He was the first record I ever brought. Sign O’The Times on 7″ vinyl. He made it okay to be yourself, to revel in the bits of you that were odd and awkward, to embrace them. Even his lesser work was interesting and to listen to him was an aural education.
When my grandfather died, I would walk the dog and listen to Sometimes It Snows In April on repeat, sobbing the grief out of me until my tears stung.
He played guitar like he invented it, danced perfectly and sang like a horny angel. He always looked fucking immaculate, he was fluid, mercurial, endlessly inventive and managed the trick of wearing whatever he chose, make up and still represented a version of masculinity that made it okay to just be you.
For an awkward teenager, he was a godsend.
I am gutted. Bowie, Glen Frey, Alan Rickman, Victoria Wood made me sad but Prince?
I grieve. I’m going to keep going with my purpose. I take comfort in that he died in his studio, where he was about his art. I’m not hysterical but I am sad that we live in a world that he isn’t still out there. He was touring with a piano and a microphone, a constantly evolving musician.
Once, I said in conversation that he won’t truly be appreciated until he was dead. To me, I always really appreciated him. Saw him live three times, each time an entirely new version of him but still making and performing a perfect curation of different genres. He is the DNA of my music tastes and I’m going to listen to him where he will always be.
If you want to listen to him right now go here
May u live 2 c the dawn. Then get up, make some art and live. He can’t do that anymore but you can.