As Minnesota’s native son and patron saint, Prince’s funky blend of pop, synth and new wave has, for longer than I’ve been alive, defined the sound and style of Minneapolis, a city whose heart and soul and progressive independence will forever bear the purple helix of Prince’s genetic signature, so otherworldly and unrivaled is his influence.
I grew up in Minnetonka, a nondescript western suburb of Minneapolis set around a sprawling lake of the same name, which is briefly and famously mentioned in “Purple Rain,” the 1984 rock drama starring the late, great musical iconoclast, whose sudden death on April 21 was mourned by fans across the globe.
But nowhere was the mourning more personal than in Minneapolis, a city that Prince always considered home, and which last week glowed a somber, bruised purple as throngs of fans took to the streets in homage, singing and sobbing and singing some more.
Prince was a child of Minneapolis, but his cultural authority rose to a galactic scale as he influenced art, music, sex, race, politics, and religion. His musical genius, his virtuosic performances and his unfiltered, unapologetic style conspired magically as high art, but even his mere existence seemed like a radical demonstration of what it means to be fiercely and honestly oneself.
Prince was impossible to pigeonhole. He was head-scratchingly different and by proxy he made it OK for his fans to be different. Prince showed us that the best way to be cool was to be us, and taught us to celebrate our individuality.
That’s a big lesson as a young person.
At a time when the simple task of being “you” can seem insurmountable, and being cool can seem irrationally important, Prince was upstaging the world by strutting around to a rhythm entirely his own, divining melodies and octaves the rest of us aren’t programmed to hear, and packaging them for hip-swiveling mass consumption.
Even though Minnetonka is located just 15 miles from the creative epicenter of Minneapolis, as a teenager it might as well have been in another universe, and Prince helped bridge the gap.
Today, as an adult, I have deep affection for my hometown, but as a teenager I perceived it as culturally aseptic and lusterless – a dramatic departure from the vibrant, creative verve of Minneapolis, the place of record stores and thrift shops and a carousel of cool music venues. It was the place of Prince.
“A strong spirit transcends rules,” Prince once said, and his creative and cultural influence strengthened many of our spirits.
At a certain age we started driving to Minneapolis and its cultural ethos became more immediate. We haunted its record stores and its ethnic restaurants and bought vintage clothes and went to concerts at First Avenue, which Prince’s “Purple Rain” transformed into a world-famous landmark. His plastic cassette cases and liner notes littered the floorboards of our cars, and his music scored the soundtracks to our adolescent lives, tracking our growth as we learned how to be our best, individual, independent selves.
“I don’t wanna die, I’d rather dance my life away,” Prince sang on “1999,” a line that will be repeated in the wake of his sudden death.
It’s a line that should be repeated.
But in the afterworld, where more than 30 years ago Prince assured us that “everything’ll be alright,” there is an angelic choir throwing an eternal dance party on all our behalves.
So don’t forget to dance.