Ginsbergian babbler. Instead of lines like, "Jesus died for somebody's sins but not mine," and "Baby was a black sheep/ Baby was a whore," we're now offered such lackluster toss-offs as, "In the garden of consciousness/ In fertile mind there lies the dormant seed." Call this a sign of "maturity," if you must, but once most singer/songwriters begin regarding themselves as serious "poets," their work slips into a steady decline.

On Gung Ho-- much like 1996's Gone Again and 1999's Peace and Noise-- Patti and the band aren't exactly bad, but they hardly rock like they did back in '77. And, honestly, has anyone understood a word Patti's written since 1979? In recent years, she's not only taken to schoolmarmish Catholic moralizing, but she also tends to write more songs overloaded with vague moon-child spiritualism and ridiculously ornate neo-Biblical language.

And as Patti's ideas dwindle, her faithful band follows suit with typically bland, unchallenging classic rock gestures. Sure, Lenny Kaye is still capable of penning a clever riff here and there, but mostly, he just follows the notes and pockets his paycheck. Guitarist Oliver Ray, Smith's sometime/former love interest, half-handles some of the songwriting chores, but is absolutely inconsequential as a backing instrumentalist. As expected, there's very little stylistic variation in these new songs-- two middle-of-the-road guitars, a competent bass, and lethargic drums interact with predictable results. At least (as with any Patti Smith album) we're offered the requisite Tom Verlaine guitar solo. The enigmatic former Television axeman never fails to satisfy during the brief space he's allotted.

And of course, Smith loves to be taken seriously as a poet, so I'll pretend to be Harold Bloom and deal with her so-called poetry as if I were analyzing the great works of the Western Canon. On "Grateful," I stopped paying attention as soon as she employed that hackneyed "ship in a bottle" metaphor: "Like a ship in a bottle/ Held up to the sun/ Sails ain't going nowhere." Uh, is that anything like time in a bottle? A message in a bottle, maybe?

"Upright Come" is a condescending Jim Morrison-esque sermon to the lumpen rabble. See, Patti "Moses" Smith looks down upon you and I as entranced, mystified mortals desperately in need of her spiritual guidance counseling: "Awake, people, arise!/ Fortune is falling like tears from the skies/ Open your eyes!" Ah, blow me, Patti! How's that for a Harold Bloom impression?

"Glitter in Their Eyes" is Smith's bitter rant against the rampant materialism of twenty-something dot-commers: "Children, children everywhere/ Selling souls for souvenirs.../ Our sacred stage has been disgraced/ They'll trade you up/ Trade you down/ Your body's a commodity." Accusing the young 'uns of selling out too easily to the Man, eh? I can't say I disagree with her, but let's face it-- you don't hear Patti mentioning piggy capitalist exploiters like her longtime corporate sugar daddy, Clive Davis.

"New Party" is another weak, one-woman attempt at sparking a worldwide uprising: "We got to get off our ass or get burned/ The world's troubles are a global concern." So, what're we supposed to do, fly to Kosovo and hand out band-aids? But no, ol' Peacenik Patti explains that, in the end, all you really need is "Love, brother." Shit, somebody call Michael Jackson and Bob Geldof-- Patti wants to change the world with love! Sorely missing that long-extinguished flame of youth, the more she tries to seem anti-establishment, the more she sounds like a boring, bitchy old folkie.

True, Smith can still be a great live performer. Unfortunately, though, she's begun to lose relevance as an original counter-cultural voice in the vanguard of American rock. I mean, there's a reason audience members scream out requests for "Piss Factory" instead of hollering, "Just play something from Gung Ho!" Creatively, Smith's not doing much more than keeping up appearances and proving she still has a pulse. Yes, she has yet to become a blatant nostalgia act like the Who or the Sex Pistols. But still, when you listen to Gung Ho and forget about myth, legacy, mystique and all that crap, you have to wonder-- does Patti Smith really matter anymore?