I found the publicist at a long empty bar nursing a drink. “There’s Prince over there,” he said cheerily, nodding to a section of tables across the room, vacant but for Prince and Medina, the Warner exec, sitting at a small table behind a velvet rope. Standing sentry at the velvet rope was a really large, well-dressed Black man.
“Hi’ya doin,’ I said to the bodyguard. “I just want to say hello to these guys….”
“I’m fine, sir. I’m sorry, Prince is having a meeting right now.”
Perhaps they were. But what I saw was Prince and Medina, just sitting there, so close to me that I literally could have reached around this man…over that velvet rope…and touched them. The two sat there in silence. Looking at me.
Strange. I couldn’t understand why they didn’t simply say something to the bodyguard, or, for that matter, to me—-Hey, we’re busy right now, brother, etc. Instead, they just sat watching me as I pondered which action would deplete me of the most dignity—-to continue standing there or slink away. During the excruciating seconds that I had this thought, the large man blinked–simply stepped aside—-and unlatched that ridiculous velvet rope.
“What took you so long?” deadpanned Prince.
“Mannn,” I said, lowering myself onto a seat at the table while pointing to the ceiling to signify the music–getting past that rope, you’d think I’d just gotten into heaven–“whatever that is playing right now, sure is funky-—what is that?”
“None of your business,” said an expressionless Prince, quick on the draw. I managed an uncomfortable chuckle. “No, seriously, what is it?”
“You know,” Prince said, ignoring the question and turning to Medina, as if I wasn’t there, “this guy has written some really messed up stuff about me….”
Ain’t this a bitch. I knew it, I knew it, I fucking knew it. After that gentlemanly exchange earlier in the day, Prince was about to go dark on me. I’d heard he could be two different people. Now, I was getting the other Prince. The one who’d been laying for me for years.
“Really?” I said, through another uncomfortable laugh. “Prince, you gotta be kidding. I’m your biggest fan.”
“You coulda fooled me, brother,” he said. He turned back to Medina. “One time he was interviewing somebody and [in the article] they both ganged up on me….” Medina smiled uneasily.
I was mystified by what he was saying. That never happened. Never wrote a piece where the act being interviewed knocked Prince.
He seemed to calm down; asked if I’d seen or spoken with a mutual friend. Then I asked him if “1999,” which he didn’t play during rehearsal, would be added to the show line-up. “1999 is the past,” he snapped. “Here’s how this works.” On the table, Prince drew an imaginary line.
“This is ‘1999’ over here,” he said, tapping the table with his left index finger. “Over here is where I’m headed,” putting his right index finger at the other end. “To get to that side, I have to create new music. And to do that, I have to let go of ‘1999’ and all that music. So if you wanna hear old shit again, I hope you got the record.”
(He would play ‘1999’ on the Diamonds and Pearls tour.)
I understood what Prince was saying. In order for the Beatles to go from “I Wanna Hold Your Hand” to “Eleanor Rigby” or for Stevie Wonder to go from “I Was Made To Love Her” to his landmark Music Of My Mind, both acts made the choice, at the risk of alienating their audiences, to move forward artistically. For his part, Prince was always willing to take that risk.
“Why ain’t you out on the dance floor, slick?” Prince impishly inquired. Boy, was he having a ball with me. I can’t remember what I said to that one.
However, my response must have pushed my man over the edge, for after that, without comment he rose, walked several tables away and took a seat there. Alone. In other words,We’re done. He could have simply left the room entirely, but being the consummate showman, by sitting in plain view, Prince was milking this diss for its full dramatic worth.
As soon as he split, I turned to Medina with words along the lines of What was up with you guys leaving me standing there behind that damn velvet rope? Medina replied with a shrug and something like, Hey man…Prince.
We chatted for a minute or so before I decided to head back to the hotel. In leaving, I made my way over to Prince. Seeing me approach in his peripheral, I imagined him thinking: Dude, leave me alone. I bent down and leaned into his left ear.
“Hey, brother, I’m outta here,” I said. “But I just want to say how much I enjoyed myself.” Prince never looked at me, staring into the distance, a yellow flared pant leg crossed. Pelulant. “Seeing Paisley, getting the chance to watch you rehearse, even hearing this music playing at your club-—man, it’s been great.”
“I’m just trying to do my thing,” he said introspectively, still gazing straight ahead. No attitude, no mean-spiritedness. Vulnerable.
“Prince, you’re not trying, you’re doing it. And that’s what I’m going to write.”
He looked up at me. A childlike blush. “Well, I’m gonna be reading it, so…” It was a mock threat, as in I’m watching you.
The story shared here is pretty much what I wrote back then. One morning a week after his cover story hit the newsstands, I arrived at the office and, as usual, checked my phone messages.
Among them was a cryptic communiqué: “Hello Mr. Ivory,” said the cordial female voice. “He said it was all right. And he said you didn’t stay because you probably can’t dance.” Click.
“All right.”
Coming from Prince, that was a compliment.
Steven Ivory
Steven Ivory, veteran journalist, essayist and author, writes about popular culture for magazines, newspapers, radio, TV and the Internet. Respond to him viaSTEVRIVORY@AOL.COM
