September 18th, London—a whimsical evening drawing its last breath of summer. The choreography of city lights casts a soft amber glow over the streets. Emerging from the tube, we head down Paternoster Row in search of supper. Rising above the urban sprawl, St. Paul’s dome looms—imposing yet serene—its pale stone solemn against the deepening sky. By 7:15 PM, a typically British, orderly queue has already formed at the western entrance.

Nightclub Fabric, the organizer tonight, has arranged seating zones on a first-come, first-served basis, heightening the anticipation. Opting for a quick bite, we settle on my Five Guys baptism across the street. We eat while conveniently watching the ever-densifying lines now besieging the venue. The meal feels like a mundane prelude, a comical contrast to what promises to be a night of transcendence.

By 7:45, we join the diverse congregation drawn together by Patti’s voice—a voice that once roared through CBGB, the legendary New York club synonymous with punk's emergence, and tonight will reverberate beneath the towering arches of St. Paul’s. A 2007 Rock and Roll Hall of Fame inductee, Patti is no stranger to the sacred; her lyrics are steeped in rich biblical imagery. In an NME interview, she recalls her first poetry performance: St. Mark’s Church, NYC, February 10th, 1971. The historic venue—home to readings by icons like Allen Ginsberg and William Burroughs—was an unexpected debut for the young, restless artist. Backed by the electric guitar of her lifelong collaborator, Lenny Kaye, Patti’s modest setup of “words injected with a little song” caused a stir, setting up the New Jersey punk priestess in the making. Fifty-three years later, in yet another spiritual setting, the memory only deepens her presence with a sense of timelessness.

After a brief security check, we enter the venue, our wrists stamped with two perfectly round black cherries. Though I have lived in London for seven years, it is my first time inside St. Paul’s. Its architectural grandeur, often reduced to a tourist spectacle on any other day, feels intimate tonight—free from the noise of cameras and crowds. Once seated, we wander the quiet sanctuary, moving with a rare freedom. Perhaps this is Patti’s gift: transforming the ordinary into shared rituals.

Friends and couples whisper on benches nestled in alcoves; votive offerings flicker along the walls, just like a prayer. I light a candle for my late stepdad. While we initially shared little in common, music cemented our bond—a bond forged over countless nights flipping through his record collection, where CBGB regulars like the Ramones, Talking Heads, Blondie, and Patti Smith herself were always on rotation.

The gold-plated nave plunges into darkness. In silence, all eyes turn towards the altar beneath the dome, where the candlelit stage bathes in muted red LED. Arranged with precision, a grand piano, electric and acoustic guitars, bass, and drum set are framed by the towering organ pipes—an operatic vision at the intersection of mythology and rock and roll. After a timid but promising set by soul-pop supporting act Fauzia, Patti Smith takes the stage, followed by her quartet—Tony Shanahan, Seb Rochford, and her son, Jackson Smith. She opens with lines from the poem Cry Humanity, setting the tone with what she might call a 'quiet rage that gives us wings.'

Her delivery, grounded and visceral, imbues each word with the weight of its meaning, captivating in its sincerity. It brings to mind her spoken-word performance in Steven Sebring’s Dream of Life. Readers familiar with the 2008 documentary might recall Patti’s rendition of Allen Ginsberg’s On Cremation of Chogyam Trungpa, Vidyadhara. Its similar rhythmic pacing, vocal modulations, and building tension over a bewitching piano melody—have the same profound effect every time I revisit it. If you have not listened to it yet, I highly recommend you do.

The set leads to the hypnotic Ghost Dance. Clad in her signature black tailoring, loose grey hair parted and flowing, Patti channels a primal energy—her presence contained yet commanding. “We shall live again; shake off the ghost,” she intones, her voice filling the vast, sacred space. True to her poetic nature, she reminds us to look up on our way out as a Harvest moon coincidentally graces the sky—an omen, some might say.

Ever the cultural enthusiast, Smith introduces My Blakean Year, linking it to her earlier visit to the crypt and St. Paul’s architect, Christopher Wren—who also designed St. James’ Church, Piccadilly, where Blake was baptised. Her ability to effortlessly intertwine history, art, and personal experience feels increasingly rare in an era where such depth often goes unappreciated. Artists like Patti, Vivienne Westwood, Roland Barthes, Raymond Depardon, or Jim Jarmusch—those who have profoundly shaped my understanding of the world—share this remarkable duality: their work is deeply rooted in cultural legacy, spanning disciplines, yet remains boldly forward-reaching.

Patti’s performance tonight compels me to reflect on the state of contemporary art—a fitting backdrop to acknowledge her enduring relevance in a time when serious artistry is frequently mistaken for mere entertainment. The rise of social media has significantly amplified the reach of popular art, ushering in an “age of the amateur” that, while democratising creativity, risks ultimately trivialising it. Too often, the pursuit of instant visual gratification, prioritises attention over intention, reducing creative contributions to diluted clickbait gimmicks under the pretence of making culture more accessible.

In my opinion, this trend extends beyond a simple rejection of a culture deemed “elitist.” It seems to expose a deeper ‘Bourdieuesque’ class conflict: disillusioned middle and working classes, let down by the broken promises of meritocracy, increasingly view culture as a mechanism of oppressive stratification. In this climate, populist vulgarisation has gained traction, eroding our capacity to engage with complexity. The result is art/content that feels increasingly hollow—untethered from its origins, stripped of its roots, and lacking meaningful points of reference—dulling artistic resonance within cultural discourse.

Ironically, this disregard for the past mirrors a punk-like ethos of rebellion—a defiant rejection of tradition. Yet, unlike punk’s radical anti-system differentiation, today’s algorithmic curation flattens diversity into sameness, and this wave of cultural amnesia trades the subversive for the superficial and heritage for convenience.

Far from aloof, Patti’s charisma, self-deprecating humour, and nonchalance make her uniquely relatable. She recounts, a touch embarrassed, freezing mid-performance during her rendition of Bob Dylan’s A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall at the 2016 Nobel Prize ceremony—an experience she later described as the most difficult of her performing life. Although she had sung the song since her teenage years, her nerves betrayed her. She shares how, the next day, several laureates confided that her vulnerability had been a relief; seeing her falter mirrored their own anxieties that evening. That shared moment of humanity fostered an unexpected kinship. Yet, the memory lingers. Tonight, Patti came prepared with the lyrics printed out—but, laughing, she quips, that she accidentally packed the wrong pair of glasses.

Despite the minor mishap, she delivers the poignant Beat-inspired psalm with striking intensity, drawing out its resolutely political undertones with lyrical mastery. Patti's work often grapples with displacement, migration, and human suffering, themes she renders with her signature imagery and emotional heft. I remember an excerpt from her book Year of the Monkey, where she recalls a dream, prophetic in its resonance with current global crises:

A long train of migrants walked from one end of the earth to another, far beyond the ruins of what had once been home.

Her words evoke haunting images—travellers crossing barren landscapes, dragging banners woven with lament. 'The air was dry, yet all doors, windows, and wells were hermetically sealed as if in anticipation of their coming,' she writes. 'And I dreamed that all their hardships were viewed on global screens...becoming a popular form of reality-based entertainment.’

This dream mirrors our collective apathy, exposing the tragic irony of human suffering observed from a distance—acknowledged but unmet with action. Yet, through art, Patti offers a glimmer of hope: from torment, artists rise, transforming grief into symphonies and movement, embodying the resilience of the displaced—a testament to the enduring human spirit amid despair.

The rest of the show unfolds seamlessly. Beneath the Southern Cross takes on the air of a languorous incantation, its ceremonial tone casting a spell over the audience. The set running late, Patti turns to her band, suggesting they skip Wing. Her son Jackson intervenes, insisting they play it—a track she had written for her children after the passing of Fred Sonic Smith. The lullaby-like song unfolds tenderly, her voice wistful as she sings, “It was beautiful,” over Jackson’s melancholic guitar. It is beautiful indeed.

The evening builds to its crescendo with the beloved anthem Because the Night. Patti channels a universal love, the choruses amplifying with each refrain as the audience joins in an exuberant sing-along, their voices backing the raw, garage energy she exudes on these closing titles.

As the final chords fade, the crowd rises in a standing ovation. With the 10:30 curfew fast approaching, Patti prepares for the natural finale, hitting her punk stride with People Have the Power. She urges the formerly seated and orderly audience to rise, gather closer, and join in. The vain security attempts to dissuade the surge highlight this quintessential Patti Smith moment of joyful chaos and communal spirit.

The crowd sways and dances as Patti belts out, “The power to dream, to rule,” pointedly adding, “to vote.” It is a stark reminder of the impending U.S. presidential election. “Use your vote!” she repeats fervently, her call to action resonating as a rallying cry and the perfect conclusion to an evening of purpose and poetry.

As Patti leaves the stage, the applause reverberates through the cathedral. Clamours still echo as we exit. I look up—the pilgrim moon hangs low as if eavesdropping on the lingering mystic of the night.