Portrait of The Artist as a free man

“Yo, yo, yo. Wha’zup? Yours truly is in the house, chillin’ at Paisley Park Studio where The Artist Formerly Known as Prince (The Artist) is about to kick his funky vibe for y’all.” The camera swerves to capture the homeboy gesticulations of the obnoxious MTV v.j. reading from cue cards smeared with urban slang. As Boyz II Men, D’Angelo and Phish surrender to impromptu interviews, pony-tailed record label executives and suave foreign journalists scurry past the gangsta-posing host. Rumour has it, The Artist and his new bride Mayte have joined the exclusive CD-launch party and are sashaying through the luxurious recording studio complex.

Over ceramic tulips planted in phallic arrangements, music from The Artist’s latest release, an epic triple-CD set entitled Emancipation, resounds through corridors illuminated in fluorescent purple light. The music’s synthesized sexuality, funky backbeat and sizzling guitar riffs overpower the cacophony generated by Paisley Park’s estimated 1,000 guests.

Despite the media frenzy, The Artist controls the crowd like the Wizard of Oz in gold high heels, having summoned his loyal subjects from all over the world to examine his freshly painted portrait of a free man.

At a press conference immediately following his globally broadcast half-hour performance, The Artist announces that “The old way of doing things is over.” The studio’s mesmerized journalists and photographers have already noted the dawn of this new era, having been formally invited to interview the formerly press-shy genius. And there are other changes. Gone is the word SLAVE which once blazed upon The Artist’s cheek.

Gone, too, is his 15-year-old recording contract with Warner Bros. Records. Signed to the prominent record label since the release of his debut album, For You, in 1978, The Artist negotiated a lucrative contract that eventually netted him advances of $10 million per album. But in 1992, Warner Bros. re-signed its prolific musical genius to a staggering $100 million deal, which permitted him to unleash a new album only every year or two. Warner Bros. argued that if The Artist was to flood the market with new material, they would never see a return on their costly investment.

Enraged that antiseptic record label executives could stipulate the pace of his creativity, The Artist retaliated. First, in 1993, he dissociated himself from any music he had recorded for Warner Bros. under the name of Prince by adopting an unpronounceable cross-gendered hieroglyph as his new name (a variation of which appears on the album cover of 1984’s Purple Rain). Second, in response to Warner Bros.’ ploy to postpone the release of his album The Gold Experience, The Artist began showing up in public with the word SLAVE scrawled across his cheek. The frustrated record label acquiesced. Having managed to terminate his contract, The Artist was finally free to reclaim control of both his career and his musical empire. The Artist’s newfound liberation is accompanied by a new bride, a newborn child, a new album, a new record label and, most surprisingly, a newfound tolerance of the media. That is why I now find myself trapped within the lobby of Paisley Park’s 65,000 square foot expanse, anxiously waiting to interview its infamously press-shy emperor.

“Whatever you do, just don’t call Prince,” warns the record label publicist as he escorts me to a remote conference room. He relays the story of how The Artist recently stormed out of an interview in Japan when the journalist did just that.

Accidentally mouthing the anathema ‘Prince’ is the least of my concerns right now. The Artist is refusing to be tape recorded, a stipulation that stems from his desire to control every aspect of his publicity. To make matters worse, the buzz from the press is that His Holiness is adamantly opposed to discussing his personal life, particularly his child, who is rumoured to have been born severely deformed.

Pre-empting my panic attack, a Dutch reporter bounds out of the conference room. “It’s going to be a beautiful experience,” he cries with exultation. But before I can respond to his prediction with classic Canadian sarcasm, I’m shoved into the room where the emperor himself stands before me.

Dressed in a lime green velvet tunic, matching trousers and gold high heels, The Artist offers me his hand. I accept and, in turn, sympathetically suggest that he must be burnt out by now, referring to the army of journalists which has marched onto this battleground before me. “Nope,” he quips, as if to say, ‘Let’s get on with it.’ And so I initiate a conversation that leaves me alternately confused, inspired, unsatisfied, elated, used and honoured.

“With songs, you can take your time and make sure what you’re saying is the truth... I can control what I mean with music,” argues The Artist, explaining why he records his songs yet won’t allow me to tape our interview. So then why grant interviews at all? Leaning back in his chair to ensure a reasonable distance between us, he explains: “I thought it was important to talk about the music and to explain that this is a record by a free man... and it’s going to outshine anything I’ve ever done.”

In fact, following his divorce from Warner Bros., The Artist has seized unprecedented control of his music. Emancipation was released on NPG (New Power Generation) Records, of which The Artist is the president and only act signed. As for the Capitol-EMI record label executives mingling at the Paisley Park soiree, The Artist has recently signed an agreement with the label making it responsible for pressing, distributing and publicizing the new album. But it is The Artist who controls Emancipation’s cost to the consumer, rate of output and master tapes. “EMI is like Federal Express. You call them up and ask them if they can deliver something for you... [The label] is providing a service. No restrictions, no contract.” Indirectly referring to the endless hours spent at the negotiating table with Warner Bros., he adds, “This isn’t one of them big seven hour deals.”

The peculiar lengths The Artist has gone to obtain his artistic freedom have the makings of one of David Letterman’s Top Ten Lists. A millionaire musical genius who adopts a symbol for a name and scrawls SLAVE across his baby smooth cheek is bound to be accused of carrying around a misplaced persecution complex. But when I ask him if perhaps African-Americans have a better understanding of his plight than the music industry’s rich white folk, his response is emphatic: “If you tell an African American that I don’t own my music and that I left that regime with nothing other than the cheque, they’d understand.”

In fact, The Artist left Warner Bros. with more than just an undisclosed lump sum of money. Included in his bon voyage package was a seething bitterness towards an industry that can treat its musicians and their work like stocks and bonds. “There are restrictions and rules placed on you when you go in to make art,” says The Artist, incredulously. Is it kind of like asking for a wallet-sized Picasso, I suggest? The Artist suddenly breaks into laughter and howls: “I’m going to use that!”

It’s not unusual these days to see the characteristically guarded musician relinquish enough control to show his sense of humour. Nor is it uncommon to hear The Artist philosophize over his unsavoury pas predicaments. “[Warner Bros.] was the least of my problems,” he says. “I had a lot of personal problems at the time. I had to exorcise a lot of different demons.” As for telling me who or what those demons were, The Artist snaps, “That’s personal.”

It’s a response the exceptionally private musician has been prone to offer ever since his Valentine’s Days marriage last year to 24-year-old dancer Mayte Garcia and the unconfirmed birth of their first child. At the time of our mid-November interview, the child - whose name, gender and birth date The Artist has yet to reveal - was rumoured to have been born prematurely with a severe birth defect. A week later, during an interview with Oprah Winfrey taped November 4, The Artist reassured the celebrity talk-show host: “It’s all good. Never mind what you hear.”

But on November 23, a report was issued by the British tabloid The Daily Express stating that the couple’s baby actually died weeks earlier, on October 23, “from a rare illness known as Cloverleaf Skull Syndrome.” Since then, radio, TV and various tabloids have supported the story, albeit without the official confirmation of Capitol-EMI Records or Paisley Park.

The Artist may be unwilling to discuss the status of his child’s health, but he is eager to share it with the world in one way. Emancipation’s sultry song ‘Sex in the Summer’ features a sample of the unborn baby’s heartbeat. It is an unique touch that The Artist jokingly tells me resulted in a warning from his lawyer, Londell McMillan, that the baby would be born “with a pen and a contract in hand.” Taking advantage of the moment of levity, I ask what impact fatherhood has had on him, both personally and artistically. “I don’t speculate on how my child will affect me,” is The Artist’s staunch reply.

Leaving the speculation to the tabloid journalists, The Artist exudes a spiritual faith that permeates Emancipation’s 36 songs. There are emotive ballads like ‘Somebody’s Somebody’ and ‘Let’s Have a Baby’, funky grooves like ‘Sex in the Summer’ and ‘Emale’, as well as faithful cover versions of Joan Osborne’s ‘One of Us’ and the Stylistics’ ‘Betcha By Golly Wow!’, the album’s lead-off single. But regardless of Emancipation’s eclectic components, the frenzy that once accompanied hit singles like ‘Little Red Corvette’ and ‘When Doves Cry’ is blatantly absent. In its place is a tranquility that guides the listener to The Artist’s empire of freedom. “It all goes together, all of the universe goes together. And the sooner you realize that, the quicker we’ll learn how to heal one another,” he rhapsodizes as if staring out of a foggy car window on a seemingly endless road trip.

The direction the conversation is heading strikes me as odd. The Artist’s impressive empire was built upon the power he wielded over others, not on half-baked homilies one would expect at a Yanni concert. Single-handedly, The Artist moulded virgin talent like Sheena Easton and Sheila E. into bustier-clad vixens, turned a record deal into the luxurious Paisley park Enterprises and cunningly played the press with the same virtuosity as his trademark symbol-shaped guitar.

Touched by this musical genius who seems to have abandoned his controlling ways for more nurturing habits, I rise to shake The Artist’s hand. I thank him for letting me into his home, his music, and however cursorily, his soul. He embraces my hand with his very first hint of coquettishness, replies through a lurid smile: “We’ll meet again.”

Not unlike the Dutch reporter who came before me, I exit the room dumbstruck and awe-inspired. Then the reporter’s words return to me. It’s going to be a beautiful experience. Hanging behind The Artist’s small frame was a poster that read ‘The Beautiful Experience’. Intentionally or not, The Artist had subconsciously controlled the reporter’s perceptions of him.

Curiously deflated, I realize that - like the MTV v.j. reading from his cue cards, like The Artist’s band being guided by each of his notes, like the women whose lives he has transformed - the Dutchman and I had both become just another unwitting colour for The Artist to paint his self-portrait of a free man.