I loved you
You were my first real exposure to funk. But you were more than that.
Coming from a small midwestern town, you were BATSHITFUCKINGINSANEANDDANGEROUS.
And that was the appeal. Blah blah blah talent and moody and iconic and all that. Anybody can say that. To me, you were bigger and badder than Michael Jackson. Testicles, a switchblade, and no marketing department buffing the rough edges down to tapioca. You were you, whoever the fuck you decided that was on any particular day.
You were the guy that would seduce my woman away right in front of me, and I would thank you and ask for an encore song. It didn’t matter that I didn’t have a girlfriend at the time. The next ten girls I talked to at any given moment had already agreed to have your baby, if your music had played.
And with Prince, came funky others into my playlist. Chaka Khan. Cameo, Shalimar. Gingerman showed me Motown and New Wave. You, Prince, showed me the way forward in transcendent music…
And in artistic integrity and fashion and refusal to give a fuck about the haters. Not a fan of some of the weird, but that’s OK. Not every joke of mine hits either. I couldn’t follow all the examples of being true to one’s real self, but I was always grateful they were there then, and there last week.