Get your “It Ain’t Over” disc out and click over to track 6. Turn your dial to the “no, not that loud!” mark and strap the headphones on as tightly as they’ll buckle. Now get ready for a ride that’s advertised to go the distance, but thankfully is stopped by TKO just before permanent damage is achieved.

Yes, I’m talking about experiencing a “Peach” as it slides down your throat; and it feels a little something like this…

We’re allowed ninety seconds of foreplay at the beginning, use it wisely to slowly feel your way around the foundation of this groove. By the time the house lights make contact with skin your aroused peach fuzz should be lightly beaded with sweat. Notice the presence of the urgent bursts of horn. They’re here to sweet talk you, but they’ll be back later to visit your ass. You should be pacing yourself like a marathoner. We got time. We got time. Prince just announced we’re going 20 and we’ve got 3 minutes before we hit the first bolt of wicked intensity. At the 4:30 mark Prince becomes an irrepressible tease with an “uh oh!” and the spoken delivery of the lyrics to “Peach” overtop of an infuriatingly irresistible, I’m-shaking-things-I-didn’t-even-know-were-a-part-of-me groove. At precisely 5:17 Prince mercifully stops the tease with a shouted “turn around” which dives us directly into 7 glorious seconds of the opening charge of the former rock and roller. On a bleeping dime this MoFo drops out of this full-on hard rock penetration into gorgeously realized chicken-scratch guitar, a maneuver delivered with such immense precision as to afro-tize at least three straight-haired folks right on the damn spot. It’s as if he has dropped from straight intercourse into clitorial stimulation with one continuous heart-thumping transfer of energy. But Prince announces, “It Ain’t Over” and with a slight shiver he sends his band into a shuffle that drops the dance floor a good foot underneath the tremendous weight of the chaotic burden being placed upon it heretofore. But not an orgasm is to be heard until Prince pulls out his secret weapon (Renato “Fingers” Neto) with a request for the production of a solo that can roll eyes straight to back of head and curl toes straight up into tiny knitted balls of fusion. Oh lord, uh, we, are, uh, we, uh, yeaaah, that’s it -- we maaade it!

But it still ain’t over. No, it ain’t over by a long shot. We going back for second helpings. You say “two minutes of thighs on ice?” Good, because our thighs are quivering like a heroin addict breaking it straight without methadone. Now that we’re chilled, slowly start to work the limbs back to limber because lights return at 8:18, followed by hands in the air, chants and fierce requests for clapping. At 8:50 flirting horns re-stimulate the nether regions and we’re now with second wind. “What do I hear? Sounded good to my ear,” Prince repeats with a delivery more intensely worked than James Brown at the peak of his powers. This astonishing discharge of passion has us up and rolling again into the fiery depths of full-on loss of joint control, led by what can only be described as an orally stimulated release of dragon breathing on the “2 and 4” so that handclaps will know where to meet. People without rhythm just found it. The band is now worked into such a well-honed lather that a simple “y’all know what to do” produces an exactitude of action thought to be foreign to all but diamond cutters and brain surgeons. And here comes the payoff, a muted horn from hell fueled with more strength than any 3 steroid abusers have a right to. And this damn trombone just keeps juking and jiving, sliding and striding, then punching to the cortex over and over and over like a drug-free Mike Tyson until it puts the multi- in multi-orgasm. Yep, that’s the fire marshal at the back of the club standing on his chair and waving the building permit at Prince like that of an ultra-worried trainer fearing his fighter has taken far too much punishment. And at the notes of the final count the crowd drops in unison to the floor in a sweaty ball of humanity. This is funk. SHE’S A PEACH!

Oh no, and now “Dorothy Parker” is calling and I’ll never get to sleep. And then I have to go back and hear that guitar solo on “Joy In Repetition” just one more time. And then there’s…ugh. Just swallow hard and keep telling yourself, “Sleep is overrated. Sleep is for those without chicken grease.”

Brendan
[This message was edited Wed Dec 18 23:57:28 PST 2002 by Brendan]

You wrote this in the mothership

You are Clapton, Clinton, Richards and Brown.

I get the vague feeling Brendan likes this here ONA thingy.

rdhull said:

fo real.

Brendan said:

OMG, this happened to me last night at about 2am.