Few experiences in life can top jamming on stage with Prince to a Beatles classic.
I can’t believe my luck as I take up his invitation to play the drums as he launches into Come Together on his purple piano.
I am just getting into the rhythm, feeling like a true rock star, when I become aware that Prince is staring across at me. Wincing.
“Stop! Stop! Stop!” he shouts, laughing. “Have you ever seen The Apprentice on TV? Cos ... You’re fired!” I protest. Lets take it from the top again, I suggest. But too late. I’ve blown it.
Still, there can’t be many people who’ve been hired and fired by Prince, all in the space of a few minutes.
My humiliation came at the end of an extraordinary day in which I was given a rare insight into the very private world of one of the greatest, yet most mysterious, rock stars on the planet. A living legend who, after selling more than 100million albums over 30 years, still remains an enigma.
Prince agreed to his first British newspaper interview for 10 years to promote his eagerly anticipated new album 20TEN which, in the biggest music giveaway of the year, will be released free only in the Daily Record this Saturday.
It almost doesn’t happen. Then Prince suddenly grants me an audience ... as long as I can meet him the very next day at his home town of Minneapolis in America (and I’m ordered not to bring a camera, mobile phone or tape recorder).
After a transatlantic dash, I arrive at the hotel to find Shelby, one of Prince’s backing singers, waiting to drive me down the road to his HQ Paisley Park - a name that’s as synonymous with Prince as Neverland was with Michael Jackson. It turns out to be a huge white 70,000 square foot building, more like an industrial complex, on a busy main road. To my surprise, the tall electric gates are wide open, the car park’s empty and the place seems deserted.
Shelby shows me into a room fitted out like a 1950s diner and before I’ve had a chance to sit down, the elusive Prince strides through the door, beaming, hand outstretched. I’m amazed. Where’s the superstar entourage - burly security, manic PRs and personal assistants? “Hi,” he says, “I’m so glad you could come.”
His voice is deeper than I expected, he’s certainly small (5ft 2in at most), looks almost half his age (52) and is dressed immaculately, if oddly, in white silk trousers, flouncy green silk shirt, an ivory tunic and white pumps.
“You must come and listen to the album,” he says. “I hope you like it. It’s great that it will be free to readers of your newspaper.”
He explains that he decided the album will only be released in CD format in the Record and there’ll be no downloads because of his ongoing battles against the internet.
Unlike most other rock stars, he has banned YouTube and iTunes from using any of his music and has even closed down his own official website.
He says: “The internet’s completely over. I don’t see why I should give my new music to iTunes or anyone else.
They won’t pay me an advance for it and then they get angry when they can’t get it. The internet’s like MTV. At one get it. The internet’s like MTV. At one time MTV was hip and suddenly it became outdated.
“Anyway, all these computers and digital gadgets are no good. They just fill your head with numbers and that can’t be good for you.”
Then, striding ahead, he leads me to his recording studio and urges me to sit in his leather swivel chair at the enormous mixing desk.
Wow! I’ve finally arrived at the epicentre of Prince’s world. The place where the genius behind classics such as Purple Rain, When Doves Cry, 1999 and Let’s Go Crazy creates his music.
Prince jabs a few buttons and hidden speakers burst into life with my sneak previews.
He searches me for a reaction. I had feared it might sound as uninspiring as some of his more recent work, but I’m amazed. It’s instantly infectious and my foot’s tapping.
Thankfully, it’s a return to his early blistering form which captivated millions of fans around the world and I love it.
“This one’s called Compassion,” says Prince. But, as I try to scribble it down, he looks aghast, grabs my wrist and pleads: “Please, please. It’s a surprise, don’t spoil it for people.”
So why did you decide to call the album 20TEN? I ask. “I just think it’s a year that really matters,” he says.” I think the world’s tilting on its axis, it’s fraught with misinformation. George Orwell’s vision of the future is definitely here with us. These are very trying times.”
To emphasise the point, he shows me clips from an evangelical TV documentary, blaming corporate America for the country’s woes, from Hurricane Katrina to asthmatic kids.
He says one problem is that “people, especially young people, don’t have enough God in their lives”.
Most things with Prince come back to God these days. He has been a devout Jehovah’s Witness for more than 10 years, studying the Bible and praying every day. He even has a space set aside, which he’s labelled The Knowledge Room, with a library of religious books.
He says: “Through extensive study of scripture, I’ve gained a compass in my life I can rely on. I think there’s an incredible peace in my life now and I’m trying to share it with people.”
But ask him anything remotely personal and he’s brusque.
Question him on his childhood or earlier years and he says: “I don’t talk about the past.”
On his relationship with stunning girlfriend Bria Valente: “Self-interest is on the back-burner now.”
And on old friend/foe Michael Jackson, he simply replies: “Next question.”
Time for another surprise. “Come,” he says, and like an excitable Willy Wonka, he leads me down corridors, plastered with glinting platinum discs, to a lounge where his three backing singers are waiting by an ebony futuristic grand piano.
Prince shows me to a seat in the middle of the room and starts playing a rousing track - Act Of God from the new album ... especially for me.
Surreal isn’t the word. Then he turns and asks: “So what would you like us to play?” Diamonds And Pearls, I suggest, and get a personal performance.
I thank them profusely, Prince smiles and then dismisses me back to my hotel for dinner, but, as it’s “only” 10pm, suggests we regroup in an hour “to party”.
My expectations run high. But when I return to Prince’s weird HQ, there are few signs we will be partying like it’s 1999. It’s some time before Prince’s head pops around the door and welcomes me into what appears to be his private nightclub.
It’s lavishly kitted out with velvet circular sofas, a dancefloor and a stairway up to a balcony. On two huge screens, at least 30feet high, there are videos of him performing at the Montreux Jazz Festival.
But where are the guests? And where’s the bar? I remember he’s a strict teetotal vegan when one of those backing singers wanders in, offering me a glass of water.
Prince walks in with his girlfriend Bria, who’s glammed up in a shimmering full-length evening gown like she’s at the Oscars. Twice married and divorced, he’s been with the singer, who’s almost half his age, for several years. He produced her first solo album Elixir last year and she has become a Jehovah’s Witness.
He introduces her and, she looks around, slightly shocked, and says: “Sorry, I think I’m a little overdressed!”
He whispers in her ear and announces they will be back in a few minutes. They duly return - with her proudly holding a food blender filled with banana smoothie which they pour into glasses.
Just when it couldn’t get any more bizarre, Prince starts screening old performance clips of his heroes such as Marvin Gaye and Barry White from the 1960s US TV show Soul Train.
He urges his guests - all five of us - to dance. He occasionally emerges from under the stairs to inspect the screens but, when I try to talk to him, he actually runs back to his bolthole, shouting: “Too many questions.”
He then takes us to his own private concert hall, which, with a capacity for more than 1000 people, is awesome.
He says: “It’s what I always dreamed of when I was a young musician playing in the basement.”
Then he orders us all on the stage, saying: “Get yourself an instrument.”
Prince takes up position on his purple piano, the backing singers by their microphones and me on the drums. Only to be found out.
It’s only midnight, but, after firing me, Prince clearly decides he can take no more.
As I step into the empty car park, it suddenly strikes me that Prince doesn’t need an army of PRs to advise him on his image.
For all the time I spent with him, he still managed to ensure that he remains as mysterious as ever.