Thursday, April 21, 2016
Sometimes It Blows In April
It started with "Dirty Mind" and a tight, sweaty and loud concert at The Ritz in NYC. 1981, I believe. I knew then Prince was going to take on the world. He quickly became an obsession.
"1999" from the third row in Radio City Music Hall in 1983. Of course, "Purple Rain." Awards shows. Bootleg "Black Album." Arguably, one of the finest pop/soul/funk records ever released on four sides in "Sign O'The Times." A long summer time weekend visit to Paisley Park. The soundstage. Touching "the motorcycle." More bootlegs.
"The Gold Experience" and "Emancipation," two underappreciated gems from "the only man who could sing about incest and pussy and make me like it," said I to a couple of hundred people who came through the doors of my shop and had no trouble agreeing with me. An artist and a genius who left more gold on the cutting room floor than your average superstar would ever dream of creating. A rock star. An eccentric. Did I say genius? I'll say it again. Genius.
I won't lie and say I was with him until the end. I wasn't. I thought he lost his way musically, and so I went on mine. That only makes me sadder.
David Bowie and Prince, and too many little big ones in between. 2016 is shaping up to be complete shit. My heart can't take much more.