El Pais, november 25, 1999

"Rhythm and confusion", by Diego A. Manrique, Madrid



As everything related with his visit, the concert of Prince was a
hcapricious and madappening. A few years ago, the artist formerly known as
Prince is working as a sniper. He gives his recordings to one or another
big company -now is the turn of Arista, from the group BMG-, that pays
happily for the lux of counting (briefly) with his services, with the
unprobable dream of having his talent and address him again towards his
legitimate place in the First Division. And he organizes his tours
eliminating intermediates (managers, promoteres), with the goal of getting
hundred per cent of the money except costs. So his improvised Madrid
concert had a careful control system: apart of the usual searches for
weapons -that did not avoid the entering of sound and video recorders, or
photo cameras-, at the end there was a guy getting the tickets to be sure
that there was no disparity between the revenues and the number of people.
The public waited the three hours of delay with patience, although
sometimes an "affectionate" chant was organised, saying "mutherfucker,
mutherfucker...". Around half past midnight, the New Power Generation were
out. Two keyboardists, a drummer, a percussionist, three trumpets... and
Larry Graham, on bass and singing. During one hour, the concert became a
tribute to the multiracial group with which we learnt to love Graham: Sly
and the family Stone. We are many, those who believe that Prince has an
immense debt with the eclectic groups of Oakland and San Francisco, but
perhaps it was not necessary a rafitication so long.
That was a discharge a bit peculiar: Prince, almost unrecognizable, with
hair tails, emerged without rays nor thunders: he was using or not his
fantastic guitars, he was singing or dancing, he leaved each time he wanted
to. When his presence was not required, the keyboardists went up to the
reserved area to have their Red Bull and chat with the vips. In the higher
part of Aqualung, there was also the presence of the exhuberant wife of the
Artist, who invited Rosario Flores and Antonio Carmona (note: two well
known gipsy Spanish musicians) to go to scene, already crowed by a mass of
fans that moved following the unstoppable Mayte. The gipsys, obviously,
could just improvise some sentences: the hard funk dominated and there was
no place for crossbreeding.
The funky party ended in a celebration of Carlos Santana, a "Oye como va"
that the public sung loudly. An hour and a half after the begining of the
show, Prince decided to approach what attracted us: his own repertory.
There ware falling Let's go crazy, Kiss or Purple rain, in short and
dynamic versions. There, Rome was burning (note: this is a typical Spanish
expression to say that something really big was happening). Even the
waitresses were dancing behind the bar with fun. Prince and his powerful
band invocated the spirit of James Brown, and even the annoyed people that
before showed their thumbs down, ended dragged by such tidal wave of rythm.
The singer was already in communion with the crowed: he cried the obligated
sentences of "Are you happy?", or "Can I now go home?", between the
delirium of the people, was him or not in scene.
There were two hours fifteen of feverish music that ignored the content of
his appreciable new record, Rave un2 the joy fantastic. A Prince free and
with authority, forgetting the rituals of the show business and doing "lo
que le salia de la entrepierna" (sic; that's a quite vulgar way of saying
"doing exactly what he wanted"). Around 3 AM, the fans left Aqualung
bringing tour programs and t-shirts: the marketing was cheap (500 ptas the
item), in contrast with the 5.000 ptas of the ticket for the concert. And
the connoisseurs were ready to follow the artist and his people towards the
centric discotheque where it was expected that his particular party would
follow.

---

The Artist: Rave un2 the joy fantastic (four stars out of five).

The serious Prince, by Rafa Cervera



An unexpected surprise to change the millenium: The Artist removes the
bandage from the eyes, and changes the funk masses that ballasted his last
records for the hibrid that elevated to the glory his cousin Prince in the
eighties. Concession or charity, the good thing is that the spirit of the
big Prince is free between funk, rock guitars, omnipresent sex, electronic
rashes, soul, pop... The record includes even a version of Sheryl Crow, and
that means also that The Artist has to use somebody else's tricks, that he
already innovated all he could. But listen to him again in plenitude of his
royal abilities is a big pleasure.