There's only one Prince, and he's gone

Prince

NAIROBI: ‘Lovers like us dear, are born to die. If nobody thrills me or kills me soon, I’ll die in your arms under the cherry moon.’

When I was 17, shortly after listening to those Prince lyrics on tape in my bedroom, a fellow teen called Oscar Ebalu from a neighbouring estate and I went to the Nairobi West shopping centre one mid-August after dusk, where I was promptly shot by carjackers fleeing the scene of a robbery.

For the remainder of my teenage years, I obsessively listened to Prince, reading ciphers in every lyric. As it turned out, I outlived the little (he was just five foot two) genius from Minneapolis. If you are reading this, we all did.

The musical giant born Prince Rogers Nelson on June 7, 1958, a couple of months before two other babies who would become musical colossi too — Madonna Louise Ciccone and Michael Jackson — died this Thursday in his Paisley Park estate home which also had his studio building, when he was found unresponsive in a lift. Thousands of Minneapolitans residents of the city where the artist simply known as Prince lived all his life (in between world tours) and died quickly turned the walls of the estate into a shrine, bringing flowers, weeping, singing his songs and keeping vigil all night long.

The shock, outpouring of grief and tributes came pouring in. US President Barack Obama became the Mourner-in-Chief, summing it up in his usual eloquent way —

“One of the most gifted and prolific musicians of our time, Prince did it all! Funk. R&B. Rock–n-Roll. He was a virtuoso instrumentalist, a brilliant band leader (his band was called ‘The New Power Revolution’) and an electrifying performer.”

It is impossible to exaggerate the genius of the man from Minneapolis. Obama paid this tribute after paying a visit to King Salman of the House of Saud, en route to Britain to visit Queen Elizabeth the Second, celebrating her 90th birthday.

Yet it is true what we ‘princelings’ (diehard ‘Prince’ fans used to say) — ‘There are no kings on this earth. There is only Prince.’

Prince achieved global superstardom in 1984 with his fifth album, ‘When Doves Cry,’ that’s how prolific he was as a musician, yet he had already caused a political storm with licentious singles like ‘Darling Nikki’ that would have present day moralists  frothing at the mouth, and certainly caused parental paroxysms for the likes of Senator’s wives like Tipper Gore who held congressional hearings against the ‘immoral’ music of the likes of Prince.

Yet Prince was also strongly socially aware, with songs like ‘Sign o’ the Times’ the first on the Aids scourge then sweeping America that starts ‘In France a skinny man died of a Big Disease with a (very) lil name; his girlfriend came across a needle and soon she did the same, oh yeah, Time ... time.’

With seven Grammy Awards under his belt, and what belts, what pants, what elevator shoes, what style, what hair and with what panache did Prince carry it all, like a chap treading through purple rain, Prince’s artistic genius and prowess, combined with 37 albums in a 38 year career, is not in doubt.

Prince was the musical heir of Elvis Presley’s showmanship, Jimmi Hendrix’s guitar licks and Jamie Brown’s black but race crossing crown. He had the pageantry of David Bowie, who preceded him in death earlier this year, and while Michael Jackson was without doubt the King of Pop, Prince was, well, The prince.

All this artistic activity and world popularity brought him princely sums of money over the decades. At the time of his death on Thursday, he was estimated to be worth about $300 million ( about Sh30 billion) and with no heir, and being a Jehovah Witness, we can expect at least a tidy tenth of a tithe in his will, with the sounds of ‘Hallelujah’ ringing out in Kingdom Hall.

In his lifetime, he fought a nasty battle over rights to his music after he had taken a $100 million advance from the music company (that eventually made about $300 million from his music). Prince was so aggressive about copyright it is near impossible to find his music on the usual sites like ‘YouTube,’ because he signed exclusive Internet rights of his music to the company ‘Tidal’ for a tidy sum.

On April 7, Prince cancelled a show at the Fox Theatre in Atlanta due to ‘illness,’ but then showed up a week later to honour the engagement, playing a purple piano for two hours in spite of looking a little frail and pale. After the show, his private jet made an emergency stop in Illinois and the musician was hospitalised overnight, but woke up feeling rejuvenated and twitted about ‘feeling loved and inspired.’

And just last Saturday, at his Paisley Park home, he threw a small party for a few of his fans just to celebrate ‘good health and weather.’

After his death, there is now a trending picture of a rainbow over his Paisley Park home, and studio.

As for this ‘princeling,’ yesterday at dawn after learning of his death as soon as I switched on the television (MSNBC had an hour long tribute, MTV played his music videos on 24 hour rotation and the New Yorker cancelled this week’s cover for a purple background with rain falling across it diagonally), I went to my balcony to absorb the news.

On the horizon, the dawn was purplish, with grey rain clouds threatening ... and a white break in the clouds illuminating everything.

As I walked down and across the road in the drizzle to the vendor to buy the daily newspapers, these lyrics were on my mind: ‘We could contemplate the entire universe or just one star, or just how far was the walk for the morning papers.’ It is from Prince’s song ‘Morning Papers.’

I brushed away a tear from my cheek.

Or, maybe, just a droplet of rain.