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December 20, 1999



DON'T CALL IT A COMEBACK: The Artist's Rave Un2 the Joy Fantastic



by Rob Brookman



A year or so back, when not one title in John Updike's funny, ribald and
ultimately tragic "Rabbit" series managed to secure a slot on the Modern
Library's
much-discussed list of the 100 best works of 20th century English-language
fiction, I was perturbed. But I wasn't surprised.



I thought, and still think, that Updike's frantic publishing schedule has
somewhat
dimmed his reputation over the years, despite a catalog of work that's
arguably the
equal of stingier contemporaries like Pynchon or Bellow or Cheever. It's
not that
tough to see how it happened. Pynchon's a-novel-a-decade pace and reclusive
lifestyle make him mysterious and mythic, and therefore somehow more
"artistic"
Updike is in front of us every day, familiar, knowable and therefore maybe
a bit
more pedestrian.



It's all rubbish, of course. Updike's omnipresence sometimes in less than
classic
form can't, or shouldn't, subvert a body of quality work that has at times
nailed
aspects of the lived American experience as squarely and surefootedly as any
writing since Twain. Any artist generous and talented enough to provide
such an
embarrassment of riches certainly shouldn't be shunned for their munificence.



Needless to say, the capricious pop music community isn't any easier on its
workaholics than the world of letters. Elvis Costello, for example, pumped
out an
album a year for a decade, slowing his pace just in time to discover that
all but the
converted decided it was time to turn their attention elsewhere. Dylan
suffered a
similar fate, although he practically guaranteed those defections with a
decade's
worth of work that would've gotten anyone but a putative genius dropped from
his recording contract.



In the end, though, Dylan and Costello are both pikers next to the Artist
Formerly
Known As Prince (who, for the purposes of this essay, will continue to be
known
as Prince). Not only has the little guy pumped out albums like water
through burst
pipe for most of his career, not only does he have a storehouse of
finished songs
reputed to be several hundred strong, he fought one of most visible and
quixotic
battles in music business history in an effort to bring MORE music to the
public.



And, in keeping with the trend, the public decided by and large that they
didn't
want it. Prince might still post sales that would make most indie bands
soil their
britches, but he's certainly not the cultural force of nature he once was.



But the comparisons with Dylan and Costello end there. Because most of the
music Prince has gorged his fans on since he regained control of his recording
career has in fact been remarkably good. I'd even go so far as to argue
that the
five-year period between 1995's underrated The Gold Experience and this year's
worthy Rave Un2 the Joy Fantastic has seen more
great Prince music than any similar period in his
career.



So why is his latest disc which is neither his best of
the decade nor more consistent than any of the rest
of non-compilation albums to hit stores in the last
several years being hailed as some sort of comeback?



There's no denying that Prince has tempered his
excellence in the late '90s with more crapola than he
used to let see the light of day. Emancipation was a treasure trove, but
it would've
been pure gold at two instead of three disks. Crystal Ball had its share
of bright
spots, but it was clearly designed for the hardcore alone.
As for New Power Soul, well, even prodigies have an off
day.



But quality control isn't the problem. The only difference
I can see between The Gold Experience, say, and Rave
Un2 the Joy Fantastic is hype. Prince's new boosters at
Arista including the estimable Clive Davis have made
more noise about this album than the poor saps at Warner's managed to pinch out over the course of a decade. And noise whether
anyone admits it or not makes both fans and critics alike a lot more
likely to join
the party.



On one level, none of this is bad for Prince or music in general. Fans
enjoying a
Prince comeback that isn't certainly isn't a phenomenon any stranger than an
entire country celebrating a new millennium 365 days early. And, in defense of
good old fashioned spin, it has certainly made stars of some deserving
artists.



But from another perspective, buying into hype and simultaneously, the
industry's
current view of an "optimal" new release schedule is no good for Prince or
anyone
else, for that matter. There are plenty of prodigies out there willing and
able to
create music far faster than the snail's pace typically, one album every
two to three
years currently favored by the major labels. When consumers buy the party
line,
look for "buzz" over quality work and ignore musicians who are generous with
their releases, we send a message that marketing considerations should take
precedence over inspiration.



Not to say marketing's a bad thing; every artist deserves full backing
from their
label. But marketing shouldn't supersede creativity. Just think: If Bob
Dylan had
been subject to today's miserly release schedules, he probably
would have released three albums between his 1961 debut and his 1966
motorcycle accident, as opposed to seven. And Stones fans certainly
wouldn't have
12X5, Aftermath, Out of Our Heads, and the Rolling Stones Now! to choose from.
Pick one.



I hope Prince keeps the spigot turned all the way up. And I hope other
talented,
prolific artists like Beck, for one follow his lead and listen to their
muse and not
their marketing director.



So check out Rave Un2 the Joy Fantastic, and enjoy yet another solid Prince
collection.



But don't call it a comeback. He's been here for years.