A review by bantwalkers
Just Kids by Patti Smith

3.0

Patti Smith is a great writer, that isn't in question. It's what I have always liked about her. It is what made her popular, or semi-popular, or, at the very least, enduring. All that said, her poetry, shorter bursts, with some music to back it, probably come off a little better than this. It’s all a little clunky, measured, pretentious, and expected. It’s not really my style. There’s little surprising in her prose, and, really, in her story. Look at any aspiring hipster these days, with their constant I’m-So-Cool name dropping, their attire, their ideas about art, etc., and that is exactly who Patti Smith was 40-50 years ago. I think that familiarity is kind of nice though. All these hipster/artist kids, that kind of make me sick with their uber-irony (not that I am not among them. I am just not among the worst.), can find a kindred spirit in Smith.
The major flaw in Just Kids though . . . too much Patti Smith. It seems that it is supposed to be a sort of eulogy to Smith’s friend, photographer Robert Mapplethorpe. However, she spends most of the book talking about herself, her career, or her trajectory toward that career. Mapplethorpe pops up every now and then, because they were very close friends. But their friendship, and Mapplethorpe, always seems to take backseat to Smith, and her name-dropping, self-doubt, and rise to fame. It seems like they had a beautiful, long friendship. And she writes about it with insight and tenderness. She just doesn’t write about it enough. At least that doesn’t make it too sentimental.