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.

Prince

This is an AP photo from Prince's 2007 Super Bowl performance. The Super Bowl. I loved it then. I love it now. 

Rest In Purple

I was sitting in my car on Wallace St. in Red Bank getting ready to go home and continue my ongoing, year-long battle with the pedal that was stuck on my bike. My dad called. "Prince died."

"No. It's an Internet hoax," I said.

He turned away from the phone, "Is it a hoax?!?" he called to my mom. He turned back to the phone. "No. It's confirmed," he said. "57."

I was, surprisingly, dumbfounded. I turned on the radio, and "Let's Go Crazy" -- one of my favorite songs of all time -- was just starting with its full, album-edit length speech.

"'Cause in this life
Things are much harder than in the afterworld
In this life
You're on your own"

I amazed myself as I started for real crying behind my sunglasses.

Like on a lot of things musical, my brother was way ahead of me on Prince. My 14 year old self couldn't stand anything that was big-time, mainstream pop. If it wasn't Springsteen, Pink Floyd, The Who, The Kinks, The Beatles or some other -- let's face it -- old rocker dude or group of old rocker dudes -- I didn't want to know about it. He had Purple Rain on cassette, though, and a 7" version of "Let's Go Crazy."

Prince's genius had been seeping into my consciousness, though. I like to think that, as a pretty musically closed-minded teenager, I still had the capacity to let quality break through. In the early days of MTV, "Little Red Corvette" was a staple. I remember being drawn to the simple video of Prince performing in front of that mic and thinking to my 13yo self, "I don't think this is about a car."

And Purple Rain. Just the drama of all of those songs. Each one just stirs something in you. "Let's Go Crazy," "When Doves Cry," "I Would Die 4 U," "Baby I'm a Star," "Purple Rain," and "Darling Nikki." Once again, "Darling Nikki" made me, a hormonal teenager, vaguely uncomfortable. I almost feel like I'd look around furtively as Prince sang those lyrics.

Prince was undoubtedly a Top 40 pop star, and that stirred my initial aversion to him. But, really, what could be more rock and roll or more subversive than his overt use of sexual imagery? "Raspberry Beret" reached number 2 in 1985 and contains the lyric "They say the first time ain't the greatest / But I tell ya / If I had the chance to do it all again / I wouldn't change a stroke." Come on.

And his rock and roll rebelliousness carried over into his business dealings. His contentious relationship with Warner ended up in his refusing even to put his name to any releases for the label. "The artist formerly known as..." is still a running joke, but he was making a real statement by identifying himself as only an unpronounceable symbol. He'd appear in public with "SLAVE" written on his face until he finally got his freedom and released Emancipation in 1996. The New York Times gave a good (and concise) run-down of all this yesterday.

Hey. I was a dumb kid. I couldn't see that this guy from Minneapolis was doing more to change popular music than Pete Townshend or Roger Waters or Ray Davies. I just knew that Casey Kasem played his music every week, so *blech*. But he got to me somehow. He broke through all of those pre-conceived notions and turned me into something else. He turned me into someone who, 30 years later, would cry in his car over the death of some pop star.