TIME OUT (1995)
Time Out - March 15-22, 1995
Slave To The Rhythm Prince has always been a bit weird, but lately
he seems to have lost it completely. He's changed his name
to ,
declared war on his record company and scrawled 'SLAVE'
on his cheek. Granted a rare royal audience, Peter Paphides
asks: what the *@,!
is he playing at?
NO FOOTBALL. There's NO FOOTBALL allowed in here. 'Can we
switch it off?' The Wembley catering staff are looking decidedly
agitated. It's not clear whether or not the directive concerning
the backstage TV has come from higher up, but you can sense
the relief when the offending footy fans switch back to Bugs
Bunny. Royalty is in the vicinity. Consequently, even though
The Artist Formerly Known As Prince/'s minders are taking
it easy over some lunch and a coffee, there's a palpable tension
about the place.
Minder One: 'Did you see what she called him?' He's referring
to 'Sunday Show', BBC2's new youth magazine show hosted by
Donna McPhail and Katie Puckrik. performed an as-yet-unreleased
song live from Wembley Arena.
Minder Two: 'She didn't call him Prince, did she?'
Minder One: 'She did, you know! She was in the studio and
she said, "And now we're going to Wembley for Prince!" She
said it!'
Minder Three shakes his head, incredulous. Staring at his
pizza for inspiration, he reflects on it for a moment and inhales
sharply: 'Heads will roll.' Before anyone has time to work
out whether or not he's joking, the door opens. A voluptuous
young woman in cycling shorts strolls in. Clearly, this is
some kind of sign. Six minders grab their radios and jump to
attention just as follows behind her, heading for the
canteen. However, by the time they've come to their senses,
he's gone again, evidently not peckish. Then the summons. 'He's
ready,' shouts his publicist, avoiding at all times the dilemma
of having to address by his new name.
More minders line the walls as I pass through another layer
of security blokes, until finally I'm faced with a small subcontinent
in trousers. I offer a joke following a somewhat erotic body-search,
but it seems this is no time for funnies. The point, of course,
isn't that I might be an assassin, more that is one of
the most famous pop stars in the world. And along with 15 albums,
an entire Minneapolis studio complex, several other solo careers
launched on the back of his patronage and an untouchable respect
within and beyond the music industry such is the paraphernalia
of that fame.
As you may have heard, wants to wrestle ownership of
his songs from Warner Bros Music. At this point I ought to
explain that the concept of ownership in music is kind of an
odd one. When you sign to a label, you basically sell them
your songs. Consequently, any time one of your songs is covered
or used by another artist, on film or in an advert, the record
company receives a large percentage of the royalties. For example,
since Paul McCartney was outbidded by Michael Jackson in the
battle to buy The Beatles' songs, even he would need Jacko's
permission to sample or use Beatles songs in any unorthodox
way.
Warners, then, has responded to 's dissent by refusing
to release his new album, 'The Gold Experience'. So he's taken
to writing 'SLAVE' on his face, changed his name and refrained
from performing any 'Prince' songs at his current shows, opting
instead for songs from 'The Gold Experience'. As long as Warners
owns his songs, it is claimed, you won't get to hear the album
on record. Terrible shame, really, as it's his finest album
since 1987's 'Sign O' The Times'. If you've seen 's first
run of Wembley dates, then you will probably know all this.
's set comprises almost entirely unreleased material, yet
it's only upon going home that you realise he didn't play 'Alphabet
Street', 'Gett Off', '1999', 'The Most Beautiful Girl In The
World' and 'Kiss'.
The new songs suggest a man in the throes of some kind of
creative rebirth: 'Gold', which closes the set in a slo-mo
tornado of stardust and iridescence, lies at the core of this
rebirth evoking the grandeur of 'Purple Rain' albeit in a more
languorous setting, 'Endorphinmachine' is also remarkable,
especially the way squeals 'Prince is done with!' over
all manner of bustling funk syncopations. Mercifully, it's
much less clumsy than the eponymous stage set - a big blobby
climbing frame representing a colossal hybrid of the male and
female genitalia, in fact most of 'The Gold Experience' bulges
ripely with a life-affirming spontaneity more common to mid-'80s
gems like 'Mountains' and 'If I Was Your Girlfriend', rather
than last year's flaccid 'Come' effort.
So: wants to talk. About 'The Gold Experience' and about
his 'enslavement', and he wants to talk about these things
to me. The last time I saw speaking was his acceptance
speech at last month's Brit Awards. This is what he said: 'Prince?
Best? "Gold Experience", better. Get Wild. In concert, perfectly
free. On record, slave. Peace.' Can you see why I'm nervous?
'Sorry about the glasses. We were up kind of late last night,'
smiles , pointing to his Bono-style 'Fly' shades. In terms
of fame, he may be even bigger than Minneapolis, but right
now he's smaller than my mum. His dressing room is tiny, rendered
claustrophobic by the sheer volume of patterned drapes and
velour hangings that frame the dim light. Sifting through the
awe, I remind myself that I've been summoned here for a reason.
is using Time Out to tell everyone how oppressive his
record company is. When I suggest to that he's only decided
to talk to the press because he has a vested interest in doing
so, he snaps, 'Well, Prince never used to do interviews. You'd
have to ask Prince why he never used to do interviews, but
you're not talking to Prince now. You're talking to me.'
Okay then. So why are you doing interviews at the moment?
'We have to free the music,' explains the pantalooned sex dwarf
opposite me. 'I don't own my music at the moment. That's why
I'm in dispute with the record company.'
Apparently, 's record company thought he was releasing
too much material. This is why it claimed to be putting off
the release of 'The Gold Experience'. According to Warners,
if it released 's albums as often as he wants they'd swamp
the market and everyone would lose interest in . Aesthetically
too, it might make more sense for /Prince to release fewer
records: many critics have commented that if he was more selective
and released fewer albums, they would be stupendous rather
than merely very good. , unsurprisingly, has little time
for either line of thinking.
'There's a lot of things that critics don't understand,'
he responds conspiratorially, as if I'm not one of those critics.
'Like the second song in our set is a track called "Jam", and
what people don't realise is that in America that's the number
one track at house parties. Now, the audience know that, they've
respect that! But that's not something that most critics are
down with, you know what I'm saying? So when people say I make
too many records, I just show them the Aretha Franklin catalogue
in the '60s, when she made a new record every four months.'
That's the kind of work ethic you aspire to then, is it?
'That's right. I work hard with the best musicians in the
world. We work all day, you know what I'm saying? But those
people at the record company who own my music, they go home
at 6pm! And they're the people that control my music. Can you
see how there's no room for debate between myself and them?'
's eyes peer up from beneath the shades as if to punctuate
the assertion: 'You know, they still call me Prince!'
Is that so surprising?
'No! That's my point! They have to! It's the name that's
written down in the contract. If they acknowledge that I'm
not Prince, that is different to Prince, then they can't
hold me to the conditions of their contract.'
One's initial reaction to 's tale of semantic crosswits
is to laugh in disbelief, but the point beneath his almost
whimsical reasoning is a serious one: 'The concept of ownership
of music by record companies is senseless. Like, you know the
singer Seal? He's a wonderful talent, but how do I go about
telling him and all the other brothers about the battle that
we have to fight, when I don't own my music?'
The more you talk to , the more you begin to feel that
he's been planning this whole stunt for a long time, just waiting
to reach a position of sufficient power from which he could
pull it off. Look at the sleeve to Prince's 'Purple Rain' album,
made 11 years ago. You'll see a primitive version of the sign
clearly emblazoned on the side. It's been appearing since then
with increasing regularity. Presumably, that was the point
of the Paisley Park studios and pressing plant, to create the
beginnings of a separate infrastructure in the music industry.
One that doesn't have to go through the exist in white multinationals,
and ultimately exists an alternative to them.
sits upright in affirmation: 'That's what the live show
is about. I've done it! And if you look around at the fans,
so many of them are waving signs with the new symbol. It's
such beautiful sight.' You can see why Warners is worried.
For commitment to the promotion of a separate infrastructure
is no longer a distant dream. Far from the patronising jests
of certain broad sheet writers who see endless comedy mileage
in referring to as Squiggle Man, the motivations behind
the name change are, to a degree political. Sure, doesn't
need the extra money, but if he's making you question the ownership
of intangibles like music (and the political implications thereof)
then deserves much respect. The idea of record companies
actually owning the songs you write is outrageous. It s like
demarcating a piece of the pavement and charging people 'Pavement
Tax' to walk on it.
'That's exactly what it is,' smiles . 'Do you see how
suddenly, writing "SLAVE" on my face suddenly doesn't seem
as strange? It's a gesture that communicates my position very
well. It's like this is what my record company has reduced
Prince to. So now, Prince is dead. They've killed him. ,
on the other hand, is beyond contracts. They can talk about
contracts till they drop, but they're Prince's contracts, not
mine. The record company can't afford to accept that though.'
Now the relish on his face is palpable... 'They're still expecting
me to do "Purple Rain", a cabaret set.'
Of course, there are other ways of getting 'The Gold Experience'
out. How about the Internet, for instance? 'We're currently
looking into that one,' says , 'The important thing is
that my fans hear this music, whether it be through duplicating
cassettes, or if we press up 10,000 CDs after the show and
charge $5 each, just to cover costs you know? Even if we do
what Pearl Jam do -- just turn up at radio stations and play
the people our music. That's what these shows are about, communing
with the fans. I go to a club and I see fans dancing to my
records. They wave to me, I wave back, and I realise that this
is why I make music. Not for record companies.'
is always quick to mention how his fans 'understand'.
While I don't doubt he's genuinely moved by the adulation he
receives, it also strikes me as a pretty basic ploy of testing
the commitment of the diehards while bringing the waverers
closer to you. It's what any cult from Morrissey to Michael
Jackson to the Reverend Moon, does in the face of adversity,
implicitly calls the love of The Fans into question by appealing
to their loyalty. Still, as long as the majority of your fans
are prepared to, ahem, die 4 U, there's never too much need
to worry about what critics say. So when I start asking anything
more probing than 'Why are you so wonderful?' he clams up visibly.
Anyone with a passing familiarity with Prince's canon will
already know the three main themes of his music: shagging,
humping and fucking. An elementary knowledge of psychology
tells me that anyone so eager to impress on the world his sack
prowess ('you jerk your body like a horny pony would' and 'there's
a lion in my pocket and baby it's ready to roar' are my personal
faves) must be motivated, in part, by a deep- rooted misogyny.
It's also worth bearing in mind that early in his childhood
the young Prince Rogers Nelson ran away from his mother in
order to be with his father, a musician. For the first time
in our little meeting, stumbles on his words: 'Aah...oh
well, that's a whole concept that, aah... you know, I could
say something about that, and you could take a line out of
context that might change the meaning entirely. It's all in
the songs anyway.'
Yes, but you do see, don't you, that the sheer volume of
fucking that goes on in your songs, is frankly bizarre. Don't
you?
'Um, I believe that sometimes hate can be love and love can
be hate.'
'Gett Off' boasts your, sorry, Prince's ability to assume
'22 positions in a one-night stand'. Any chance of passing
a few tips on to a mere novice like myself?
'Oh... ' is now visibly buckling beneath the ignominy
of having to entertain a question this moronic. 'That's not
what all this is about... That's not something I, aaah...'
All what?
'Aaaah.' Big pause. He looks away. All right then. What about
marriage, then? Any plans to singlehandedly put Durex out of
business by having lots of little s?
'Not really,' smirks the compact sex symbol. 'I decided that
things like family don't have a big part to play in my future.
I'm dedicated to music, to the point that I see all of life
through it.'
What would seem like a flippant, sentimental declaration
from any other pop star becomes a fierce declaration of humanism
from the mouth of . The past two weeks have seen him deliver
night after night of rambunctious boilerhouse funk while the
psychedelic harems of his mind are recreated on stage around
him. 'A couple of years ago perhaps,' he concludes, 'I had
a spiritual, uh...rebirth. I was lacking direction for a very
long time. But I saw a light which I realised I had to follow.
At that point I became...' points to a drape bearing his
hieroglyphic name...
By the way, how do you pronounce that? 'It isn't pronounced.
It just is.'
, aka The Artist Formerly Known As Prince plays two more
dates at Wembley Arena on Tue and Wed.
- Peter Paphides
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