A surprise appearance by Prince, a month ago, for a memoir announcement at a Manhattan night club, had the satisfying elements you might imagine: brilliance, humor, otherworldliness, tardiness, costume changes, funkiness, eccentricity. He stood on a glass balcony above us, as if he’d descended to earth as an act of generosity. And, in fact, he had. “I literally just got off the plane,” he told us. “I’m going to go home and change and put some dancing clothes on.” He was already wearing what I’d consider dancing clothes: a purple-and-gold striped pajama suit. He put a huge pair of sunglasses on. “Now I can see,” he said.
Because of that strange and magical night, and because of the miracle that was Prince, it’s very hard to believe today’s news that he has died. His genius was hard enough to comprehend as he walked among us. Unlike other pop stars and celebrities—unlike other humans—he seemed not to have aged. And his apparent youthfulness, at age fifty-seven, didn’t appear to be because of effortful vanity. He seemed to actually not have aged—as if life’s usual rules didn’t apply to him.
Prince moved in mysterious ways. He invented his own aesthetic, his own symbol, his own style of music. He was short and slim. He dressed in purple. He liked canes, pajamas, ruffles, scarves. He lived on a giant compound named after one of his songs, where he sometimes hosted mysterious, thrilling events with strict rules. (No cameras, no photos, no alcohol; he might play or he might not.) He was masculine and feminine and casually, frankly sexual. He was forever prolific. His music was deeply satisfying, with a sophistication that was both intellectual and physical. It got to us everywhere. (...)
“Purple Rain,” of course, was like a gift from the gods, and not just because of the churchly intro to “Let’s Go Crazy.” There was “When Doves Cry,” so smart and electrifying it was almost shocking. That fierce opening guitar lick, for starters, and then the beat—Prince’s beats! I’m going to cry—and then that weird, funky vocal, like a mouth harp or a rubber band, and then the minimal, irresistible melody, and the amazingly hilarious first line “Dig if you will the picture.” We dug it, all right. The picture he painted was erotic: “of you and I engaged in a kiss / the sweat of your body covers me.” Prince, with his pencil mustache, purple suits, frills, motorcycle, and talk of butterflies and doves crying, was wonderfully frank about his particular brand of eroticism; he was floridly creative in all directions, and he never seemed to consider downplaying his music’s sexuality in a culture whose mainstream was scandalized by “Like a Virgin” and baffled by Annie Lennox and Boy George. Watching him dance in the video for “When Doves Cry,” halved and doubled by a split-screen mirror effect, looking weird and freaky, was like watching him say, What am I? I’m this, I’m that. I’m a floating midriff, I’m an arm, I’m too fast and funky for you to comprehend. I look freaky and I don’t care. I know what I’m doing. That’s just who I am.
The whole album gave that impression: the wistful and warm-hearted “Take Me with U” (“You’re sheer perfection” / “Thank you!”), the sexually startling “Darling Nikki,” the gorgeous “Purple Rain.” Today, the opener, “Let’s Go Crazy,” has been on my mind the most. The whole song is a commanding celebration of life: an intense and wryly foreboding sermon that explodes into an ecstatic dance party. Its moral is to dance, because we could all die any day:
Because of that strange and magical night, and because of the miracle that was Prince, it’s very hard to believe today’s news that he has died. His genius was hard enough to comprehend as he walked among us. Unlike other pop stars and celebrities—unlike other humans—he seemed not to have aged. And his apparent youthfulness, at age fifty-seven, didn’t appear to be because of effortful vanity. He seemed to actually not have aged—as if life’s usual rules didn’t apply to him.Prince moved in mysterious ways. He invented his own aesthetic, his own symbol, his own style of music. He was short and slim. He dressed in purple. He liked canes, pajamas, ruffles, scarves. He lived on a giant compound named after one of his songs, where he sometimes hosted mysterious, thrilling events with strict rules. (No cameras, no photos, no alcohol; he might play or he might not.) He was masculine and feminine and casually, frankly sexual. He was forever prolific. His music was deeply satisfying, with a sophistication that was both intellectual and physical. It got to us everywhere. (...)
“Purple Rain,” of course, was like a gift from the gods, and not just because of the churchly intro to “Let’s Go Crazy.” There was “When Doves Cry,” so smart and electrifying it was almost shocking. That fierce opening guitar lick, for starters, and then the beat—Prince’s beats! I’m going to cry—and then that weird, funky vocal, like a mouth harp or a rubber band, and then the minimal, irresistible melody, and the amazingly hilarious first line “Dig if you will the picture.” We dug it, all right. The picture he painted was erotic: “of you and I engaged in a kiss / the sweat of your body covers me.” Prince, with his pencil mustache, purple suits, frills, motorcycle, and talk of butterflies and doves crying, was wonderfully frank about his particular brand of eroticism; he was floridly creative in all directions, and he never seemed to consider downplaying his music’s sexuality in a culture whose mainstream was scandalized by “Like a Virgin” and baffled by Annie Lennox and Boy George. Watching him dance in the video for “When Doves Cry,” halved and doubled by a split-screen mirror effect, looking weird and freaky, was like watching him say, What am I? I’m this, I’m that. I’m a floating midriff, I’m an arm, I’m too fast and funky for you to comprehend. I look freaky and I don’t care. I know what I’m doing. That’s just who I am.
The whole album gave that impression: the wistful and warm-hearted “Take Me with U” (“You’re sheer perfection” / “Thank you!”), the sexually startling “Darling Nikki,” the gorgeous “Purple Rain.” Today, the opener, “Let’s Go Crazy,” has been on my mind the most. The whole song is a commanding celebration of life: an intense and wryly foreboding sermon that explodes into an ecstatic dance party. Its moral is to dance, because we could all die any day:
We’re all excitedIf you played “Let’s Go Crazy” at a middle-school dance in 1984, you could see this in action—a bunch of pubescent kids ferociously dancing their way to understanding what life is all about, in case we had somehow forgotten the lessons of “1999.” We’d stand around during the sermon part and then, when the beat kicked in—“In this life, things are much harder than the afterlife! This life, you’re on your own!”—we’d take those lessons to heart and frantically work them out on the dance floor.
But we don’t know why
Maybe it’s ’cause
We’re all gonna die
And when we do
What’s it all for?
You better live now
Before the grim reaper come knocking on your door
by Sarah Larson, New Yorker | Read more:
Image: Wireimage.com.
