Posted on Thu, Jun. 20, 2002

(Another) open letter to Prince
BY JIM WALSH
St. Paul Pioneer Press

Dear Prince,

I owe you a letter. Been a while. Two years, almost exactly,
since I wrote you on the eve of the first "Prince: A Celebration,"
and challenged you to make another great record. I asked, "What
are we celebrating?"

I asked. Remember? I do.

I remember plenty of things these days, these crazy scary
precious days, as you and your "fam" gear up for your latest
summer celebration, "Xenophobia."

I remember the first time I saw you in concert — at Sam's,
before it was First Avenue, the night before you went to Los
Angeles and got booed off the stage opening for the Rolling
Stones. It was 1981, nobody cared much about the Twin Cities,
the concept of regional music scenes had faded, and then along
you came with your garter belts and your Telecaster and your
dirty mind and all your nude ambition.

I remember "Pink Cashmere." "Alone One Night." "When Doves Cry."
"Sex in the Summer." "Take Me With U." "Manic Monday."
"Don't Play Me." "Girls and Boys." I remember
"Chloreen Bacon Skin," which everyone who thinks
I write about you too much should hear, because if
they haven't, then they haven't heard you, and they
are lucky if they are an iota this free or funky.

I remember the summer of "Purple Rain." I remember what
First Avenue's Chrissie Dunlap told me for an article I
did for SPIN on the Twin Cities scene: "It just exploded.
It was so alive. It was the center of everything. These
bands started getting national attention, and all of a
sudden we felt sort of important and like we mattered.
It was a novel thing for Minneapolis, because the coasts
had always been the cool places. I just felt terribly

proud of my bands and my club and my city. It was almost
a little magical."

I remember standing in front of your piano at Paisley Park
when you played "The Most Beautiful Girl in the World" for
the first time.

I remember standing in front of the stage in the old upper
annex of Glam Slam while you lay on your back, lost in a
20-minute blues jam. I remember many mornings, walking out
of Paisley Park with the birds chirping and the sun coming
up over Chanhassen. I remember driving home and searching for adjectives to describe what I'd just witnessed.

Things I don't remember: The gossip columnists, most of the
interviews I've read and/or conducted with you, almost all
your arena shows.

I remember where I was and the Uptown Girl I was with and
how our jaws dropped when we saw Gene Siskel and Roger Ebert
thumbs-up your first movie. I remember standing in front of
the stage at a gig by you and the "Sign o' the Times" band
at First Avenue. I remember seeing you and the Revolution
at First Avenue the week "Purple Rain" hit theaters and
record stores, and, damn right, I am bragging.

Everybody who has stories like those brags, because Chrissie
is right: Brother, you made us proud.

You blew our minds. You told the world about this beautiful
place you still call Uptown. You raised our spirits when
they were down, because the '80s were as much of a drag as
the '00s are getting to be. Politicians were talkin' loud
and saying nothing, and money was everything, and you
couldn't believe in anything, and there you were,
singing about what everyone was talking about.
Love, race, community, spirituality, sex.

I remember last Friday, when I took the bus to Walker Art Center's "Rock the Garden" festival. It was an idyllic night,
the sun was hanging low over the Cherry Spoon, which sprayed
a mist over the Sculpture Garden's lush green everything and
its multiculti citizens. The music was as delicious as the
people watching.

I walked home afterward, and thought about how much you would
have loved it. It reminded me of the utopia you've sung about
so often. Black, white, Puerto Rican, African- and Irish-American, everybody all a-freakin'.

I remember early mornings in the early '80s, working at D.B.
Kaplan's, a deli in Butler Square in downtown Minneapolis.
Most of the kids who worked there were musicians, poets, actors, writers, students. We sliced meat and cheese and waited tables and survived manic lunch rushes and talked about our parents, politics, futures.

Everybody was basically sleeping with everybody else and
listening to you. We remember "Controversy." "1999."
"When You Were Mine." "Purple Rain."

{{{I remember in those days how people from all over the world
would flock to First Avenue and have their pictures taken
in front of it, just as they will this week.}}} Friday night,
the lit-up red letters on the Orpheum Theatre marquee will scream "Prince," which is another way of screaming "possibility,"
which is why, at the moment, I've got a better question than the
one I asked two years ago: How could I forget?

http://www.twincities.com...501961.htm

well, I guess He better 4get the orpheum...
Jim, we'll C U at the park won't we ))

What a nice, well-written article/letter. It makes me wish I were in Minneapolis back in the early 80s, for real. It all seems like it was so inspiring and exciting. Man, I should have been born 15 years earlier.


[This message was edited Fri Jun 21 9:36:33 PDT 2002 by thescandalouslife]

Damn, i nearly shed a tear with emotion there
[This message was edited Fri Jun 21 9:46:35 PDT 2002 by cs97eeb]

nice, Jim. That's what it's all about: oneness and diggin the groove. Peace and 2 everyone visiting Mpls this week: ENJOY!!!

'beautiful'- this makes you realise just how much Prince has given ALL of us. We are , including myself , very critical of his output but only because he has raised the bar so damn high. So for what its worth thankyou Prince for giving me the soundtrack to my life so far.

"the soundtrack of my life" (javed): that is exactly what it is.
Dear javed, u put words on it ,thanks Lord above.

P&BW

Wow! That brought back some good memories. Outstanding Letter Jim.

Being in MPLS back in those days was a JOY!!!

What is "Alone One Night"??? If he means "One Night Alone" he's got a terribly short memory.

anyone have a copy of the first open letter they can print here?

I have the first letter but I'm not in the mood to type it out. I'm sure someone will find a link.

My turn,
I remember sitting in front of the big retro TV and watching When Doves Cry, watching the performances that no one to this day can top or match, you remember the video for Baby I'm A Star/I Would Die 4 U...it seemed like it lasted for ever, I was blown away several times over and over again.

I rmember, running with a friend to TRY to catch the last minute tickets announced on KDAY in Los Angeles for the Parade Hit and Run show at the WIltern and missing it! But watching a clip of it in the news and feeling the excitement!

I remember seeing Sign "O" The TImes movie and feeling FUNK had been taken to some other plane and place that I thought WHO could understand it? Who could understand how cool, funky, innovative this whole MPLS scene was. I couldn't sleep that night.

I remember alot of 90's run-ins at Glam Slam LA. Lot's of shows, sneaking in...having fun, staying up late and driving through Dowtown LA as the sun had risen also...

Ahhh...

Next year I'll be at the Celebration! Definetely.

mrchristian said:

Here is the best thing I have found so far:

http://www.prince.org/msg...1&pid=4542

what a beautifully sweet, heartfelt letter.

Remember in the Gold vide before Prince goes into the big solo there is a brief shot of a man smiling because of Prince's guitar solo. Was that Jim Walsh?

I assume that this is like an apology piece for that first letter he wrote.

He's genuinely looking forward to seeing him play this week.

Nice letter. Hey do you think Jim has an account here?? lol. He was always my idol as far as Prince fans go.

I can relate to the sentimentality of this letter, being around since '83.

I wish the negative "fans" would realize
that when the ride Prince has taken us on is TRULY over most won't have enough tears to express the sadness...

OHHH BABY IM A STAR !!!

origmnd said:

Whaaat?

Explain the TRULY over part...

Presumably the "TRULY" over is when he quits this mortal coil and all that...

would we "dig him better dead" or is that just too morbid ?

Speaking of which, didn't either Jam and/or Lewis (ex of the Time and Janet Jackson's producers) say that Prince has achieved so much in so many different styles that he'd only be properly appreciated when he was gone?

Which hopefully won't be for a really long time !!!

FlyingCloudPassenger said:

...

mrchristian said:

I have looked for it in the archives of pioneerpress.com and found it... but you have to pay read it!

lulirom said:

Ops! I missed one /to/...

lulirom said:

We have allways to do pay to do play!
[This message was edited Sun Jun 23 6:21:14 PDT 2002 by Arcamar]

FlyingCloudPassenger said:

when he stops via death , or stops touring or stops (if ever) recording

you mean it sin't truly over? I think it is at least mostly over isn't it?

bkw said:

I think so too. The first one was like "Prince, wtf's happening to you?"

mrchristian said:

I saved the last letter. So I'll just paste it here for those that want to read it:

***OLD LETTER***

Open letter to Prince: Best gift you can give is a great new record

JIM WALSH POP MUSIC CRITIC

Dear Prince,
Have I got that right? I hear that's what they're calling you these days, because that's what you've told them to call you. Great news; people who haven't been interested in you in years are suddenly interested again. Prince is back, and all that.

Well, remember me? I'm the guy who, for the past seven years, has called you The Artist Formerly Known as Prince, The Artist, TAFKAP and, once, Taffy. I'm the one who stuck up for you, who wrote all that glowing stuff in this newspaper and in the liner notes to your album ``The Gold Experience'' (I got paid exactly one dollar because I didn't want to go there with you), and now that we're on the cusp of your birthday Wednesday, and a sold-out weeklong party out at Paisley Park called ``Prince: A Celebration,'' I need to ask what, exactly, are we celebrating?

Are we celebrating the fact that you haven't made a great record, one that the entire world cared about, in years? That your live show has turned into a stale, predictable -- if phenomenally well-played, as always -- set of oldies and covers? That several lesser lights have made off with your crown because you've been distracted from the task at hand (making music that describes right now) by music industry-grousing, name changes, cryptic religious questions but no answers and hype over artistry?

Count me out, even though my party invitation seems to have been lost in the mail. I'm probably on your enemies list now, because I was only moved by a few songs off your last few records (``Rave Un2 The Joy Fantastic,'' ``New Power Soul'' and ``Crystal Ball''), and I wrote as much.

Then again, maybe you're not mad at me. Maybe it's just that you've moved on, and you're done with me. But I'm not done with you. I care too much, and your music has meant too much to me to stop caring now.

But there are plenty of people who don't care. Almost everyone I know thinks you're cooked. Don't you want to prove them wrong? Forget them, don't you want to surprise yourself? Don't you want to make one more record that nails it, that truly says something and feels innovative? Why don't you get really, truly, weird again -- as weird as the times demand -- and take us on another journey, not a flashback lunch?

Make no mistake, this is a challenge. I am writing to reach you. And it may be presumptuous for a lowly rock critic to attempt to tell one of the great artists of our time to wake up and smell the muse, but I happen to think that great artists are like great chefs: They've got all the skills and ingredients, but they don't know what we're hungry for if we don't tell them. And, given the state of mainstream music at the moment, I am starved.

So here's the deal: For your birthday, I want a gift. I don't want an interview, or a tour of Paisley Park, or the hem of your garment. I want a great record. What you do best. Something real. Something that blows these say-nothing boy bands and bimbos, divas and playas, out of the water once and for all. And in case you haven't noticed, we could use it because these are strange days, indeed. To wit:

Last Friday, I was sitting at the Loring Bar watching a pretty cool jazz outfit, Moveable Feast, and listening to DJ Wicked spin. Three of the four people I was with admitted that they walk around this town in fear of getting shot.

What is that? And why haven't we heard from you on it? Whatever happened to the guy who sang ``America'' and ``Sign o' the Times''? Where have you gone, Prince Rogers Nelson? A nation turns its lonely eyes to you.

Why don't you call up Paul Westerberg, another Minneapolis genius your age who is going through his own struggle with silence and relevance, a guy who I'd rather hear blow into two pop bottles on a boom box than most of the stuff that passes for ``rock'' these days, and do ``Ebony and Ivory'' for the double-oughts?

Where's your updating of ``Money Don't Matter 2night?,'' for this cash-obsessed nation? Do you have another ``Adore,'' the greatest love song the world doesn't know about, in you? Does another ``Race'' or ``Uptown'' percolate somewhere deep inside -- something that seeks to unite the melting pot even as it feels like it's about to boil over?

You wrote ``We Gets Up'' for Michael Jordan and the Chicago Bulls. How about one for Malik Sealy, and our heartbroken, wounded Wolves, that captures that specific sense of dread and fan-grief that nobody's been able to express with words? How about a grand epic about this technology grog, and how it both fragments and bonds us? Or what about something small, something we can all relate to, about marriage trouble or the death of a loved one?

We are waiting, have been waiting, for your contribution. Instead, we get more funk, joy in repetition, and something called ``Cybersingle.'' Which is fine. But heavens to Bootsy, we already know you're funky and computer-savvy and cutting-edge and all that. What we need are some songs that express what is in our hearts, minds, souls. Some greatness.

Maybe you're resting, or burned out, or in a fortysomething funk, waiting for the songs to come. I can relate. Been there. But you're the one who said, ``Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to get through this thing called life,'' and I feel like I'm going to need machetes to get through the next 10 years, so it'd be nice if you had my back along the way.

And if you're afraid that your best work is behind you -- and who could blame you if you did, after all the great stuff you've given the world? -- remember this: When they were in their early 40s, Elvis and John Coltrane were dead and Elton was coasting, but Bob Dylan made ``Infidels,'' Neil Young made ``Freedom,'' Marvin Gaye made ``Here, My Dear,'' Tom Waits made ``Bone Machine,'' Lou Reed made ``New York,'' John Lennon made ``Double Fantasy,'' Madonna made ``Ray of Light,'' Van Morrison made ``No Guru, No Method, No Teacher'' and Miles Davis made ``Bitches Brew.''
So do me a favor. Don't ignore this. When you perform at Northrop Auditorium next Tuesday, don't do an oldies show, which I already fear you're working up. Show us that you're paying attention. Seize the moment.

Do you have anything left to say? If not, get out of the way. Don't tease us, because it hurts too much. And don't pretend that you care, because if you cared the way Prince used to care, you'd go into your studio and pull an all-weeker, shake yourself up, throw out the formulas that got you (us) here, splash your canvas with all the desperation, ennui and hope of the age, and set the world on fire again.
May U live 2 see the dawn,

Jim