I know that behind most "alternative" music out there, from Foo Fighters to

Oasis to Fiona Apple, there is usually an entertainment conglomerate making

sure the hooks are catchy and the lyrics are pretty universal. I know it, but

I usually don't think about it, because I like to think of myself as a fan of

alternative music.

Listening to Patti Smith's new album, Peace and Noise, makes me

realize just how far from alternative a lot of alternative music has become. Patti

is still in touch with her do-it-yourself punk-rock roots. Yes, she's on a major

label (Arista Records), and her music is no longer punk, but her approach is.

There are no special effects in the music. It sounds like she had a bad day so

she just went out to her garage and set it to music.

There is a timeless sound to the songs on Peace and Noise, which is

kind of refreshing. This is straight up American rock 'n' roll. Most of the other

musicians from Smith's era who are still making records are teaming up with

DJs and other hot young producers, in order to appeal to a younger audience.

But David Bowie's venture into electronica, John "Cougar" Mellencamp's work

with Junior Vasquez and the Dust Brothers' presence on the new Rolling

Stones album haven't made the kids come running.

And Smith's new album probably won't make the kids come running either -- in

fact, it's notably missing from Spin's November issue devoted to girl

culture. But maybe they should come running. Smith is the first lady of punk.

She paved the way for Chrissie Hynde, Courtney Love, Alanis Morissette, Jewel

... maybe even Baby Spice, too.

I didn't fall in love with Peace and Noise at first listen. Smith's voice is

almost startlingly low. I think I've become accustomed to the sing-songy girl

voice that dominates radio and MTV. But after spending three days with

Peace and Noise in my CD player, I actually found myself walking

around the house singing "have you seen death singing" in my most guttural

voice. The music also took a little time to warm up to. Unlike the other slickly

produced alternative CDs I've been listening to lately, the arrangements on

most of Peace and Noise are sparse -- almost plain. The music sounds

like a Walker Evans photograph. There are no gimmicks, and the subject is

depressing, but it's hard to turn away.

This is Smith's second album in two years, following a nine-year hiatus from the

music industry while she and her husband, former MC5 guitarist Fred "Sonic"

Smith, raised a family. It's also the second album she's released since Fred

died in 1994. Patti has heard death singing. Its presence pervades Peace

and Noise. The album is in memory of beat writer William S. Burroughs, and

there's a song about the Heaven's Gate cult suicides and a song called

"Waiting Underground," about the reunion of the living and the dead.

"Dead City" is a compelling song about the decaying state of Detroit. It's

one of the hardest and loudest songs on the album. Smith describes the city as

"living scenes of empty dreams" and you have to wonder if it's greater

Detroit she's referring to, or her own empty (or emptier) house. "This dead

city," she growls, "motor city... success city." Or was that SUCK-sess city?

Smith is again the angry punk rocker in this song, rather than the wise old

poetess.

"Last Call," the song about the Heaven's Gate suicides, works better than I

would have imagined. Writing about events such as this is tricky; for a lot of

bands or singers it just doesn't work. The singer's self-importance tends to

outweigh the importance of the subject matter. But Smith has made a career

out of putting socially aware poetry to music. Instead of putting herself in

the song, Smith puts her listeners in the song. She describes a young man

putting on his shoes, draining his cup and then lying down. R.E.M.'s Michael

Stipe sings backup, and the combination of their voices lends a beauty to the

harsh image of a mass suicide. As if Walker Evans had been there to capture it

on film.

Women poets with guitars have become a comedy cliche. Think Lili Taylor in

"Say Anything," or Lisa Kudrow's kooky coffee-house singer. But Smith is able

to combine her poetry and her guitar. The pure garage-rock sound and the

visual imagery keep the combination from becoming corny.

Instead, it's a refreshing change from all the corporate rock that I know is out

there.