RIP PRINCE 1958-2016: I'll start off by saying that, unlike so many others (not that I'm dissing them), I was not Prince's Number One International Lover Fan.
I'll break it down for you. As a guitarist, you'd have to be tone-deaf not to appreciate Prince Rogers Nelson's enormous contributions to the lexicon of the instrument. And as a (former) drummer, Prince never got nearly enough respect for his mastery of the trap set. Think you're a badass groovemeister? Let's see how you do on Tamborine.
I never went much for the orgasm-on-vinyl sex stuff; maybe I'm just a Lutheran prude, but I have always been of the opinion that some stuff is better left in the bedroom or to the imagination (and that goes for everybody, not just The Purple One). Since that encompassed a lot of what Prince did, I guess you could say that I found a good percentage of his catalogue needlessly flawed.
But then there was the other stuff, and that includes for me many songs that are indispensable and will live forever: 1999. Raspberry Beret. Purple Rain. Baby I'm A Star. Condition of the Heart. Pop Life. Colonized Mind. No More Candy 4 U. Temptation. Lady Cab Driver. Back 2 the Lotus. Little Red Corvette. 77 Beverly Park. Let's Go Crazy. The Beautiful Ones. And that's just from my somewhat limited personal Prince catalogue. I had that kind of relationship with Prince; once in awhile I'd stop in at a CD store, go to the Prince section, and pick up something I hadn't heard before or something I thought I really ought to own. It didn't make me a huge fan, but this leads me to the final point I want to make.
I live just a couple hundred miles from Minneapolis and have been past Paisley Park numerous times (usually when travelling to the Chanhassen Dinner Theatre just down the road). As this blog has borne ceaseless and probably at times relentless witness to, the past few years have not been good years to live in Wisconsin. And especially in these dark times, it was always comforting to know that this crazy little musical-genius-par-excellence was ensconced in his studio up there in Chanhassen, cranking out music that was completely unpredictable and that, even after a bad day, would make you wanna dance (or, if you dance as terribly as I do, at least smile). And then you found out things like the fact that he paid "Funky Drummer" Clyde Stubblefield's medical bills anonymously, or built libraries and music venues that he didn't want his name on either.
I thought he'd always be there, but I was wrong. I already miss the hell out of Prince Rogers Nelson.
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