Expectations are high and so is the energy at the Portland show
Friday, September 03, 2004
by The Oregonian music critic Marty Hughley

We come, some of us, hoping for release and maybe even transcendence. We come, others of us, to hear some catchy songs we know. We come, all of us (ideally), to dance and to party our fool heads off.

When Prince hits town, we make a pilgrimage to pop's land of great expectations. Because we know he can deliver. Stevie Wonder's equal as an intuitive musical polymath, Michael Jackson's equal as a dazzling showman, James Brown's equal as a crack bandleader and all-around force of nature -- Prince is capable of so much that his main problem is how to fit it all into a single coherent show.

And because our expectations have grown to be as varied as his skills -- some folks are happy just to hear the big, fluffy hits such as "Raspberry Beret," others long for him to dig deeper into the vault -- we all come away with a different shade of afterglow.

So after Prince's Wednesday-night show at the Rose Garden arena, you could overhear fans who were over the moon (he's phenomenal . . . how can he be 45 and look that great? . . . that band was awesome . . . who was that keyboard player? . . . Lord, that was fun!) or underwhelmed (the sound was pretty harsh . . . too many bits and pieces, he should play the whole songs . . . that went on too long) or points in between.

The point here: Wednesday's show, part of his most-celebrated tour in more than a decade, was better than his frenetic Rose Garden appearance in 1997 but not nearly as wondrous as the testifying he did two years ago at the more intimate Arlene Schnitzer Concert Hall.

Note, though, that this is measuring mountains in the land of great expectations. A Prince show always is a marvel in at least a few respects.

On Wednesday, those would start with the star himself, natty in an asymmetrically cut blue coat, white slacks and white boots with sparking silver high heels -- the first of a few costumes on the night -- effortlessly brilliant on guitar, and singing in a sweet falsetto, a sexy croon, a party-hearty shout, a passionate scream. The stage, set in the center of the arena floor, featured a cross-shaped runway upon which Prince and the guitarists and saxophonists of his New Power Generation band danced and strutted, playing to different parts of the crowd.

The show played out in three discrete sections. A torrid first hour began with the James Brown-like funk groove of "Musicology," then burned through the adrenalized rock of "Let's Go Crazy," a spare, cut-and-paste arrangement of "When Doves Cry," the party favorite "D.M.S.R." and others, alto saxophonists Maceo Parker and Candy Dulfer blowing ever more fuel onto the fire. A middle section was devoted mostly to Prince alone with an acoustic guitar, working through "Little Red Corvette," "Cream" and "I Wanna Be Your Lover," then a long, loose blues full of battle-of-the-sexes anecdotes, built around "On the Couch" (as in "Come on, baby, don't make me sleep . . .") and leading into a cover of the Rolling Stones' "(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction." Then the band returned vamping, cutting and weaving its way through the likes of "U Got the Look," a cover of "Soul Man," "Kiss" and "Take Me With U."

As much gas as Prince and his band had, though, the show couldn't quite get back into the high gear it started in. As fun as it was to hear so many hits from his mid-'80s radio heyday, they sometimes sounded odd translated from the clipped rhythms and icy synthesizers of '80s fashion into the earthy muscularity of the hyper-proficient band he has now. And surely such a band has better nights; the tour's opening show in Los Angeles, which was simulcast to select movie theaters, was one.

But to point out such things isn't complaint, merely perspective.

Now excuse me while I try to get my fool head back on.