As everyone knows by now, the Purple One is dead. According to reports, he died at home in Chanhassen, Minnesota.
I didn’t really know much about the man, being that my life was so sheltered as a young’un. I do remember all the jokes when he changed his name to “The Artist Formerly Known As Prince” and then back again. I remember his fight with the music industry, though none of the details stuck. I remember him performing at the Super Bowl and it being one of the most musically religious ceremonies that halftime show has ever experienced.
But I didn’t know the man and his music. My uber-religious mother would drive us past his complex in Chanhassen, point out his golden pyramid, and tell us how horrible he was, not believing in God and causing others to worship him. And, in a way, that stuck with me. I had an aversion to him and his music for no apparent reason – just that I had no interest to indulge.
My generation was all about The Backstreet Boys, NSync, BBMak, and Brittany Spears. We did bubble gum pop music with no meaning in the lyrics. All about empty love. Now, all the music is about empty partying, with a few pandering songs about being everything you can be, without telling people the truth – you can’t do or get everything you want to. You can dream, but this life decides to crush your dreams, more often than not.
And yet my friends loved Prince. They are all over my social media accounts, telling me so. I’m receiving texts of how meaningful he was, an era in himself.
I must study this gentleman.
RIP, good sir. You touched many lives.