Any book advertised with and establishing its setting with the line “it was the summer Coltrane” died is just going to be pretentious and self-absorbed. It sounds like the opening of a poem by a college freshman, not punk icon Patti Smith. There is nothing punk about “Just Kids,” Smith’s memoir of her early years in New York City and her relationship with future controversial photographer Robert Mapplethorpe. Instead, it’s wistful, sweet, and nostalgic, which are words never used before to describe the works of Patti Smith. Even if you’re a big Smith fan, you might want to skip it, especially since you’ve probably already read a book or seen a movie about people are young, in love, have a dream, but are poor, but dammit we’re happy, so happy.