Portrait of The Artist as a weird man

Reclusive former Prince’s presence packs punch

 The record company calls and is just wondering, would anybody be available for an interview with Mr. What’s-in-a-Name?

So here it is, then, the final, irrefutable proof that the millennial tides of strangeness have washed over the sandbags of reason. His appearances so rare he’s only played here once in a 19-year career, the recording colossus once known as Prince upends preconceptions by flying infor a press junket.

The fact of his presence is surprise enough. Given his reclusiveness, this was a meeting as likely as tea with Elvis, with Lennon picking up the tab. The presence is a further surprise.

After the photographers have shot their portraits of The Artist, he stands at an end table in his downtown hotel room, tending to his tea. Dressed head-to-toe in black topped by a see-through number, he shakes hands briefly and drifts couchward. A light foundation of makeup and the pencil goatee suggest the son of Little Richard. So far, so star.

When he sits down, he makes the outfit, for all its glamor, seem as relaxed as stardom allows. Plausible. Reasoned. Normal, or at least a challenge to normal conceptions of normalcy.

Instant dime-store profile: short guy. Certain femininity about the manner. Probably picked on in high school - until the talent show.

Assume it went well that day, because here is a man whose talents allow him to wear whatever he damn pleases. This unforeseen brace of press appearances supports a three-CD boxlet called Emancipation, whose loaded title is the reason we’re here. The Artist is freed from a contract with . Warner Bros, that brought him in the neighborhood of $100 million, but so stifled him creatively that he would appear in public with the word “Slave” written across a cheek.

A lot of doughnuts

A hundred million. That'll buy a lot of doughnuts. The Artist and his entourage had hoped to check out some live music upon arrival Monday night, but couldn’t find any.

“We went to Dunkin’ Donuts,” he says, conjuring an immediate happy image of the kid behind the counter greeting the entourage. “Un autre cruller, monsieur?”

If that challenges any assumptions about his public image, it should. The annals of Princedom are full of stories that reinforce a legendary eccentricity. There were the memorable interviews that relied solely on journalists’ memories, since they were forbidden to bring tape recorders, notepads or pens.

The tape recorders are still verboten, but he has a rational explanation. “I walked into a Tower Records, and saw (an album called) Conversations With Jimi Hendrix. Also, we have Madonna and Prince.’”

A move to frustrate profiteers, then. Arranged on the couch, the doe-eyed workaholic responsible for such paeans to satyriasis as Head, Come and Jack U Off, the overseer of an orgiastic Oz, says he’s toned down the obsessive recording schedule. “My wife has me in studio rehab right now.”

Rolling pin in hand, no doubt. And as for the name, there is no studied coyness to his response. It’s pretty much ‘The Artist’ now, although even he concedes the albums are “probably in the Prince section.”

In a world where white rock radio still won’t play much of his catalogue, it’s easy to understand his abhorrence of categories. Emancipation defies them. “It’s a very important album, the album I feel I was born to make. It’s got a little bit of everything I’ve learned over 20 albums.” Twenty! “That’s not including stuff I’ve done for other people.”

And the end result of it, up to this point, is that The Artist is becoming something of The Crusader for the rights of songwriters. The way he explains it, “a lot of psychological things go on when you’re signed to an agreement with a corporation.” Since the robber-baron days of the industry, when ’50s R&B songwriters were bought off with $5,000 Cadillacs while their records sold a million copies, hard lessons have been learned and entertainment lawyers retained. Nevertheless, an artist with as high a profile as The Artist still doesn’t own the master recordings of his biggest songs. “No sir. I don’t own Little Red Corvette. Purple Rain. Diamonds and Pearls.”

He owns his publishing, but aside from the objection in principle to a company holding the original copies of an artist’s labors and inspiration, there is the matter of inequitable division of profits. To some, a slave with a $100-million collar is a happy slave, indeed. “As far as (that goes) – $14 is what you pay for an album. I’ve sold over 100 million albums for (Warners). It’s pretty simple to do the math.”

Moreover, The Artist was summoned to the Warners boardroom over Diamonds and Pearls. He wanted to release singles in a conceptual order “to take the listener on a journey.” The suits wanted to release whatever would journey to the bank. He goes on to refer to the “six families” of recording giants that control the music industry, and if you don’t get the reference, take three godfathers and call him in the morning.

“To be completely honest, I harbor no bitterness. It’s their system, they designed it, and it works.”

He had a better plan, to enter into a more equitable agreement wherein the songwriter owned his work and kicked out his jams whenever he pleased. “My idea was to approach a corporation and say ‘I’ll rent (the music) to you. We’ll both sell it and make money’”

A deal was struck whereby Capitol distributes his NPG label and The Artist retains ownership of the masters and releases singles as he will. Still, corporate realities being what they are, “I just signed another deal where the lion’s share of the profits go to someone else.”

Sudden ubiquity

His sudden ubiquity - an Oprah telecast, this morning’s Today Show in New York and dailies in Montreal and Toronto, an upcoming series of benefit shows and a tour which may bring him here - probably guarantees profits for all. With any justice, it gets this music back on a radio he used to own.

Emancipation’s three CDs each run exactly an hour, the quirk of a single-minded discipline. “I wanted to do something scary. I wanted to challenge myself. I wanted it to be perfect.” Categories are not invited to that perfection. The Artist is keenly aware of the faces people pull at the frilly outfits, the hormonal crossover. He also knows how the same people who smirk at the girly bits are crossing their legs when he sings. And he isn’t stopping at male-female.

“It’s even gotten worse, so to speak. I feel part of everything alive. I feel part of that plant.” The fern formerly known as ... no. The holistic spirituality at work here now embraces vegetarianism and family values. For all the funk hedonism of his rep, the themes of spirituality and monogamy are entwined throughout Emancipation. “I don’t suppose my spirit will ever change. I’ve always been pretty reckless.” Smile.

“But if you seek truth, then it’s about monogamy, because you want others to do unto you as you do to them.” His wife’s name is Mayte, pronounced Mighty. They recently had a baby, but he talks Families, not family Does he change diapers? Laughter. “That comes under family”

He would rather talk about musical epiphanies. Along with three other covers, including sublime sighs through Betcha by Golly Wow and I Can’t Make You Love Me, is Joan Osbourne’s One of Us. “I thought it was important that a person of color do that song. People in my neighborhood, when I was growing up, wouldn’t hear a song like that”

They recorded it in one take in his Minneapolis Paisley Park complex, building to a towering guitar solo the likes of which he hasn’t erected since Purple Rain. “My wife was sitting at the edge of the stage looking at me and I was looking up at the sky But you know when your wife is looking at you.”

Frighteningly, his best work might be ahead of him.

Guitarist, bassist part of Montreal connection

Aside from the visit to a local Dunk-ins, where the traumatized staff probably still gibbers in amazement, The Artist has a further Montreal connection: two members of his band.

Guitarist Kat Dyson and bassist Rhonda Smith both play on several numbers on Emancipation. Dyson is the more familiar, a formidable blues-funk guitarist who won Star Search as a member of Tchukon. She played clubs and sessions with everyone from the Montreal Jubilation Gospel Choir to Cyndi Lauper.

“Sheila E introduced me to them,” he says.

“She told me about these girls who were interesting players.”

Next stop, Paisley Park and membership in the New Power Generation, jamming, recording and performing in the televised November special that launched the triple CD.