WEDNESDAY, MAY 2: Patti Smith could give a fuck about your high-school broken hearts, though I’m sure she would offer a hug and a cup of tea—because she is classy, you see. I’ve seen Patti perform outdoors during a thunderstorm, the wind lifting her hair around her into a magical cape, and, like a shaman, she opened her mouth and I swear that ghosts came flying out and danced above the us. Another show, mid-set, she busted out a clarinet (though I don’t think she “officially” plays) and did a hardcore, free-jazz improv with her band, furiously reducing our expectations to zero point. She is one of the last of her kind—the kind that lives and breathes the art. The word. The truth and the light. There are few compromises here, and her vast mind and throaty poetry are the grandmother spider that has weaved the intricate web of rock-and-roll as we know it. (TT)

AT THE ROXY, 9009 W. SUNSET BLVD., LOS ANGELES. 8 PM / $35 / ALL AGES. WWW.THEROXYONSUNSET.COM.