I
don’t know exactly how it started. I don’t quite know what song or
album got me into him. It seemed as though he’d been encoded into my DNA
from the first time I’d heard him. His music made me feel as though
someone else understood me – a young woman who always felt too tall, too
awkward, too nerdy, too cerebral, always too something - that
wasn’t quite right. When he boldly asked the question ‘Do I believe in
God? Do I believe in me/ Some people want to die so they can be
free/Life is just a game/We’re all just the same’ it touched something
in my soul and I knew I’d found the person who would record the
soundtrack to my life.
I
knew it might happen one day. I wondered what I would do when it did.
Would I be among the faithful making the pilgrimage to Minnesota to
stand with the grieving? Where would I be when I heard the news? How
would I respond? As it turned out, I was in New York City dealing with a
personal crisis. I was on the phone with my niece, already upset about a
number of challenges going on in my life. A text came through that
mentioned news reports of Prince’s possible death.
I
quickly checked my Facebook and friends who know I work in the news
media were asking for confirmation. And then my phone and texts started
blowing up. I was so hurt, I could not even respond to them at first.
Friends told me later that I’d mentioned in the days previous that I
couldn’t imagine a world without him. But something in my spirit felt
uneasy. The reports of his plane diverted due to illness on the way home
to Minneapolis just days earlier sounded ominous. Although Prince said
he was fine, and showed up at Paisley Park a few days later to host a
party and show off a new guitar, that nudge to my spirit lingered.
I can’t imagine what Prince’s friends and family, from his sister Tyka to his friends, the model Damaris Lewis, news anchor Tamron Hall, Larry Graham to Sheila E.
and all the others who worked with, played with and loved him. My
friends and family blew up my phone because they knew, for me, it was as
though someone in my family had died. I didn’t have a personal
relationship with him. But truthfully, I did.
And
he did – from failed love affairs to celebrations to heartbreak to
passion to those restless nights of despair when I wondered if hanging
on to life was worth the effort.
People
may think that mourning a popular musician is just part of the social
media fueled culture of celebrity worship where overheated stans latch
onto someone to fill a void in their own lives.
After
all, most of the time a fan has never even met the object of their
adoration. Fortunately for me, not only did I meet Prince three times,
one of those times I was able to sit with him and Larry Graham at
Paisley Park and ask him questions. He was a doll-like, beautiful man
who was engaging and funny and down to earth in way that I couldn’t
imagine beforehand. Even though I was there as a journalist, he was
still, in my mind, akin to a deity.
I’ve
seen him in concert 12, 13 times. He was my first concert, at Worcester
Centrum in Massachusetts. As many times as I’ve seen him, I never saw
the same song played the same way, heard the same banter, saw the same
choreography. He gave you an original show every single time. No matter
how much you spent for the tickets you never felt that you didn’t get a
completely original, brand new show and you never felt cheated. When the
show seemed to end, you knew to wait because Prince would come back for
several encores. If you were lucky and you knew where to find the after
show, you’d see him play more music in an intimate venue with superstar
guests that changed with each show.
When
you see a Black artist, depending on genre for the most part, you see
them in front of a Black audience. You see most white artists in front
of a predominantly white audience. With Prince, you would not just see
every race, creed, background and ethnicity, you would see all age
groups. You’d see kids who were turned on to his music by their parents
or teens that discovered it on their own. Prince and his music spoke to
people across a wide spectrum.
Though
he was once the butt of jokes during his ‘Slave” battle to retrieve his
master recordings from Warner Bros. Records, he ultimately became a
figure so revered, that an awards show appearance would elicit a
frenzied response. He never changed. He remained apologetically himself
and the world caught up with him.
We
weren’t worried about Prince. He was driven by his music and in recent
years, his staunch Jehovah Witness faith. He was so clean-cut he kept a
curse penalty jar at Paisley Park. He eschewed meat. Although he hosted
many a star-studded party at his home in L.A., no reports of drug-addled
behavior from him or his guests ever surfaced. At 57, he’d barely aged.
A ‘Fro that surfaced over the last few years just seemed more proof of
his natural, holistic lifestyle. He even told a writer he was celibate.
The excesses and traumas that plagued and ultimately killed other Black
icons were far removed from Prince. He seemed immortal, as though he
could live on forever.
Sadly,
no one can. On April 21, Prince Rogers Nelson got dressed and got on
the elevator at his sprawling Paisley Park complex. He never got off.
While the world continued spinning, he was taking his last breaths. That
he was connected to forces beyond our comprehension was evident in the
circumstances of his death. He died in an elevator, something he used as
a metaphor for spiritual ascension in one of his most popular songs. He
died in April, also the month that the character he played in Under The Cherry Moon
died and whose story was told in the song ‘Sometimes It Snows In
April.” He died on a rainy Minnesota morning and after his death, a
rainbow shone brightly in the grey skies above the complex. World
monuments, including Niagara Falls, were already planned to glow purple
in honor of Queen Elizabeth’s 90th birthday. Instead, they seemed to commemorate the death of a Prince.
In
the Bible, the parable of the talents, Matthew 25:14-30 is one that
teaches us not to squander our gifts. Prince’s gift – that of musical
talent so prolific that he told an interviewer that at any given time,
he had five albums, not five songs in his head at any given
time – was not wasted. He was one of the most prolific musicians of his
era, outpacing the output of just about everyone else. He toured for
over 30 years, possibly exacerbating hip and ankle problems that had
been rumored but never confirmed. None of the pain he may have been in
was evident to his fans, including in his last shows in Atlanta during
the ‘Prince, Piano and a Microphone’ tour.
In
recent days, his quiet financial support of various Black causes and
organizations have been revealed. He mentored, encouraged and championed
women, especially women in music. He was generous with other artists,
showing up to their shows, playing onstage with folks from Erykah Badu
to Lenny Kravitz to Amy Winehouse to Stevie Wonder to Q-Tip to an
appearance at the SNL 40th anniversary afterparty where he just grabbed a guitar and rocked with the cast.
To
think that the world will never hear another live guitar run from him,
to think that he’ll create no more music, ever, that young artists won’t
have him as a champion or mentor or that no one will ever experience
his humor or the epic shade moments that made him a meme and GIF hit
with a younger generation, is such an incalculable loss that it seems
unbelievable. Prince touched so many people in a life that seemed to be
cut short way too soon. But that is our interpretation as we
grieve his loss from our limited human understanding. As a man of faith,
Prince believed in God’s timing, as should we, if we can bear it.
To
all of us that loved him, we still have the one thing that he was truly
and specifically created to bring to this earth and that is the music.
Prince was our gift from God and in turn, he gifted us with over three
decades of the best he had to give. Rest Well, sweet Prince. Nothing
compares 2 U.
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