The invitation came through a publicist. which was fairly odd in itself, considering that the only real need Prince ever had for one was to say, in various ways, the word no.
Nevertheless, here one was on the phone from New York, inviting me to Paisley Park, Prince’s corporate Disneyland in Minneapolis. the idea was that I’d fly into town. watch Prince rehearse for his fall U.S. tour—designed to promote his Diamonds And Pearls LP—and interview members of his band the New Power Generation. And maybe, just maybe
Prince, in a fit of infinite generosity, would say hello. My answer was as peculiar as the proposition itself: no.
It wasn’t like l wasn’t interested. Since his debut in 1978 with his For You album, I’d written volumes on Prince for various publications. Heck, in 1984. The year of his triumphant Purple Rain. I wrote a paperback book on the man. It was just that, for most of his career, Prince has been
manipulatively indifferent with the press, particularly the Black press. The brothers in the ‘hood were buying Prince records long before white audiences even knew who he was, or cared, for that matter (Detroit has been a big town for Prince since his days of bikinis and knee-high boots, and ain’t nothin’ but some brothers there), yet The Kid has made a habit of largely ignoring the publications these people read. The Black press never had a problem with him not doing interviews: we had a problem with him telling us no and then seeing his mug on the cover of Rolling Stone under the heading, “Prince Talks.”· It was as if the Black press didn’t matter. According. to Prince’s camp. the consensus was that the musician didn’t think Black journalists “got it”—that we didn’t understand the music or the vibe. Fact is, perhaps we got too much. For instance, ain’t no Black music critic worth his word processor going for that stuff about Prince being from a mixed family-the kind of muck white writers gobbled up whole; we know Black folks come in all shades.
Besides, I thought, why should I fly to Minneapolis and hope that Prince graces me with a nod when I could shoot the breeze attitude-free with someone like Eddie LeVert, Luther Vandross or the Jacksons (most of ‘em, anyway)? I declined.
What ultimately turned me around was the mere idea of taking in yet another Prince performance. I never tire of watching him do his thing onstage. I figured that spectacle alone was worth the three hour flight from L.A. to Minneapolis, whether Prince spoke or not. I accepted the invitation.
Considering that The New Power Generation is Prince’s Blackest band since he headed up garage bands in Minneapolis with Andre Cymone, Diamonds And Pearls is a subtle album. There isn’t much rock and roll, and aside from the rhythm rituals “Jughead,” “Gett Off” and “Push,” there isn’t a lot of all-out funk, either. There is, however, an abundance of melodic material, all of it held together with juicy musical undercurrents. There’s the folky “Walk Don’t Walk”, a song about doing things your way as opposed to what an unfair society dictates. There’s “Money Don’t Matter 2 Night” and “Strollin’,” both so easy-going that they’d sound quite normal coming out of the radio sandwiched. between songs of Anita Baker and Luther Vandross, while songs like the power pop of “Cream” and the majestic title track both adequately demonstrate why Prince remains one of the most inventive, musically agile artists in pop music.
* * *
I walked into Minneapolis’ Hotel Sofitel and ran into a publicist for the musician who went right to work. “Prince wants to meet you,” he said, as if I were the inside man in a spy ring. “But he’s in the middle of rehearsals as we speak, so we’ll have to leave right now.”
In the cab on the way to Paisley Park, the PR man took a look at my tape recorder and told me I could have left it at the hotel; Prince wouldn’t be speaking into it, and besides, this wouldn’t be an interview, anyway, but at best a chat. I was told not to pry. “Just go with the flow,” he advised. Gee, Guy-mind if I breathe?
When you walk into Paisley Park you feel as if you’ve entered Oz. There are offices, but execs are dressed casually. In the wardrobe department, a group hovered over designs and fabric. There are studios-MC Hammer was in one of them, putting the finishing touches on his new album-and on the dark soundstage with the PRIVATE SESSION sign on the door is Prince and the New Power Generation.
I’m seated not more than 15 feet from the stage, yet Prince, running through some random guitar riffs during rehearsal down time, doesn’t look my way once. Finally, he takes off his guitar, jumps off the stage and starts striding my way. He’s smiling. The publicist tries to make an introduction, but Prince interrupts him. “Oh I know this guy,” he says, extending a firm handshake. “I read your stuff, man.”
The first thing you notice about Prince is how good he smells. Really. He walks around, shrouded in a fragrance that is tantalizing and exotic. Didn’t smell familiar. Let’s just say it wasn’t Brut. Much has been made about his dimunitive size, but in person Prince’s presence is imposing. The guy oozes charisma. It was two in the afternoon, yet Prince is resplendent in his idea of jeans and sneakers: form-fitting fushia-colored pants, matching boots and a silk shirt in his color of the moment, canary yellow.
He turned to a visiting Warner Brothers record executive and said, “Did you tell him what I told you?” The exec looked sheepishly puzzled, as if he was about to be reprimanded. “Did you tell him I’m not the strange guy he thinks I am?” Prince laughed. The exec laughed. From there, Prince proceeded to be the perfect, albeit somewhat distant host. He joked about the sound (“If it’s too loud for you, we can turn it down”). When I told him I’d originally thought his trademark custom guitar was built more for looks than sound, he logged the comment away in his head. When he picked up the instrument to take to the stage, he looked at me and teased, “It looks good—it’s a shame it don’t sound like nothin’.”
Rehearsal continued on schedule, with Prince and his band ripping through new songs like “Daddy Pop” and old favorites like “Let’s Work,” and a rendition of “Nothing Compares 2 U,” his composition made famous by Sinead O’Connor. What’s remarkable is Prince’s driving sense of commitment to his work. He’s jammed “Purple Rain” more times than even I have cared to hear it, yet in rehearsal he serviced it as if it were a brand new song. It was also interesting to see that all those seemingly “spontaneous” moments in any Prince performance are anything but; virtually every little onstage gesture, his playing to the audience—it’s all rehearsed to the tee. Another sign of a true showman.
After running through his set for about an hour complete with lighting and smoke, the band adjourned and toweled down while making small talk. Prince has disappeared. An interview was out of the question after all, I told the publicist. “Hey, I was surprised,” he countered. “You got more time with him than most people do." I was scheduled to leave for L.A. in the morning; the PR man said that after dinner we could spend some hang time downtown at Glam Slam, Prince’s club. The music would be good, he said; “Wednesday is funk night at the club. Prince might even be there.”
He was. He and the Warners exec sat upstairs under the watchful eye of a bodyguard in the VIP area overlooking the crowded dance floor below. Prince gauged reaction to the then-unreleased steamy video for “Violet The Organ Grinder,” which played on video monitors throughout the club. They loved it, of course. I hadn’t heard the track before either; I went over and asked Prince what it was. “None of your business,” he replied. He chased the line with a smile, but there was no denying the edge on it.
“You can have a copy of it, if you don’t write something crazy about it.” This was the Prince I was ready for at the rehearsal, but got Sir Lancelot instead. This Prince, however, obviously had some points to make. The Warner exec got visibly nervous all over again, poor guy.
“Let me ask you something?” Prince continued. “Why is it your stuff always has a strange slant on it when it comes to me?”
“That’s not true,” I replied, surprised that this guy was even paying attention to what is written about him.
“Oh yeah, man. Your stuff seems to have a strange vibe on it when it comes to me.”
I told him I was one of his biggest fans, though I admitted that my biggest crime was in periodically writing that he should get back to the kind of stuff he built a foundation on, like his landmark 1999 album. This incensed him.
“That’s why I stay here in Minneapolis and do my work, and block out you critics. Let me tell you something: 1999 amounts to me being in the third grade musically. That’s where I was then, and I had to grow musically from where I was before it to make it. I had to push aside 1999 to get where I am now. It’s called growth. You wanna hear stuff like 1999 again, then listen to 1999. I’m someplace else now.”
The conversation limped uncomfortably on about music, but it was clear that Prince had heard enough. He became indifferent, asked why I wasn’t out on the dance floor, and then excused himself to sit alone, a table away. I’d apparently worn out my welcome.
Nevertheless, I didn’t really realize what a showman Prince was until I’d met him. Forget the stage; I’m talking image-building. The guy spent years orchestrating this aura of mystery and drama, when in reality he’s just a cat trying to do his thing. Perhaps he doesn’t grant interviews because he feels his music alone exposes him far more than anyone should ‘have to endure. If what I considered my personal growth as an artist were constantly slammed by people who didn’t always understand it, maybe I’d be a bit gun-shy, too. I decided I liked this guy.
In any case, before heading back to the hotel, I went over to Prince and thanked him for having me down. He didn’t have to do it, I told him, and I appreciated the hospitality. I then reminded him of the hypnosis-inducing .vamp he found earlier in rehearsal during “Gett Off” and how that moment alone was worth the price of admission. He seemed pleased.
“Man,” he said, easing a smile, “that’s what I’m down here doing everyday. For me, that’s what it’s all about.”
I can believe it. *