“Writing about music is like dancing about architecture” is a quote that haunts me every time I sit down to write my blog. As many words as I throw at the page, capturing the essence of Prince’s performances remain elusive. I take comfort in the fact that many of my favorite writers, for all their concise and beautiful prose, also fail to touch the flame. Like Kerouac’s Dean Moriarty and his search for “it”, this essence remains beyond words and the confines of the page. This is a lesson I am learning hard as I continue my quest of listening to the run of concerts from the 2002 Celebration.
Each concert is impossibly good, the songs belonging not to Prince or his audience, but instead existing as their own entities. Music has always moved me, but never more so than these concerts as I have listened to them over the last couple of months. The show on 24th June had me almost speechless, and a sneaky listen to the show from 25th June suggests that Prince is about to take me in a completely different direction, a direction I am quite happy to follow him in. Just don’t expect me to find the words to describe it for you.
25 June 2002, Paisley Park
The rock show. While the previous concert saw Prince draw us into his bosom with a warm intimacy, this show has him pushing us back with a fierce wall of shock trooper guitar. His opening salvo of solo guitar sketches out a loose framework for him to work in, not settling on a groove or song, instead Prince working his way into the music. He does briefly touch on the riff from Chicago’s “25 or 6 to 4,” although he quickly backs away from it before the concert bursts into flame with “Bambi”
There is nothing left to tell of “Bambi,” all the song’s secrets have been revealed in different performances across the years. Even so, it remains compulsory listening as Prince blisters his guitar board with a hard electric fury. I long for the song to slap me in the face one more time, but for all Prince’s roaring guitar I am left feeling empty and removed from the burning tone of the music.
Things loosen up with an elastic take on “Whole Lotta Love,” the song played with an abandon not heard in the previous “Bambi.’ Here Prince makes good on the promise his opening guitar intro suggested, the guitar free to roam across a song well-grounded in our musical consciousness. The song is merely a foundation upon which Prince builds a perilous structure of howling guitar, shrieking vocals, and a driving rhythm section. It brings to mind Dave Grohl’s story of rehearsing this song with Prince and listening here I only wish that I could have seen that particular performance. This performance is equally compelling, and not once in its ten minutes can I relax as Prince has me on the hook with every note, every inflection, and every squeal.
“Something In The Water (Does Not Compute)” rides in the back of an unexpected groove, an organ, and a guitar plowing a bow wave and leaving space for the lyrics. Prince gives the song a kiss of guitar, just enough to bring a flush to its cheeks and elevate the song above this newfound groove. Although emotionally barren, it is highly recommended as Prince refreshes the song for the era.
A lightning flash of guitar brings “The Question Of U” to life, all the other instruments caught in sharp relief as the guitar illuminates the song. Prince could easily dominate this song, but instead, he gives it away to Renato Neto who brings his personality to the center section with a piano solo that has you staring at the ceiling for answers. Prince replies with his incandescent guitar howl, but Renato has already stolen the song with his emotionally charged solo.
Confession time. “The One” is one of my favorite Prince songs. The performances throughout 2002 remain unsurpassed in my opinion, and this one is no exception. The lyrics tell their own story but amplified with Prince’s smoky vocal and heart-crushing guitar sound the song becomes a thing of exquisite beauty. Prince knows the power of what he has here, he is unhurried, letting the song permeate the room. The song settles, almost drifting in the latter part, as Prince delicately touches his guitar, letting the lyrics of “Fallin” flow easily in and out of the music. Even with the audience noise present, I feel as if I am sitting alone with him, the song weaving around us, and holding us close together. The band picks up “Take Five,” and like a hypnotist snapping his fingers I am raised back into the real world only to find myself in the middle of a Renato solo. What a wonderful place to be.
It is the organic raw version of “I Could Never Take The Place Of Your Man,” that follows. Stripped of its 80’s glamour and rooted in the blues, the song stands strong. Laid bare, it is the poignant lyrics that carry the song. Their message stands stark against this new backdrop, we now feel them as well as hear them. Prince knows that the lyrics are merely the beginning of the story he wants to tell, and as the lyrics fall away an organ and guitar rise from the mix, turning every word true with their anguished sound. This abstract pain saturates the final minutes as Prince expresses these darker sentiments with his carefully pitched guitar sound. A picture is worth a thousand words, and the music created by this band is worth ten thousand.
The quiet intensity remains on the canvas for the cover of Bill Wither’s “Ain’t No Sunshine.” Within a few brush strokes, we know where Prince is taking this, a powerful yet graceful version of a beloved classic. An unexpected flute solo brings an extra sense of sophistication, Prince letting it breathe through the song as he steps back from the microphone. There is a wistfulness to the sound as Prince lets the song sprawl, its initial shape lost as the band indulges themselves, and us, with luxuriant solos.
The propulsive sound of “She’s Always In My Hair” shatters the moment. With this bristle and crunch, it harks back to the era in which it was born, Prince again taking command of his ship to plow through the song. It is uncompelling, even colored as it is by its former glories. Perhaps it is too short for Prince to bring his thrilling attention to it. It certainly sounds like it is preparing to launch but compared to the previous indulgences of the evening it is all too flash in the pan.
We return to a languid crawl for an expressive “The Ride.” Prince feels disengaged from the vocal delivery, and it is his considerable guitar arsenal that expresses all he needs in the song. You can feel your breathing slowing down as you listen, Prince’s meditation on the blues is a healer in its own way. It’s not all about the guitar, there are plenty of keyboard moments for Morris Haynes aficionados, Mr. Haynes piano playing Batman to Prince’s Joker guitar in a struggle that remains unresolved, although each needs each other equally.
“Alphabet St” cannon’s into the setlist, shooting us all into the light. It is fast and light, even for “Alphabet St,” and tumbles us quickly to “Sex Machine”
A Sly Stone cover, “Sex Machine” comes off as a psychedelic take on “The Ride.” It has the same easy pace, but instead of being crushed under the weight of the guitar and keys, Prince applies a lighter touch. This lighter touch lifts it beyond the steady groove, and as Renato Neto comes on board with his keyboard solo the song begins to reach for the stars. Prince willingly encourages this, his vocals coming intergalactic and distorted. It matters not what he is singing, but how he is singing it. Unfortunately, the song loses me with John Blackwell’s drum solo. As much as I love John, his solo snaps me out of the moment and I lose sight of the song and its mood.
We stay on the psychedelic trip with the beguiling saunter of “Elephants And Flowers.” It is a song that neatly encapsulates Prince’s dalliances with this genre, the psychedelia tempered by an undercurrent of funk and piercing guitar. It remains fresh twenty years after its birth, and it is heartwarming to hear the crowd take easy to the lyrics for a sing-along. It is one of the less demanding songs of the evening, but it holds its position with a dynamic performance.
A galloping bassline and driving drum power us into “All The Critics Love U In New York.” With a triumphant rumble, it belongs on the dance floor, and one can hear Prince call for dancers in a nod to this. With a cyclic rain, the song doesn’t let up, the power of the rhythm section unrelenting as Prince brings some light-fingered guitar work to the party. It is a timely reminder of Prince’s funkier moments, especially in an evening that has seen some heavy-handed guitar, and remains impossible to listen to without moving. One interesting lyric change stands out -“It’s time for a new direction, it’s time for hate to die,” Prince turns his back on the original “Jazz to die,” in light of his current influences and flirtations with Jazz over the years.
“Beautiful Strange” lives up to its title, the song giving life to the words it inhabits. With a melancholic and brooding introduction, there is time to reflect and gather thoughts, before Prince arrives at the microphone, murmuring words of beauty before his snorting guitar grunt swallows the room. It is a delicately balanced performance, the guitar disappearing back into the ether between choruses before Prince pulls back the curtain to reveal its immutable sound in contrast to his carefully pitched vocals. The brooding becomes urgent with its appearance, the guitar a steel fist concealed by the velvet glove of Prince’s vocals. It is the guitar that looms large over the second half of the song, playing as a searing revelation of the title. Untouchable. Unforgettable. This is Prince.
It is a rough and tumble “Calhoun Square” that finishes the show. With a tangle of fuzzy guitar, Prince plays with pure joy, unburdened by the weight of what has come before. It is an uplifting way to close out the concert, the music climbing steadily higher with every sweep of Prince’s scythe-like guitar. Playful and brimming with ideas, Prince is still delivering to his audience two hours into the show, his passion undiminished by the time or energy spent. With this final surge, we stumble over the finish line to find ourselves in silence, the concert is over.
I can’t dance about architecture, and I can’t write about this show. There is very little objectivity here. I lack the tools and musical background to break down the music, I can only write about what feel, which to be honest is what music is all about. I only know what I like and don’t like, and at this concert, there is a lot I like, and very little I don’t like. The lesser moments of the concert left me unmoved, but a great deal of the concert seemed to plug into my very heart, Prince’s music pushing unseen emotional buttons. When a musician plays like this, beyond words and in the realm of pure feeling, there is very little left to be said. Like Dean Moriarty in “On The Road” I am left clutching at loose words like “It.” To quote Kerouac’s character himself “Now, man, that alto man last night had IT— he held it once he found it; I’ve never seen a guy who could hold so long.”
Prince had “It” throughout his career, especially in these 2002 concerts, and like Dean Moriarty, all I can do is cling to the edge of the stage and behold the glory of his musical kingdom
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