Rewind: Gloria

I've written about Patti Smith before, but I don't think I've ever written about the song, "Gloria," by as a separate entity. Along with John Lennon's "Working Class Hero," "Gloria" is one of those songs I first heard when I was young enough to not completely comprehend, but old enough to know it was more powerful than I was.

Jesus died for somebody's sins but not mine.

Is there not a more commanding opening line in rock history? For a budding atheist who grew up on sanitized, radio-friendly pop, hearing someone openly blaspheme was huge. (That was a big part of Lennon's appeal, too, but "Working Class Hero," was the first song I heard where the singer dropped the "f-bomb." Also very appealing.) For the longest time, I didn't know it was a cover. Like a lot of people, I thought it was a lesbian anthem. I was only slightly disappointed when I learned "Gloria" was reworking of an old Them song written by Van Morrison, but Patti opted not to change the gender, thus assuming the role of a male aggressor.



This is the essence of what I love, and what I find infuriating, about Patti Smith. For all her agency, her heros and idols have always been men. This is what I wrote a couple months ago:

I've always thought of Patti Smith as the prototypical "guy's girl," one who plays well at being one of the boys. And yet, I have to admire her for designing her own gender expression in a time when a woman's role in popular music was typically that of a muse.

The song, when sung by a man, is inherently misogynist. Sung by a woman, it flips the script -- but it really doesn't. And at the same time, claiming that power, even if she's assuming a male role, is still pretty brave move because most singers would have changed the gender. A more current example is La Roux's Ely Jackson's take on the Rolling Stones' Under My Thumb.

In a lot of ways, I think of Patti Smith as typical of women of my mother's generation, growing up in the post war 50s, and trying to make their place in a world with few opportunities outside the home. I know I probably would have turned to Rimbaud and Dylan, too, if I thought they were my only alternative to June Cleaver. (I still like to pretend she's singing to another woman, though.)