On Prince, Coolness, Dads, and Music

I was dreaming when I wrote this, forgive me if it goes astray…

by MomVee

I really loved Prince. He gave the world every kind of song. Who hasn’t quoted “Manic Monday?" When you’re sad, you can play “Raspberry Beret” or “Starfish and Coffee” and instantly feel better. We didn’t know how much we needed a song that started “Dearly Beloved…” until “Let’s Go Crazy” came out. We didn’t realize we needed a party anthem for the (almost) turn of the millennium. Or how much we would love to hear Sinead O’Connor sing “Nothing Compares 2 U” and Tom Jones cover “Kiss.” What is more danceable than “Delirious?" If you want to remember what it was like to be a teenager in a car, just cue up “Little Red Corvette.” Sexiest song ever? For my money, it’s “Slow Love.” And my husband can tell you “Purple Rain” is a solid karaoke pick.

Prince also gave the world a special kind of art. Like all the greatest entertainers, he used both artifice and vulnerability to connect to the world. On the one hand, he was constantly changing his look, reveling in externals; on the other, he was putting himself out there, speaking truth to power and shrugging at ridicule. He also defended his art. And while I was irritated yesterday at the difficulty of finding something online to share with my social media followers, I then remembered: this isn’t my expression, it’s Prince’s. It was okay for him to control it.

My father took me to see Purple Rain at the Red Bank theater the first weekend it was out, maybe the first night. Some parts were mortifying for a father and daughter to watch together, and that’s usually the context in which I tell this story. It’s more important than that, though. My father took my cultural education seriously, and that meant not just taking me to the Metropolitan Museum and American Ballet Theater, not just watching for Casablanca to come on TV, and making me read The Great Gatsby. It didn’t even mean just leaving the Beatles and Bob Dylan albums within easy reach.

My dad was always looking for the next thing -- sometimes one step behind me, sometimes one step ahead -- and sharing it with me. He was very sure about Prince’s genius. Prince had been on the scene for five years when Purple Rain came out, and firmly on the radar for two years thanks to “1999” and “Little Red Corvette” (one of the videos in early MTV rotation); but Purple Rain was when he really burst onto the scene.

My dad and I loved Prince’s music and his no-holds-barred persona so much that we bought into his whole brand and co-owned not only the Purple Rain LP but also Ice Cream Castle by The Time and later, Wendy and Lisa.

Once I missed the Grammy awards because I had play practice. The internet is failing me on identifying the exact year; but I remember when my father came to pick me up, he filled me and the rest of the carpool in on what Prince was wearing (a burnoose) and what he said (lost in the mists of time, but it was outrageous and charming).

I didn’t realize at the time how unusual -- how cool, as it were -- it was for a father to embrace an overtly sexy and androgynous pop artist and share that enthusiasm with his daughter. We didn’t have a minivan (he was an early music adopter but not an automotive one) but it was definitely what CoolDad calls minivan music, and CoolDad brings a similar openness to his listening -- sometimes one step ahead of his girls, sometimes one step behind.

Prince went a step ahead of us into the afterworld. In this life, we’re on our own. Let’s be cool to each other and keep looking for the next genius.