Let’s Go Crazy: Celebrating 25 Years of Purple Rain
By PopMatters Staff
Monday, June 1 2009

Edited by Evan Sawdey and Produced by Sarah Zupko

Introduction

*cue church organ*

”Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to celebrate this thing called life ...”(sic)

... and thus begins one of the greatest pop culture phenomena of our time.

Back in the summer of 1984, Purple Rain was more than just a movie: it was a genuine experience, a transcendent multi-media event that celebrated commercialism and creativity in equal measure, turning a mid-level R&B singer into an overnight superstar and international sex symbol. At one point during that year, Prince had not only the Number One movie in America, but also the Number One album and the Number One single. In fact, when Purple Rain entered the album chart at peak position on August 4th of 1984 (displacing Bruce Springsteen’s Born in the U.S.A., of all things), it wouldn’t vacate that spot until January 19th of the following year.

Yet all these accomplishments wind up leading us to one very simple question: why?

The truth of the matter is simple: Prince picked the perfect time to perfect his art. Though unfairly relegated as a straight-up R&B singer for his first few years, a few people could already pick out the fact that the barely 20-years-old Prince Rogers Nelson had talent that wasn’t exactly easy to classify: aside from the fact that he played every instrument on every album he ever produced, his mixture of genres was remarkably unconventional. 1979’s Prince had numerous hard-rock overtones, and the genre-busting 1980 disc Dirty Mind was a lo-fi explosion of new wave, classic rock, and synth-based soul experiments. With 1982’s 1999, however, Prince had finally found a way to meld his experimental pop tendencies with more “commercial” song structures, resulting in the first two major mainstream hits of his career (the title track and “Little Red Corvette"). Each become substantial radio staples at the expense of absolutely nothing: Prince’s sexually-charged lyrics—always a point of controversy—were still kept front and center, pushing the envelope of what was considered “acceptable” radio play without compromising Prince’s increasingly-insular artistic vision.

During 1999‘s subsequent tour, however, Prince—in the midst of also writing and producing acts like Vanity 6 and Morris Day & the Time—had finally assembled a backing band that could keep up with his own incredible abilities: the Revolution. With drummer Bobby Z., bassist Mark Brown, keyboardist Matt Fink, and guitar/keys duo Wendy Melovin & Lisa Coleman, Prince was finally able to stop worrying about playing everything himself. He had a found a group of creative individuals who were able to open his mind to new sounds and styles. During this time, he also expressed interest in starting a movie project based on his life. After numerous financial hurdles and personnel mishaps (protégé starlet Vanity very famously left the project just prior to filming, leaving Prince to cast the unknown Apollonia Kotero as his own love interest), filming went underway for Prince’s own faux-biopic, starring himself in the lead role and featuring nothing but brand new, completely unheard songs. Even with 1999‘s relative chart success, Warner Bros. was predictably nervous about how the film would fare.

As the multiple hit singles, Grammy wins, and Best Original Song Score Oscar later proved, this was one of those rare gambles that paid off in droves.

Purple Rain is more than just a movie, however, and far more than just an album. The track “When Doves Cry” was a revolutionary, avant-garde single that rewrote the playbook on what pop songs were supposed to sound like. “Darling Nikki” was the track that set Tipper Gore on a personal vendetta to clean up pop music (ultimately resulting in the Parental Advisory stickers that pepper albums to this very day). And that’s not even counting the contributions that Purple Rain made to fashion, the rock-film genre, and sales of purple motorcycles the world over.

Some 25 years after it was released, PopMatters proudly celebrates Purple Rain in its entirety, looking at it from every angle. Over this week, you’ll see a track-by-track dissection of the album, a look at Purple Rain in the context of Prince’s short filmography, analysis of the movie’s effects on the fashion world, that so-called “Minneapolis sound” that the film helped popularize, a deep psychological examination at the supposed rivalry between Prince and Morris Day, the way that Prince was able to transcend genre and move even a crowd of metalheads during one writer’s live performance experience, how his music was able to band together some Florida skinheads in a shared love of his genre-busting funk, a look at how Prince created his masterwork out of an anxiety of influence, and—to top it all off—we interview Prince’s long-time manager Alan Leeds and Revolution keyboardist Matt Fink about their experiences during the peak of Purple Rain‘s popularity.

So strap yourself in, and—as The Kid himself would say—let’s go crazy ...

Evan Sawdey

Let’s Go Crazy: Celebrating 25 Years of Purple Rain
A Track-by-Track Rundown of ‘Purple Rain’

“Let’s Go Crazy”

Having encouraged us two years earlier to accept that “Life is just a party and parties weren’t meant 2 last,” Prince started 1984 with a more defiantly optimistic sermon, suggesting that in life, “things are much harder than in the afterworld”, and that our reward for enduring our current hardships would be to enter “a world of never-ending happiness.” (Seriously: why were we so surprised when His Royal Badness “became” devout?)

More importantly, “Let’s Go Crazy”—the lead-off track to Purple Rain—suggests that the best way to endure one’s hardships is to rebel against the expectations and norms of our safe, sanitized society; essentially, Prince’s message is the message of all good rock n’ roll, which is ... well ... “let’s go crazy.” And make no mistake: Purple Rain is rock n’ roll first and foremost; its opening salvo’s guitar solo puts Slayer to shame.

“Let’s Go Crazy” boasts that elusive sense of inevitability and completeness that only the greatest rock songs offer; who but Prince could yield such provocative, anarchic alchemy from so simple and unassuming a guitar riff? And who would dare to suggest that a single second of the song could be changed?

At its best, rock n’ roll serves as a call-to-arms, even when the revolution in question is nothing more subversive or relevant than a suggestion to party. “Let’s Go Crazy” is not shy about extending an invitation to the audience; its opening monologue, which reads as intimately as a “Dear Constant Reader” introduction from a Stephen King collection, addresses the listener in a warm and direct and empowering manner that went unmatched until Danzig’s “Godless” in 1993, which itself sounds like something Prince could have written ("I ask all who have gathered here to join me in this feast ... may we always be strong in body, spirit and mind"):

Dearly beloved
We are gathered here today
2 get through this thing called life

Electric word, life
It means forever, and that’s a mighty long time
But I’m here 2 tell U
There’s something else:
The afterworld

A world of never ending happiness
U can always see the sun, day or night


The pop cultural landscape of today is a barren and exhausting place, inordinately enamored with irony. Nonetheless, for all the earnest optimism of its opening sermon, “Let’s Go Crazy” was the freshest, coolest, trendiest sound of 1984, and yet it does not sound dated in 2009.

I knew in 1984 that Prince and his Purple Rain were special. I may have been only seven years old at the time, but I wanted to be Prince; no other performer inspired such adoration. Still, would I have predicted that Prince would boast such staying power and lasting relevance?

No. In an early episode of Family Ties, Mallory asked her mother if she was familiar with Purple Rain‘s opening track (which she mistakenly called “Let’s Get Crazy"), and Elise quipped, “It was our wedding song,” and had you asked me then, I’d have assumed that the canned sitcom laughter would probably be pop culture’s last response to “Let’s Go Crazy.”

Instead, 25 years later, “Let’s Go Crazy” still rocks, and Purple Rain is arguably the album of the ‘80s.

And I still want to be Prince.

Monte Williams

“Take Me With U”

Simply put, “Take Me With U” is arguably Prince’s single greatest pure pop song. Oh sure, he’d later do tracks that were more “mainstream” (see: “Cream”) and showier (the still-fantastic “Raspberry Beret”), but the breezy, breathtakingly romantic “Take Me With U”—with its acoustic hammer-ons and sampled string sections—is the aural equivalent of falling in love for the first time, hopeless devotion mixing with eternal optimism, all making for one utterly irresistible Top 40 cocktail.

The song’s history, however, was less than rosy. First off, the track wasn’t even supposed to be on Purple Rain in the first place. Initially written for Apollonia 6’s debut album, Prince—who knows when to take back a good song he’s written for someone else (sorry there, Mazarati)—decided to use it to soundtrack the scene where Apollonia rides around on the Purple One’s decked-out motorcycle for the first time (prior to “purifying” herself in Lake Minnetonka). If you watch the scene on mute, it feels like watching the most boring stock footage you can imagine, as there are only so many times that you can film passing trees before you begin to wonder what Morris Day is up to. When backed by “Take Me With U”, however, it suddenly feels like all these excessive shots are actually moving the plot forward, the montage showing the doe-eyed Apollonia realizing she might have feelings for The Kid after all ...

Released as the fifth and final single from Purple Rain, “Take Me With U” has the sad distinction of being the only single from the album to not become a Top 10 staple (it stalled at #25). It’s a damn shame too, considering that “Take Me With U” marks the first time that Prince dueted with anyone in any official capacity. As only the second track on the immaculately sequenced Purple Rain, the addition of Apollonia’s voice not only deepens The Kid’s character arc (he’s sharing the song with her—and he hates sharing songs!), but also sets up the audience for the inevitable falling out between our leads, their naïve love ballad a reminder of better times. Of course, with instrumentation this lush (the opening drum breaks swirling between the left and right channels, the echoed clanging of bells sweetly leading the song during the fadeout, etc.), it’s hard not to fall in love right along with them.

Yet part of the reason that “Take Me With U” works so brilliantly is because of its simplicity. “I can’t disguise the pounding of my heart” it opens, “It beats so strong / It’s in your eyes, what can I say? / They turn me on”. Given the later lyrical depictions of animals striking curious poses and fetish-obsessed women performing extreme self-gratification acts in hotel lobbies, “Take Me With U”‘s simple, unadorned sentiments serve as a breather, an easy emotional entry point for the rest of the album/film. No matter what we think of Apollonia’s half-reconciliation at the end of the movie (that awkward half-kiss backstage prior to The Kid’s dynamic performance of “I Would Die 4 U”), we will always have “Take Me With U” as a souvenir of what could have been, a soundtrack for young romance the world over that clocks in at less than four minutes; pop doesn’t get more prefect than that.

Evan Sawdey

“The Beautiful Ones”

“The Beautiful Ones” is the closest Purple Rain has to a proper love ballad, but there’s little proper about it. It nearly annihilates the conventions of the form. Like the album itself, the song is fraught with romantic desire and anxiety, but it’s the latter that takes control. It’s a love letter in song, but our protagonist clearly has issues.

“The Beautiful Ones” follows the traditional pattern of a man trying to win over a woman by singing directly to her. He’s wooing her, trying to win her away from another man. In the film, it’s Prince wooing Apollonia away from Morris Day. In life it’s said to have been Prince’s attempt to woo Susannah Melvoin, the sister of his Revolution band member, Wendy Melvoin. In the song, the person of his affectations seems more distant, less specific. That vagueness only grows as the song progresses, because with each second his chances seem to be dwindling, as his come-on – or really, ultimatum – grows more crazed. He begs, pleads, and ultimately freaks out so thoroughly that any impression of his confidence has shattered. In the film, Apollonia is brought to tears of shock but also apparent understanding. In the song it’s hard to see him as succeeding. This isn’t the man who will sweep you off your feet and fly you to the moon, or even the carefree but lovesick Prince of the previous song, “Take Me With U”. This is the man howling into the wall or crying uncontrollably into his own chest. Earlier he sweetly begged, “don’t make me lose my mind,” and, now, he has.

I’ve done no scientific study, but it seems that Prince wildly shrieks more often on this album than any other in his mighty discography. “The Beautiful Ones” wins the award for most convincing and even chilling Prince shrieks. “Shriek” seems the only fitting word for his breakdown at the end of the song. The song starts with him almost asking her politely, albeit with a lot of heaviness in his voice, “baby baby baby / what’s it gonna be?” Before you know it he’s proposing marriage to her, almost like he thinks that may be what does the trick: “if we got married / would that be cool?” By the end of the song he’s on his knees screaming in pain, calling up devils in his soul to voice the ordeal that love, or desire, is putting him through. He has to know if she wants him, he tells her. All he knows is that he wants her, he proclaims in an ear-piercing shriek, one perched atop a peak built of moody keyboards, wailing guitar and a drum machine that, after the storm has calmed, sounds a note of life-goes-on.

Concentrate too much on the initial come-on and the nervous breakdown at the end and you’ll miss another interesting feature: Prince’s psychological diagnosis of why she’s rejecting him. In the middle of a song that otherwise is constructed like a personal screed, a love letter written in tears and pain, there’s the protagonist’s own rationalization that it’s the beautiful ones who are the problem. Of course he gets more pseudo-poetic than that, whispering, “Paint a perfect picture / bring to live a vision in one’s mind / the beautiful ones always smash the picture / always, every time.” That moment is why Prince is Prince. He never hesitates to build an epic structure of drama and fantasy around each feeling or action, while also making you feel it viscerally. Purple Rain opens with a song where he slips into the tone of a preacher, and he does it again later in the album. That isn’t quite the tone of this commentary section of “The Beautiful Ones”, but it does sound like, mid-emotional rant, he’s giving a lesson. That he can become Prince the poet/teacher/mystic in the middle of breaking down and crying, screaming, raging his heart out says something about the control Prince exerts throughout Purple Rain, the way he turns the conditions of the heart into fodder for that pulpit of rebellion, the arena stage.

Dave Heaton

“Computer Blue”

Poor “Computer Blue”. Imagine growing up in a sonic family that features eight other siblings that are far more famous than you (even the protracted Paris Hilton of the clan, “Darling Nikki”). The Purple Rain fanbase can recite your relatives’ accomplishments verbatim, 25 years of rote repetitiveness on your favorite radio station guaranteeing their place in the public consciousness. But not poor “Computer Blue”. Ask a Rain-head to rehearse or recreate anything else from the album—“Let’s Go Crazy”, “I Would Die 4 U”, even “The Beautiful Ones” or “Baby, I’m a Star”—and you’ll have little trouble with the treatment. But this bizarro track, built around a funky little hook, a syncopated drum pattern, and random guitar feedback sticks out like a surreal sore thumb. As Prince’s echo heavy voice randomly invokes “where is my love life?”, the direct disposability of the track hides something far more telling.

Reviewing the writing credits, “Computer Blue” is the only Purple Rain production where Mr. Paisley Park is not 100% in control. The lyrics are credited to him, but the music is made up of random jams between himself, his father John L. Nelson, the dynamic Revolution duo of Wendy and Lisa, and keyboardist extraordinaire Dr. Fink. In many ways it represents the exact narrative of the movie, a microcosm of the kind of collaboration it takes a near-tragedy to get The Kid to embark on. Prince originally recorded the song as an extended 14 minute opus. It contained more electronics, a sing-along chorus, additional lyrics, and even something called “The Hallway Speech.” When the album was being mixed, a near eight minute edit was offered, but that was also trimmed when “Take Me With U” became a last minute addition. So not only is “Computer Blue” orphaned among what is practically a greatest hits collection on one single album, it suffered at the hands of its creator before it even hit vinyl.

The history explains the half-realized nature of the track, the lack of all the additional trimmings tantamount to turning an epic into a clip. And if you track down the lyrics for the longer version, the title even makes sense. Throughout, Prince is complaining about his broken down “machine”, unable to find him the love he so desperately needs. Mandating that his emotionless pile of silicon chips receive a new “programming” to learn “women are not butterflies/ They’re computers 2/ Just like U Computer Blue”, he hopes for something more pure and spiritual. He rallies against anyone, or anything, that will “fall in love 2 fast and hate 2 soon/And take 4 granted the feeling’s mutual.” On Purple Rain, the track feels like a freaky fetish anthem, what with Wendy and Lisa going through the whole “is the water warm enough” spoken-word routine at the beginning. With the excised material reinserted, the song becomes a prophetic, almost painful search by one man for feelings that are meaningful, not mechanical.

Kind of makes you feel bad for this awkward middle child of a song, doesn’t it? Marginalized by its maker, forgotten by many who claim to know the property by heart, this is a clear case of commercial concerns taking the place of artistic needs. Finding a copy of the complete version is next to impossible, though Prince is known to favor live audiences with differing versions of the tune. Still, it doesn’t make life any easier for this misbegotten musical memory from an otherwise earth-shattering sonic statement. Both the album and the film made Prince a superstar on par with Michael Jackson and Madonna, destined to partly redefine the ‘80s in his own oddball virtuoso image. Sadly, “Computer Blue” remains the obvious dysfunction in this otherwise solid family unit.

Bill Gibron

“Darling Nikki”

That Nikki is one slinky ‘ho.

Any hussy bold enough to get her rocks off in a hotel lobby, presumably in full view of any passerby, deserves a wax likeness in the Hooch Hall of Fame. Of course, we’ve no idea whether Miss Thang is holed up at in a Times Square ‘hotsheets’, or the local Ritz-Carlton, but Sweetheart has no shame either way.

Who’s Nikki, you ask? (And no, I don’t have her digits, so stop asking.) She happens to be the titular vamp in Prince’s scandalous 1984 tune, “Darling Nikki”, the most notorious track from his massive Purple Rain album, which followed in Thriller‘s footsteps as the pop crossover smash, while demolishing radio-influenced notions of “black” or “white” music, a social construct which sadly continues to flourish.

“Darling Nikki” tells the steamy tale of a “sex fiend” named “Nikki” caught—by His Royal Badness, of course—“masturbating with a magazine”. Our heroine predictably seduces the Purple One in a variety of situations, including an overnight romp at her “castle”, making it clear he should ring her up “anytime U want to grind”. Sonically, the song alternates between stripped-down percussion and swirling, melodramatic guitars; Prince, an unquestioned musical prodigy, handled all instrumentation himself. An insinuating keyboard whine—betraying a hint of femme fatale menace—starts us off, and we later hear slapping drum machine beats, possibly hinting at S & M play between Prince and Nikki. A standard-issue heterosexual male fantasy, as it were, not highbrow enough for Hefner, but more likely to appear in the pages of Penthouse.

And therein lay the problem. Purple Rain was released during “morning in America”, Reagan’s mildly jingoistic slogan for reassuring the citizenry that prosperous times were just around the corner, with a caveat. The good times didn’t necessarily include the freewheeling sexual bacchanalia of the 1970s, i.e., wife-swapping, nightclubs catering to group sex, or—for the AIDS-ravaged gay community—no-holds-barred bathhouses. The Gipper favored a more conservative, Rockwellian America, but also a wealthier one, apparently oblivious to the contradiction in dictating personal desires in an atmosphere of capitalistic freedom.

To wit, a watchdog group, the Parents Music Resource Center—headed by future Vice-Presidential wife Tipper Gore—formed, with the express desire to rate and label music releases, and our little Nikki was definitely on the radar. In fact, after Gore heard “Darling Nikki” blaring from her daughter’s stereo, the song became a keystone exhibit in their crusade, also rousing the ire of hypocritical Jimmy Swaggart and the Trinity Broadcasting Network, veteran purveyors of cheesy Biblical Camp. Eventually, the PMRC was able to coerce the recording industry to adopt “Parental Advisory” stickers, for placement on any albums containing sexually suggestive lyrics or profanity.

Although never issued as a single, “Darling Nikki” has firmly established itself in the audiosphere, inspiring numerous covers, including one from the Foo Fighters (!), which Prince ungraciously opposed, even refusing the band’s request to release their version. Shame on you, Prince Rogers Nelson. Are you trying to scare off Miss Nikki’s other admirers? We all heard you screaming in desperation after she left you alone in the sheets, “Come back, Nikki, come back!” Best crawl on back to Paisley Park ... Darling Nikki’s grindin’ without U.

Terrence Butcher

“When Doves Cry”

On an old cassette tape from my youth, wedged in between “St. Elmo’s Fire (Man in Motion)”, random interludes of my weird, nine-year-old ramblings, and three different versions of Huey Lewis’ “The Power of Love”, is arguably Prince’s greatest song he ever wrote.

“When Doves Cry” was a last-minute addition to his Purple Rain soundtrack album and was single-handedly written and recorded by the Artist Not Yet Formerly Known as Prince. According to Rolling Stone magazine, he supposedly told an engineer at the time, “Nobody would have the balls to do this. You just wait—they’ll be freaking.” And, of course, everyone did (freak that is). Unfortunately, not everyone did the same when it came to his semi-autobiographical movie.

In the long run, the album proved to be much more successful than the actual film. From July 7th to August 4th 1984, the song reined number one on the American music charts and Billboard named it the number one single of 1984. Since then, “When Doves Cry” has been hailed as one of the greatest songs of all time by various music magazines, as well as by MTV and VHI.

The iconic intro to the song—a dizzying electric guitar solo followed by a very computer-generated drum machine loop—still makes me want to wear a skin-tight, crushed velvet body suit with a white ruffled silk shirt and play air guitar. Although musically a bit dated, the lyrics are full of universal truths; of how we are sometimes a reflection of our parents—in our relationships, in our careers—and how we need to break away from them, to become our own person.

How can you just leave me standing
Alone in a world so cold?
Maybe I’m just too demanding
Maybe I’m just like my father, too bold
Maybe you’re just like my mother
She’s never satisfied
Why do we scream at each other?
This is what it sounds like when doves cry

It’s been said through the years that the song and the video evoke the theme of religion—most likely due to the white doves flying around in a church in the video. A staple on MTV in 1984, the video is difficult to take seriously (like most anything from that era) now. I wonder if Face-Off director John Woo got his inspiration for his whole dove motif from this video. What, with a naked Prince crawling out of bathtub around on the floor, his renaissance fair-style jumpsuit, and scenes of him driving that huge motorcycle cruiser from the film, it’s better to just listen to the song via MP3. At the time, it was considered controversial among studio execs who thought the video’s sexual nature was too much for television audiences to take. Some 25 years later, it’s nothing compared to what they show now.

Many artists have covered what is now considered to be Prince’s career-defining song, including Canadian folk/country band The Be Good Tanyas, southern rock/jam band Gov’t Mule, R&B singer Ginuwine and Irish troubadour Damien Rice. Other alternative versions have appeared in films such as the 1996 Leonardo DiCaprio/Claire Danes version of Romeo + Juliet and in the 2003 Sofia Cappola comedy/drama Lost in Translation.

Listening to that old blank tape now, I laugh at myself at how bad the sound quality is and the awkwardness of my recording method back then—holding that large box of a tape recorder up to the TV to catch those songs as the videos started—thank goodness for the Internet. It’s been 25 years, and many of those songs from the 1980s just don’t translate well now. “When Doves Cry”, however, is an exception. As Milhouse so cleverly put it in the “Lemon of Troy” episode of The Simpsons when he confronts another boy with the exact same name: “I guess this is what it feels like when doves cry.”

Charlie Moss

“I Would Die 4 U”

“I’m not a woman, I’m not a man / I am something that you’ll never understand”

The stunning opening lines of “I Would Die 4 U” encapsulate as best as anything what it was that was so alluring, dangerous, mystifying and thrilling about Prince, circa 1984. Forget about the unmistakable spiritual implications of the song itself (we will get to that in a minute): this was an introduction to a figure as alien and sexually ambiguous as any pop culture iconoclast since Ziggy Stardust. Undoubtedly, for a time, it was the latter that troubled not only many a parent about Prince, but perhaps also unnerved an even higher number of insecure males unsure of whether it was okay to actually like this freak, motorcycle and harem of beautiful women or not. It was not that Prince was obviously or even possibly gay (he had already addressed that conundrum, however evasively, years earlier in the song “Controversy”), it was that his brand of carnality always had him unshakably poised in the role of the mysterious, Dracula-like aggressor. We, which is to say all of us who bought a ticket or spun the record, were vulnerable to his hypnotic spell.

If anything, “I Would Die 4 U” proves just how impossible that spell was to resist. Gliding in on a shimmering wave of a simple but irresistible keyboard melody and itchy percussion throb, the song is simultaneously majestic and intimate, a series of comforting promises written in the sky: “You’re just a sinner, I am told / Be your fire when you are cold / Make you happy when you’re sad / Make you good when you are bad”. That the song is cloaked in the guise of a pop love song, that elemental and broadly unspecific form that has served generations of pin-up heroes from the Beatles to the Jonas Brothers up to legions of squealing fans, highlights its singular brilliance as both a formal composition and a sly subversion of the same. Taken simply as a pop love song it is exemplary, but listen to what it says about the relationship between larger-than-life rock star and adoring fan: “No need to worry / No need to cry / I’m you’re messiah, and you’re the reason why.” Any hint of vulnerability in Prince’s words—indeed, in the title itself—is a ruse. He is our savior, seducer and pop idol all at once.

Because few rock stars ever explored the dimensions of their faith with as much conviction as Prince, the song’s conceit of placing him in the literal role of Christ (“I’m not a human, I’m a dove / I’m your conscious / I am love / All I really need is to know that you believe”) successfully mutes any blanket accusations of sacrilege. Rather, the song is an expression of the defining tension at the heart of rock and roll, the struggle between the spiritual and the sexual. It is a duality that perhaps no other popular figure of the last thirty years, not even Madonna in all of her insistent provocation, has addressed with as much illuminating depth and fire as Prince. “I Would Die 4 U” is the ultimate act of self-mythologizing, placed in the midst of an album that successfully crafted and launched upon the world the legend of it’s own enigmatic creator. Here, as in so much of Prince’s classic work, the Christian savior and the glamorous rock star are one and the same.

Jer Fairall

“Baby I’m a Star”

If “I Would Die 4 U” was Purple Rain‘s spiritually anguished yin, then “Baby I’m a Star” was its cocky, narcissistic yang. As the former seamlessly bleeds into the latter with a big organ swell, Prince kicked the religious allegories and latent born-again-isms to the curb in favor of just having a good time in this already fallen world. No one’s going to get in his way or tell him that he’s a nobody because, as far as he’s concerned, he’s already a star.

The truth is that no one was disputing Prince’s purple majesty in 1984. With Purple Rain, he had a hugely successful album and a blockbuster movie; at one point during the year he simultaneously held the spots for #1 single, #1 album and #1 film in the U.S. So when he hollered, “Baby I’m a Star,” it wasn’t a delusion of grandeur—it was the gospel truth. But when Prince first penned his overweening ode to pop stardom, his celebrity status was not quite cemented.

Originally composed and recorded in 1982 during his prolific 1999 sessions, “Baby I’m a Star” found the 24-year-old musician on the precipice of superstardom — and this song seemed to anticipate his success. Propelled by a danceable, hard-to-deny Linn drum machine pattern and punctuated by Prince’s signature keyboards-as-horns, the song’s self-assertive speed and cocksure chorus was the biggest slice of rock and roll hubris this side of Rod Stewart’s “Do You Think I’m Sexy.” Just check out the brazen chorus: “Oh baby, I’m a star! / Might not know it now / Baby, but I are, I’m a star! / I don’t wanna stop, till I reach the top.”

His eyes on the prize, Prince was destined, if not downright overconfident, to achieve greatness. Lines like “Hey, check it all out / Baby, I know what it’s all about” and “Everybody say nothin’ come 2 easy / But when U got it, baby, nothin’ come 2 hard” only supported that swagger. By the time “Baby I’m a Star” appeared on Purple Rain, Prince had assuredly reached the top and lyrics like “Hey, I ain’t got no money / But honey, I’m rich on personality” just seemed laughably awesome.

The version that ended up on the album—and as a B-side on the “Take Me With U” single—was recorded live with the Revolution at the Minneapolis club First Avenue in 1983. The performance marked the debut of guitarist Wendy Melvoin. Prince reworked the song in the studio, keeping the audience clamor and applause and adding assorted effects and overdubs — most notably the faux string enhancements and the nebulous backmasking in the beginning that rips his critics: “Like what the fuck do they know? / All their taste is in their mouth / Really, what the fuck do they know? / Come on, baby. Let’s go crazy!” More than any other song on Purple Rain, “Baby I’m a Star” documents the unbridled energy and graceful sleaziness that was Prince live. If you listen close enough, you can hear purple chiffon and pelvic thrusts under all the come-ons.

Jeremy Ohmes

“Purple Rain”

“Remember when we was young, everybody used to have those arguments about who’s better, Michael Jackson or Prince? Prince won!”

With this quote, the great Chris Rock comes down firmly on the side of Prince Rogers Nelson in the battle of pop icons. But in 1983, the answer wasn’t so obvious. Michael Jackson was in the midst of Thriller-induced megastardom. Then, the summer of 1984 came along and with it, the pop culture ubiquity of Prince. He even captured two titles Michael Jackson never could: Movie Star and Rock Star. And no other song cemented his mythical status like that of the title track to a movie, an album and an era—“Purple Rain”.

Recorded live at First Avenue, the Minneapolis club that hosted the Revolution vs. Time throwdowns in the movie, “Purple Rain” starts off simply enough. Technically an exploration of harmony in ballad format, it’s really just a man and his guitar, sounding lonely on purpose. The song has places to go—and go, it does. From resignation to urgency over an epic eight minutes and forty-five seconds—like gospel on rock & roll steroids. Prince builds emotion with his classic vocal take and busts the song in half with a ringing guitar solo, from which “Rain” intensifies with organs, cymbals and pleading. Finally, the song settles as piano and strings linger like sparks trailing the fireworks.

Lyrically, the question that endures 25 years later can be summed up thusly: what the hell is he talking about? Is it an allusion to the “Purple Haze” of his idol Jimi Hendrix? A lyrical rip from America’s “Ventura Highway”? Is he just really into purple? Regardless, Prince deduced the great secret of mass acceptance by keeping the lyrics decidedly elliptical. He never explains this fantastical “purple rain” or why it’s got him so morose at the start. On one listening level, ignorance is bliss so just sing along. But if you delve deeper, more questions arrive than answers.

In Thailand, the color purple represents mourning and Prince is certainly lamenting the end of a relationship through the first half of the song (“It’s such a shame our friendship had 2 end”). He seems the Prince of the Purple Heart, wounded in battle. As the song structure opens skyward, the lyrics reflect the change by discussing a larger relationship, that of a “leader” that will “guide” his prospects. Purple seems to take on the connotation of ultimate royalty—the King of Kings. Does Prince have a God complex? In one sense, he could be setting himself up as the Creator of this relationship. He “only wants to see you underneath the purple rain.” Kind of a poetic way of saying, “my way or the highway”. Or perhaps he’s contemplating his relationship with his Maker. Rain falls from the heavens after all. This reading seems a better fit for the spiritual transcendence reflected in the music.

The definitive answer never comes though, and the song is all the better for it. In the end, that sense of mystery keeps the track universal. There’s something bigger at work within “Purple Rain”, the holiest of rock anthems.

Tim Slowikowski

Something Wrong with the Machinery: Prince’s Pop Paradox

By Jason Buel

Back in my high school days, I played drums in a four-piece blues-rock band called the Royals. We were completely unoriginal, decent on good nights, and completely inconsequential even in the context of our local music scene. Our lead singer thought he was Robert Plant, our bassist wanted to be Trent Reznor, our guitarist saw himself as a sort of Kirk Hammett in training, and I wanted to be Carter Beauford. Given our disparate influences, we were rarely able to find songs that we could all be excited about. One such song, though, was Prince’s “Computer Blue”. We arranged it as best we could for guitar, bass, drums, and vocals and even spent a rehearsal trying to get some of the choreography down.

One of our few shows was at a battle of the bands in an elementary school gymnasium in Ashe County, North Carolina (shockingly, the directions to the venue included “bear right at Mulatto Mountain Road"). Tensions had been strained within the band for quite some time and our guitarist and I decided that this show would be our last with the group. Instead of quitting outright, though, we decided we would make every effort to get ourselves kicked out instead. As part of this effort, we decided on stage outfits certain to cause trouble with the lead singer—a girl’s cheerleading outfit for him and a pink mini-skirt with a two-sizes-too-small KISS tank top for me (for the record, playing drums in a skirt is not something I would recommend). We wore normal street clothes over the outfits and changed as the curtain was going up at the beginning of our set. Our singer looked like he’d seen a ghost as I counted off the first song.

Unbeknownst to us, all of the other bands set to perform at the event played some subgenre of metal (none of which I could discern). The surprisingly large crowd that showed up was, accordingly, largely comprised of metal-heads and goths. Most of the crowd seemed to stare blankly at us through most of the set. Then, we launched into our last song: “Computer Blue,” complete with Wendy and Lisa’s spoken-word vocals. The first few notes prompted an uproar from the small portion of the audience that was familiar with the song. After finishing with his relatively short part, our lead singer left the stage. At this point, several people were dancing and seemed to actually be enjoying themselves. We went on to win the battle, and it certainly wasn’t off the strength of our original material (and we didn’t make any money, so if Prince happens to read this and sue, he’ll only be getting a share of the bragging rights).

Of course, many other bands have covered Prince as well, and the artists that have chosen to play his music reflect his wide and multi-faceted audience. Prince songs have been covered by pop stars like Tina Turner and Sinead O’Connor (whose rendition of “Nothing Compares 2 U” effectively launched her into the pop stratosphere). The short-lived band Hindu Love Gods (essentially R.E.M. with Warren Zevon singing instead of Michael Stipe) had their only hit with a cover of “Raspberry Beret.” Prince’s songs have also been covered in a more tongue-in-cheek manner by artists like Phish and Ween. Of course, his songs have also been played by people with no taste or talent whatsoever, as Limp Bizkit proved with their version of “1999” on an MTV New Year’s Eve special.

What is it about Prince that appeals to so many diverse groups of people? It goes without saying that he is a talented musician and entertaining personality. His popularity may be aided by the fact that he represents the blended nature of pop culture. He is biracial, perhaps black enough to produce convincingly soulful and funky music and white enough to seem marketable to mass audiences. He makes a game of breaking gender barriers, appearing highly effeminate and (during the guitar solo of “Computer Blue,” for example) overtly masculine and dominant in his sexuality. The symbol he used to replace his name even incorporates aspects of both the traditional male and female symbols. Prince does more than sell millions of records and appeal to traditional pop audiences and therein lies the problem: he is at once a critically-acclaimed megastar and a campy figure with semi-ironic appeal. Such “camp” status usually only applies to pop figures whose careers have long since peaked or who were never quite stars to begin with.

Neither of these is the case for Prince, though. He is still quite popular (2004’s Musicology went double-platinum) and prolific (he has released four studio albums in the last five years). One might argue that some groups see him as a campy figure while others see him as a legitimate pop artist. This may well be the case for a figure like Michael Jackson, but Jackson’s career peaked long ago and much of his camp appeal (which has more to do with his public persona than any work he’s actually produced) has developed since the end of his career. Prince, however, is not only seen in these two different lights at the same time but often by the same groups of people.

Perhaps his ability to embody these two opposing pop culture archetypes has less to do with him and more to do with the mediums he has worked in. It’s hard to argue with the quality of Prince’s music: while it may not suit one’s personal tastes, Prince’s music is solid pop that has been wildly popular with audiences over a long period of time (unlike flash-in-the-pan and/or highly derivative pop acts like the boy bands of the late ‘90s). On the other hand, it would be difficult to argue that his films have much cinematic merit beyond the music: the acting is atrocious, the plots are illogical (when present at all), and the style is often intrusive and trumps the substance. Hammy acting, nonsensical storylines, and heavy-handed style, however, are hallmarks of many “cult classic” films. Perhaps, then, Prince’s seemingly conflicting iconic roles come from the medium through which they were developed: his music has established him as a major pop artist, and his movies have established him as a camp figure, complemented by his flare for theatrics and his eccentric off-stage/off-screen persona (this may be the same sort of effect we see with pop figures like David Bowie, but is distinctly different from that of, say, David Hasselhoff, whose music lacks that degree of artistic merit).

My band agreed to “take a break” after that show and, following an attempted rehearsal a month later, went for a long time without talking. We received a great deal of favorable feedback following our performance (not counting the one redneck that called us “fags"). One audience member even said (several times, without a hint of irony) that we had “balls” for dressing as we did and playing a Prince song to such a crowd. Recently, I’ve started playing in a new band with my old guitarist. After our first show, we were asked if we still played “Computer Blue.” We don’t, but given the song’s legacy among our very small group of fans, it’s only a matter of time. I’m not quite sure exactly what it is that makes Prince so appealing or why our version of “Computer Blue” has been so (relatively) successful. At the end of the day, no matter the reason, the Purple One reigns supreme—and it’s “game: blouses” indeed.

Sadly, “Computer Blue” remains the obvious dysfunction in this otherwise solid family unit.

Bill Gibron




What!!??
He's crazy! Computer Blue is one of the highlights

Sadly, “Computer Blue” remains the obvious dysfunction in this otherwise solid family unit.

Bill Gibron




What!!??
He's crazy! Computer Blue is one of the highlights

Too bad they kick it off by misquoting the movie/song.

I really feel sorry for you youngsters who missed this in 1984.

We were in a recession period as bad as this one now and things like going to movies and music really ment more then than they do now. Prince DOMINATED the music scene with the album and the movie experence was cult like. My grandmother and great aunts saw Purple Rain in the theaters and they were in their 60's and they loved it. The movie was transendent of age,sex,race,etc.

You just don't have anyone out there now that could do what Prince (or for that matter MJ,Madonna,or Springstein) did in 1984.

mostbeautifulboy said:

Computer Blue and to a lesser degree Take Me With U are easy targets to criticize from the LP. CB is oddly arranged and seemingly simplistic lyrically, so it's not a wonder that casual listeners may dismiss it. The reviewer strikes me as a casual listener that did a little research on the songs history.

I'm with you though, 25 years later Computer Blue is a highlight. Although, it didn't jump out at me when I first heard the album.

I really feel sorry for you youngsters who missed this in 1984.

We were in a recession period as bad as this one now and things like going to movies and music really ment more then than they do now. Prince DOMINATED the music scene with the album and the movie experence was cult like. My grandmother and great aunts saw Purple Rain in the theaters and they were in their 60's and they loved it. The movie was transendent of age,sex,race,etc.

You just don't have anyone out there now that could do what Prince (or for that matter MJ,Madonna,or Springstein) did in 1984.

Genesia said:

Now that IS funny shit to the person who wrote the colum

mostbeautifulboy said:

co-sign

Loved this examination of the album....Loved it

this music changed my life...

http://www.popmatters.com/pm/special/section/lets-go-crazy-celebrating-25-years-of-purple-rain/

Pretty cool - check it out!!!

The Importance of Being Morris: Fop vs. Fop and Duality in Purple Rain

By Lana Cooper

When one thinks of deep, philosophical thought-provoking films, Purple Rain hardly springs to mind. On the surface, it all seems very superficial: the high-gloss patina of its music video-inspired cinematography, the glorious costumes and coiffures epitomizing the height of Minneapolis club life circa 1984, etc. It all seems like a self-serving display of pomp and circumstance as concocted by Prince in this semi-autobiographical tale to showcase his ample talents.

Beneath the surface, however, there is much more at work than just the dazzling array of images put forth and set to song in Purple Rain. The soundtrack itself covers a wide variety of territory from telling a simple story ("Darling Nikki”, “The Beautiful Ones"), to balls-out swagger ("Baby, I’m a Star"), to layers of meaning hidden beneath a veil of cryptic (and curiously colorful) lyrics ("Computer Blue”, “Purple Rain"). All of these emotions and aspects of the human condition conveyed in the film colors Purple Rain as something of a morality play for the ‘80s, albeit morality shown in shades of grey ... or purple.

The film’s main protagonist played by Prince, known simply as “The Kid”, isn’t your traditional hero. There are aspects about his persona that are simultaneously endearing and hard to take. On one hand, he’s charismatic, talented, and charming. On the other, he’s selfish, insecure, and overly-controlling. As the song, “When Doves Cry” elaborates, The Kid may be—like his father—“too demanding” and “too bold”. Much of The Kid’s positive and negative traits mirror those of his father, a former Minneapolis scene musician known as Francis L. (Clarence Williams III) who had squandered his talent through his own arrogance. In turn, Francis takes his frustration out on his long-suffering wife, The Kid’s mother (also a former singer/musician who came under her husband’s influence), a frequent victim of her husband’s domestic abuse.

On a personal level, The Kid battles with himself, trying to stave off the influence of his home life. He continually comes to his mother’s defense when his father argues with and beats her, often throwing himself into harm’s way. Yet, at the same time, The Kid thinks nothing of cracking his girlfriend, Apollonia, five across the eyes whenever she defies The Kid’s wishes and attempts to further her own musical career.

On a professional level, The Kid is constantly at odds with himself in attempting to achieve greater fame. Already famous on the club scene he dominates, The Kid is one of the big fish in the pond and may want to take it his band, The Revolution, to a bigger, national stage. Again, he may be his own worst enemy. His arrogance and dictatorial nature alienate him from his well-intentioned bandmates from whom he demands sycophantic devotion without valuing their individual contributions. As a result, The Kid ends up breeding resentment, hurt, and invalidated feelings among his friends in The Revolution.

The concept of “man vs. himself” is an intriguing one, but for dramatic and film purposes—particularly a stylistically shot, rapid jump-cut laden film like Purple Rain—inner turmoil and self-destruction alone just don’t cut it.

In order to have a true morality play, you need a villain to serve as the hero’s foil. The Kid is something of a petulant brat (although much deeper issues are at work for this defense mechanism) with an overabundance of self-confidence. In order to make The Kid a more palatable hero, Purple Rain needs a villain, a physical opposing force to bring forth the hero’s good qualities.

That’s where Morris Day comes in.

The character of Morris offers a sharp contrast to The Kid, yet mirrors many of the same traits. Both are charismatic and talented, yet incredibly vain and arrogant. They battle for the same girl and battle for domination of the same club on the same Minneapolis scene. They’re cut from the same cloth with the same passions, but view the world in different ways.

The two characters share a similar trait of narcissism. They’re both a pair of preening pricks, yet extremely likeable in spite of themselves. The Kid may know that he could have any woman in the club that he wants by either slyly smiling at them or playing it icily cool, but Morris makes a blatant display of his vanity—going so far as to incorporate it into The Time’s stage show. His friend/attendant/minion, Jerome, funkily prances onto the stage during their set to offer Morris his gilded mirror, prompting him to bust out a comb and style his pompadour for the crowd.

Offstage, Morris blatantly propositions numerous women before openly insulting them with hilarious put-downs. In a scene played for humorous effect and as an insight into Morris’ character, he thinks nothing of sicking Jerome on one of his cast-offs who appears seemingly out of nowhere to berate him. Morris responds in kind by having Jerome dispose of the loud-mouthed lady in the nearest dumpster, deadpanning his disapproval with the inimitable line: “Lord! Such nastiness.”

In the opening moments of the film, The Kid is shown in full regalia, studiously applying his eye makeup without so much as a smile. By contrast, Morris is shown wearing a rather plebian tank top, head rag, and boxers while vacuuming his pad. Even while going about humdrum chores, Morris is giddily eyeing up his neatly-pressed club suit hanging on the door, posing with it on the hanger in front of him in the mirror and cackling to himself at what prospects may come as he’s wearing it that night. His appearance is nearly cartoonish and you can almost see him twirling an invisible Snidely Whiplash mustache marking him as Purple Rain‘s villain.

Morris Day ‘s comedic timing (particularly in his scenes with the equally good Jerome Benton) is genius. Together, the duo provide much of the film’s humor, and making Purple Rain entertaining on numerous levels.

Pegged as a natural by the acting coach brought in to coax better performances from the cast of acting amateurs, Day adds a jolt of comic relief to an otherwise dry film rampant with wooden acting. Morris is total camp and plays it to the hilt! He exudes a take-no-prisoners joie de vivre and imbues even the most mundane line with character. ("You should see my home. It’s ... so exciting!") While there’s something comical about Morris doing his housework in his skivvies (which begs the question, where was Jerome and why wasn’t he vacuuming!?), in spite of his clownish exterior, Morris is not inept, nor is he one-dimensional.

Although they share the same passion for music and performing, the contrast between the protagonist and antagonist’s bands speaks volumes about their respective frontmen. The Time’s music in Purple Rain is all about dancing, partying, and the superficial. Dissimilarly, The Revolution’s music is much more introspective and personal. (This personal, possibly self-cathartic aspect of The Kid’s music may corroborate his hesitancy to relinquish songwriting duties to his bandmates, Wendy and Lisa, who continually offer him their material.)

But wait a minute ... can we get back to the clothes (because you know Morris would certainly want to!)?

Fashion was a big part of Purple Rain’s influence, but it also sharply defined the characters in the film. Let’s face it. Both The Kid and Morris are 80s neo-fops. They both possess feminine attributes in spite of their undeniable virility. The Kid sports a mixture of modern, Edwardian, Louis XIV style, defining his character as both regal, yet fragile. On the flipside, Morris rocks the flashy, 30s gangster-style suits and matching Stacy Adams shoes. When we’re introduced to them in the film, Morris wears a gold lamé and zebra print suit, draped in a long, white coat cashmere coat (which we later find out costs $400). The Kid is shown wearing his white, ruffled shirt and purple satin Edwardian jacket. Intentional or not, there may be some sartorial symbolism at play pitting Morris’ golden, worldly royalty against The Kid’s spiritually regal purple. If the clothes make the man, the message they send is one of The Kid’s music coming from a pure place—doing it for the music as opposed to the money. As evidenced by his frequent primping in front of the mirror and ostentatious displays on-stage and off, Morris has much more in mind than just his art.

Sure, he loves to have a good time and spends the duration of Purple Rain in the pursuit of women and cash, but whereas The Kid is merely selfish, Morris is calculating.

Business remains business and is separate from Morris’ performance onstage. Conversely, The Kid uses his pulpit to hurl thinly veiled insults in the form of songs directed at those in his life. He is passive-aggressive, where Morris, by contrast, leaves his personal business out of his music, preferring face-to-face confrontations off-stage.

Along with his trusted friend/attendant, Jerome, he plots to knock The Kid from the top of the club scene. Morris E. Day does not like to share the limelight. He talks in the ear of club owner, Billie, planting the seed that The Kid isn’t pulling in crowds like he used to. Rather than appeal to any emotional level, Morris operates purely from a business standpoint to make his case. By that token, he isn’t really malicious in his intent – just Machiavellian. In fact, there’s a sort of joyful glee about Morris when he’s outlining his unscrupulous plans and giggling to himself and with Jerome. He’s unabashedly materialistic and derives pleasure from business, as well as his artistic pursuits.

He also makes pleasure his business when he attempts to wrest The Kid’s girlfriend, Apollonia from him. It’s not so much that he desperately wants Apollonia: she’s just another conquest and another potential notch on the bedpost. He uses her ambition and goals to further his own agenda. She’s a pawn with possible “benefits” in Morris’ attempt to demoralize The Kid and get him out of the picture. By corrupting his already tumultuous relationship with the one person he can truly claim as his, Morris disrupts The Kid’s precarious sense of balance.

In order to chip away at The Kid’s relationship, Morris plays the charming devil by dangling a star spot in the all-girl group he’s formed in front of Apollonia. Notably, at one point during the film, she tells him “Your horns are showing, Morris.” This further touts his status as the designated villain in this musical morality play. With his mirror and manservant in tow, Morris Day (the character, not the actor playing the role of the same name) embodies the venial sins of greed, lust, and vanity.

Ah! Vanity! More than just the Prince-given name of his one-time muse, Denise Matthews; it’s a key component of Purple Rain, as are some of the other seven deadly sins. It wouldn’t be unreasonable to believe that even during his Purple period, Prince had a strong sense of polarizing forces of light and darkness as evidenced by his later work and spiritual epiphany.

This sentiment and Prince’s conversion was further underscored in Purple Rain‘s unofficial sequel, 1990’s Graffiti Bridge. Following an epiphany in 1988 surrounding his Black Album which was yanked after a limited run of 500,000 copies by Prince himself who believed the album to be “evil”, Prince’s music took on a much different direction. While still somewhat sexual in nature, he much more favored hymns of praise than odes to girls “in a hotel lobby / masturbating with a magazine”.

Graffiti Bridge, like its predecessor Purple Rain, was an album that was also an accompanying soundtrack to a Prince-crafted concept. This time around, Albert Magnoli’s slick, visual direction was replaced with Prince at the helm in addition to screenwriting and acting duties within the film.

In its original incarnation, Graffiti Bridge was to shed more light on Morris and The Time. Although it’s not nearly as cohesive (or coherent, at times) a film as Purple Rain, Graffiti Bridge picks up where Rain left off. While present in Purple Rain the concept of duality as it pertains to Morris and The Kid is amped up even further. The film’s narrator notes that “Two souls fight. One wants money. One wants light.”

Setting the plot in motion, club owner Billie passes away and leaves his empire to both Morris and The Kid. In the years elapsed, The Kid has found himself to be somewhat more spiritually grounded, although still struggling with his inner demons. As he writes in letters to his now-deceased father, “Sometimes I feel cursed to make the same mistakes you made.” Morris, on the other hand, has given in completely to his darker, more “business-like” side. He doesn’t see the value of The Kid’s more uplifting, spiritual direction to his music and sees him as bringing down the club’s profit margin. He retreads over familiar territory by trying to gain complete ownership of their shared scene. Morris’ symbolic vilification is further underscored in a musical sequence in which he’s singing and dancing surrounded by fire (it couldn’t be more obvious than if he was given a pitchfork and a tail!).

The film reneges on its promise to flesh out Morris’ back story. Very little is revealed of his perspective except that in a telling line, he mentions that his “family never had anything and I intend to keep what I got.” Like The Kid, his upbringing and family colors who he has become and what he values. He cryptically alludes to having taken in The Kid and given him money and guidance years ago.

As both films allude, “deep down, there’s good in Morris.” Since not much is ever explicitly revealed about the character, one can only assume that Morris values not only discipline, but loyalty, exhibiting both in his personal and business relationships. As evidenced in both films, he treats Jerome as more of an equal than The Kid (initially) treats Wendy, Lisa, and the rest of his band, The Revolution (who are all gone and replaced with a new crew by the time Graffiti Bridge rolls around, while Morris’ group remains somewhat intact).

In the end of both films, tragedy that befalls the scene brings about a rare show of emotion from Morris, ultimately finding him redeemed by the transformative power of music. He may value “the finer things” and take pleasure in asserting his authority, but he does value friendship and human life. It just takes a bit more to awaken this aspect of Morris’ persona, buried beneath his own defense mechanisms and drive for success. Playing off of these brief glimpses into the character’s soul, Morris isn’t without a heart. It’s there, he just does not wear it on his sleeve as The Kid does (after all, it might clash with his Stacy Adams shoes!).

Punk’s Purple Passion

By Bill Gibron

Punks loved Prince.

We really did. Sure, we were a minor blip on the Tallahassee cultural scene, barely a brazen clove cigarette among the Molly Hatchet chew and chaw of Northern Florida life, but we prided ourselves on being more open to all musical experiences, much more than our Confederate Flag-waving brethren. If the Clash taught us anything besides the what it was like to be a “White Man in the Hammersmith Palaise”, it was that reggae was as important to pure rock revivalism as the Ramones’ three chord thrash. Ska took it one step further, the pork pie hats and razor ties doing little to hide the obvious connection between soul and the syncopation of hardcore. Sure, our Mohawks and weird waxed hairdos stuck out as much as the torn T-shirts with “Cash from Chaos” spray painted on the front, but college is often the time where one finds themselves, and in this case, the ever-expanding horizon of alternative music was the rebellious path we choose.

Many of us worked for WFSU radio, the public station that allowed for free format shows five days a week (it was all classical during the weekends). Some of us were lucky to man the “main drive: shifts. Others pulled the all night insanity of midnight to six in the morning. Together we formed a band of like minded maniacs who thought—rightfully or wrongfully—that we could take a bunch of backwater listeners and instill in them an appreciation of all things Jam, Damned, and Sex Pistols. Our station manager, a graduate student with a wispy beard and a penchant for old school Pink Floyd, used to scold us for sneaking in songs with naughty words, and warned us against straying too far from the always pliable programming playlists. Still, we had a great deal of choice in what we championed, and as callers clamored for AC/DC and Lynyrd Skynyrd, we blasted the latest from Television, Talking Heads, and the occasional cut from an up and coming unknown (like this one Irish band called U2 ...).

And Prince. As I said before, we loved Prince. He was racy and provocative, enigmatic and ever-so spiritual. His androgynous look reminded us of the growing New Romantic movement sweeping the UK, while the combo platter personality of his albums (funk one moment, followed by a ballad, accented by a balls-out rocker) reflected our melting pot musical mentality. Besides, he was a genius, and at the time, an unappreciated one at that. We would drag out Controversy during a typical day’s selections and the audience would usually revolt in a “what is this shit” sort of response. There were the occasional calls of encouragement, and the manager loved that we could balance our shows with selections from artists “of color” (Black Uhuru and Bad Brains were also turntable constants). Still, it was odd to see a bunch of guys in bad hair and torn clothes coming together to enjoy a man whose music was clearly aimed at a decidedly different “urban” demographic.

That was especially true when Prince played Tallahassee in February of 1983 as part of his 1999 tour. When said record came out, a bunch of us got together in the studio and listened to it, track by track. We built up our favorites instantly, spinning “Little Red Corvette” and “Let’s Pretend We’re Married” before regular radio followed suit. We probed his back catalog, resurrected classics like “When U Were Mine” and “Head” from Dirty Mind. We marveled at the man’s range and sat silently as he worked his way through a heavy groove. As the later part of punk was teaching us, music didn’t have to sound like rage and fury exclusively. It could be strange and synthesized, danceable and deranged, and still rebel against the strictures of a staid social structure. So naturally Prince was one of our pied pipers, and the minute tickets went on sale, several of us took the leap.

That night, we got dressed in our best punk attire. Two members of the local band The Slut Boys suited in up their dirty shirts and torn jeans. A couple others put the plaster to their pate and came up with hairdos of stunning shock value. Yours truly? I did a bit of the spike thing, dragged out an old Residents’ “Santa Dog” T, and put on a faded Goodwill sports coat. After all, this was a big occasion. As we entered the Leon County Civic Center, it was clear who the minority would be this evening. Local couples, dressed up in attire both flashy and fine, starred gobsmacked at the group of weird white boys who had just invaded. Even better, our seats had us surrounded by men who meant to show their ladies a good time, not a bunch of crass college kids without a clue as to the proper way of going out for the evening.

As we joked and jousted, daring each other to dance to the ever-present soul streaming out of the PA, we realized our position as outsiders. But at the same time, there was no reason for concern from the “other” side, since we all had a similar frame of sonic reference. As things started to heat up and the lights finally went down, the three part epic that was the concert finally got underway. First, Vanity 6 did their scandalous sex thing. The Time soon followed with Morris Day winning over converts from all parts of the crowd (even us—What Time is It quickly became another mandatory record among the others in-studio). But when Prince appeared, decked out in the same blazing purple attire that would make the “1999” video so iconic (the stage was also the spitting image of said set-up), the music morphed, and the magic began.

From then on, there were no racial barriers. For the next two hours, there was no black or white. When he played “Controversy” we all sang in unison, feet stomping to the same beat, hearts feeling the same sense of electrified perfection. As a performer, Prince was magnificent, putting forth the kind of tour de force effort that would define him as a certified genius for decades to come. There were even spontaneous signs of togetherness, as when I and a member of the Slut Boys did The Bump with two striking African American girls during “D.M.S.R.”. When he finally left the stage after the last encore, audience and artist dripping with sweat, the lights came up. You could actually see the heat signature streaming across the crowd. We exchanged glances and handshakes (and a couple of hugs), and then headed out into the brisk night air.

A makeshift party soon started over at one of the gang’s house. We put on 1999 and spun around silly remembering the moments from the show. We sang along as Prince pouted over a certain “Lady Cab Driver” and began the equally important ritual of smoking pot. Beer flowed and everyone told stories of situations we all had experience, repeating them as if to make sure that we’d all confirm they actually happened. As the early morning hours crept toward sunrise, we finally split, each of us hoping to catch a few winks before school/work/life came calling again. Hours later, we were back at the station, heads filled with anecdotes that we just had to share with the rest of the staff. As a pointed postscript, someone put on “Ronnie Talk to Russia”. Later that night, the Slut Boys took their usual place on the Bullwinkle’s stage and, during their set, played an impromptu version of another Controversy special, “Jack U Off”.

Sure, today it all sounds so wistful and naïve. When you look back, the whole concept of skinheads against bigotry, suburban spoiled sports claiming their love of diversity by owning a couple of Rick James records hardly qualifies as equality. Even worse, the rift that developed when rap went “gansta” drove many a punk fan away from the wholly complementary genre. Apparently, they could tolerate boasting, “breaks,” and bleak looks at urban life, just as long as there were no gats or anti-women violence involved. At some point, Prince himself faded out of the conversation, his superstardom with Purple Rain acting like a spoiler to what was, for most Caucasians, a rather private party. Still, there was no denying that, at the precipice of his popularity, punks loved the fey Purple god. To us, he was a true trendsetter.

this music changed my life...

squirrelgrease said:

What a great job, sitting around writing about Prince and getting paid for it. Where do I sign up???

Too bad they kick it off by misquoting the movie/song.

One of the best things about P is how his music brings together people of all ages, races, social classes, genders. I really feel bad for those that weren't around in 80's to see how Prince brought together people of all types. I think back and many concerts and performers before him had a certain type of following- stoners, black audiences, white audiences, young middle class, male or female crowds, punks, college crowds... music that grew out of certain areas-Jersey, inner city of NY, gay clubs, chicago sound, etc. If you look at the history of music, different sounds/styles of music grew out of certain times and areas where there were one type of race and/or class of people. Prince did truly bring together the most diverse crowds I have ever scene assembled.

micknme said:

I agree. The scene at a prince show during the 80's was amazing, but even today the crowd is still very mixed, albeit a little older. I see a lot of young faces, but many of the fans have grown up and now have their family at the show. I can't wait myself...I have a little one on the way and I will be taking him or her to as many shows as her mom will let me.

XNY said:

Congrats!

Genesia said:

Too bad that's all you noticed.

squirrelgrease said:

Does anyone know what transpired between Prince and Albert Magnoli, aside from ego, that ended in Prince directing the film and not Magnoli? I've always wondered about this, and what the movie would have been like with Magnoli at the wheel.

XNY said:

Might have had real locations...actual drama... and been a decent sequel basically, instead of the MAD tv-esque thing they ended up with.

mostbeautifulboy said:

co-sign