When I was young, Prince scared the hell out of me. He was dangerous. My older brother owned a number of Prince CDs, but never played them around me, likely at the request of my parents. They were never big Prince people, due to the content of the lyrics and the fact that my Dad’s first fiance dumped him for Bobby Z, bass player of the Revolution (a 100% true story. I often joke that I owe my existence to Prince). Whenever I stumbled upon a Prince album, his leering looks and brooding sexuality freaked me out, and the mysterious “numbers instead of words” thing was simply too weird for my little head to process. When he changed his name to a symbol, I was intrigued in a peripheral way, but the strangeness was beyond me. He lacked the warm embrace of my beloved Stevie Wonder. He seemed cold and stark and frightening.
As I grew up, the hits entered my consciousness by virtue of simply being alive, and some I enjoyed more than others. Prince was one whose artistry I respected more than loved. It wasn’t until college that I began to explore the world of Prince with a bit more conviction. His 2005 Super Bowl performance was my first real introduction to the Prince experience. A 19-year-old student at the time, I went to the campus SB party to watch it on the enormous screen in the Union, more as a social event, as I never gave a flying turd about football. Halftime came, and from the second Prince took the stage to the second he left, I was mesmerized, in utter disbelief that I never gave this man the time of day. Outside of the nature bestowed real life prop of real purple rain, he didn’t rely on anything but his own electricity as a performer and a musician to reach the world. It is easily my favorite halftime show of all time. Sadly, I was the only who felt that way, as nearly the entire room had cleared out during the performance, leaving me breathless and alone inside the massive lecture hall.
The next day I went out and bought “The Very Best of Prince” album. The next semester I went out and found new friends.
Sadly, and stupidly, the album didn’t get heavy rotation. I didn’t have much interest in the Prince songs that saturated the radio waves, but whenever I would think of venturing into his catalogue, the sheer volume of music gave me anxiety. My brief interest in Prince evaporated almost as soon as it arrived.
Fast forward two years. I had landed my first “big boy” job as a computer lab assistant in a school for adolescents with emotional disturbances. The students came to work on educational computer programs that help support areas they may be struggling with, and every Friday students could earn X amount of free time depending on their behavior and work completion. Since most students chose to listen to music on Fridays, I got used to a lot of rap beats and metal riff white noise leaking out of the headphones.
Needless to say, it caught me off guard when a student asked me to find Prince online for them. I made a slight wise crack about listening to old music, but the student quickly retorted with “I want to remember my father.”
I froze and stuck my foot in my mouth. My heart dropped. “What song do want to hear?”
“Purple Rain”.
Being such a stickler about online streaming and availability, finding any Prince song has always been a challenge, and my students were slightly less than patient. As I was browsing the web furiously, she kept reiterating “I have to remember my Dad. I have to hear Prince…”
Ten minutes later, I found a crummy version of the video on some youtube knockoff. Beaming, she pulled on the headphones and belted the song beautifully at the top of her lungs, apathetic to the reaction of her peers. As I carried on with my business around the class, she stopped and muttered to nobody, “That’s Prince standing on a mountain, singing to my father”. I looked at her to see the smile on her face crumble. Tears had started to drip down her cheeks and the singing had now become sobs. Her cries crescendoed with the guitar music and decrescendoed with the fade out. When the song was over, she turned and smiled at me with glistening eyes, half a silent “thank you” and half a “now you get it”. “Purple Rain” will always be my favorite Prince song.
I’ve hemmed and hawed about sharing that story out of fear that others might think I’m exploiting that poor girl’s story for my own use. That is not at all my intention. The experience shook me to the core; I think about it every time I hear Prince. It was the impetus I needed to make that final emotional connection to his music. I’ve since bought and digested every Prince album. I’ve become a devotee. 20 years ago, I’d never imagine that Prince would be a go-to in times of personal hardship and difficulty.I won’t be breaking any new ground by acknowledging his brilliance and virtuosity. His richly rewarding body of work speaks for itself. The beats, synthesizers, and processed sounds don’t mask the lust, longing, pain and humanity in Prince’s music. Somehow, the “dated” and mechanical sounds only enhance the emotional impact, a feat I could safely say only he has accomplished. Now that he’s gone, a new layer of melancholy hangs over his work. My appreciation can only deepen from here. When an figure of this stature passes, we walk a tense tightrope between lamentation of life lost and celebration of art left behind; the struggle between deep mourning for someone we feel we know so intimately, yet don’t actually know at all. I’ve made peace by imagining my former student’s father on that mountain with Prince himself, helping him heal those of us still here.
Hell, I owe my life to the man anyway.
-Josh
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