Growing up in the mid ’80s, three artists bestrode them all. Madonna, Michael Jackson and Prince – the magical triumvirate. Madge had the sex appeal (this being before she went odd and grew man muscles), and MJ had started to believe himself superhuman. Prince, though – he was something else. Combining the specific skill sets required to charm rock fans, funk fans and perverts all at once, the man had freak appeal in spades. If you liked Prince, you certainly didn’t run with the crowd. You were above all that. And you wore purple.
Actually, it took me some time to fall into the purple groove. My elder stepbrother worshipped him to an absurd level, and years of being forced to party like it was 1999 in the cramped confines of our family car quickly took their toll. It was only in my mid-teenage years, ironically when the Purple One was in a bit of an artistic cul-de-sac, that his genius struck me, and I lapped up those heyday albums like a cat discovering milk. Sign ‘O’ the Times, Lovesexy, Around the World in a Day, Dirty Mind…it’s hard to say which one topped the others.
The one time I saw him live was on his ‘Squiggle’ tour. That wasn’t its official name, of course, but my keyboard isn’t able to recreate the infamous symbol he went by in the mid ’90s, protesting against what he saw as a stifling record contract. ‘Sexy Motherf***er’ was riding high in the UK charts, but his Birmingham gig was by no means a sell out, such is the effect that being a spoilt multi-millionaire has on the masses. Still, it ranks among my top five favourite concerts, and here’s why.
A Prince gig is the kind of spectacular you can only really expect from someone so legendarily bombastic. The man is a dirty, funksome, pelvis-driven showman with effortless musical dexterity – a unique artist that appeals to fans of choreographed stage spectaculars and grubby, T-shirt wearing guitar aficionados in a single suggestive strum. His sense of the perverse is something that still manages to attract and confuse in equal measure, and is probably the main reason for the obvious surprise when Flash announced his UAE appearance last week.
I specifically recall that he arrived onstage dressed in a gold chain mask and a trench coat, descending from the centre of the arena on a gold-plated swing and travelling slowly over the audience until he arrived at his microphone. As his band worked up the tightest funk storm I’ve ever heard, he sprawled on a nearby grand piano and slowly started stripping down to…a bikini. The stage cameras were quick to highlight that Prince had an ample pair of mammary glands; cue a growing sense of unease in the Birmingham auditorium.
As the music came to an aural climax, the whirling man in the pink beachwear threw off his mask and a huge explosion erupted centre stage. The smoke cleared and there stood Prince in a black zoot suit (the pink hermaphrodite was, of course, a female dancer – his wife, in fact).
He would’ve been about 37 then. He’s 52 now, but age won’t have dulled his act too much. As far as I’m concerned – and, judging by the city’s Twitter response so far, I speak for most of you out there – Flash have pulled off a major coup with this booking. Topping it will be tough, though. Anyone got Madge’s number?
Jon Wilks, editor and proud purple wearer.
