This will
probably be my last entry here for a while, and possibly my last entry in this
series, period. It’s been fun
challenging myself within the blogosphere, yet more and more I find I am far
too occupied with the business of life to spend much time here. Which, of course, is not a negative thing.
I thought about
several directions and/or approaches I could take with this entry, my usual
preference being to write about the best albums of the year. While 2016 was an unbelievably good time for
music, there were so many great records released, I’m not really sure I can
narrow it down to a workable “top 20” list, as I’d be neglecting too many necessary
selections. From Childish Gambino to
Solange to Tribe Called Quest and so on and so forth, 2016 was a year where
revolutionary consciousness fully entered the mainstream again, and I couldn’t
be more thrilled. Yet it also marked the
loss of someone who almost certainly had more of a creative and personal impact
on me than any other individual from the world of popular music.
Prince.
When Bowie died
earlier in the year, I immediately went to work, learning songs of his, putting
together a tribute show, and writing an entry here very shortly after his
passing. But Prince? I’d lived with and inside his music
obsessively for most of my adult life, and I can truly say that he is one of
the most fundamental reasons I write, play and perform my own music today. When I found out he was gone, the air left
the room. That evening, myself, my wife,
and a very small circle of friends gathered at the house, ostensibly for what I
suppose was a sort of Irish wake for the Purple One, listening to his records
and even jamming a few of his songs live.
I am thankful for everyone in that room on that night, because I felt as
though something had been torn from the very essence of who I am.
When I first
heard Prince, I didn’t get it. His
genius was so far beyond my realm of understanding, I may as well have been
trying to wrap my head around nuclear physics.
It wasn’t until one of my oldest and closest friends took me aside, and
said, “Dylan. Listen.” He played me “Bambi,” “Why You Wanna Treat Me
So Bad,” and “Lady Cab Driver.” I was a
serious lead guitar fanatic in those days, and so, as you can imagine, that
kind of sealed the deal for me.
I became a man
possessed. I bought every record, sought
out every concert, watched every film.
With each subsequent album of his I dug into, I realized more and more
the scope of his accomplishments, the versatility of his song-craft, the
endless innovation of his musical virtuosity.
Yet more intensely than that, I started to understand things about myself that previously had felt
confusing, or convoluted, or in disarray.
People speak frequently about Prince’s penchant for extreme sexuality,
and while there’s no denying that aspect of his persona, it was his emotional
vulnerability and sensitivity that drew me in.
After this
initial flood of catalytic musical inspiration, I went deeper. The time period where I became a Prince
fanatic coincided with the time period where I began finding my own path as a
musician, and so after a few years of woodshedding and playing with various
bands, I struck out on my own, with a formidable arsenal of Prince covers at
the ready. Learning how to play his
songs—solo, and on a bass, no less—led me to new places in terms of my
interpretation of Prince and the increasingly large space his music occupied in
my life. Eventually, it opened the door
for me to begin writing my own songs, and while the number of influences that
pushed me in that direction is ridiculously crowded and diverse, I think I can
authoritatively say that, without Prince, I never would have started
writing. Never would have had the
confidence. Never would have thought
that I could bare my soul over on-the-one funk.
Never would have spit game at a girlfriend over my own grooves. Never would have believed that who I was, and
who I wanted to be, were valid or viable choices.
Years
passed. Prince became part of the
wallpaper of my life, B-Sides and bootlegs overflowing in the crates. No band that I led would ever play a show
without doing at least 2-3 Prince songs in our set. At Dolly and I’s wedding, our bridesmaids and
groomsmen danced down the aisle to “I Wanna Be Your Lover.” We all wore purple. My friend Barry—also gone now—and I would
talk for hours about our favorite deep cuts, why he liked “Under The Cherry
Moon” and why I didn’t, why I felt the need to include “She’s Always In My
Hair” on every single mix I ever made.
(That’s an easy answer…it’s my favorite Prince song, of all time,
ever.) I’d play shows with my friend
Julian, a frequent Prince impersonator, and he’d bring the house down no matter
the venue or crowd, in the style of old-school showmanship that Prince
perfected and that seems so rare now.
All this is to say, Prince and his music took on a life of their own
within my life, which I know was also
the case for so many others throughout the world. How beautiful, and unlikely, is that? Some kid from Minneapolis brings the world closer together?
Then—just like
that—he was gone. A magnificent source
of love, and hope, was suddenly absent from the universe. So distant then did immediately seem the days
of my own youth, when his music was my solace from all the stillborn
relationships, the murky waters of immaturity, the ecstatic sunshine-filled
excesses, the dark nights of the soul.
I can now only
say thank you, and I am not quite sure if those words are enough. I couldn’t have made it here without you,
Prince. I am still figuring out my path
through this strange and bitter world, and feel so woefully inadequate at times
that I don’t know where to turn. Then I
play one of your records, and it all sort of drifts away, and I hear it as
though I’m listening for the first time, and all the heartbreak and joy and
love and pain feel exciting again, and I sing and dance and laugh and cry, and
I miss you terribly and I never knew you.
I write this for you now and thank you is not enough.
