Prince and The Revolution, Purple Rain

By Michelle Patterson

Squealing at the top of our lungs, we sprinted to our softball coach’s station wagon, desperate for cover from the pouring rain. All of us wiped down our dirt-streaked legs with the towels meant for cleaning out the bottoms of our cleats and seriously mulled over what type of Bubble-Yum to have on the way home. As we chomped down hard in frustration at not getting to play a game, and popped piercingly loud bubbles, coach gave us a glare. He clicked on the radio to drown out our sullen chews. A gospel-tinged, country-flavored song with a soaring guitar line in the background roared to life. All the other girls in the car immediately started singing along. It didn’t take long until I figured out the simple loop and repeat of the lyrics, so I was screaming with them in no time. It was a thrill; I felt like I belonged and was a real part of something. And now we were singing, howling together with the ridiculous passion usually reserved for cheers of victory after winning a game or stealing second base. This “Purple Rain” song was painting real grins of satisfaction on our faces.

Yes, the first time I ever heard Prince was after a softball game rain-out. It was the first current radio song I had loved in my young life. It was vibrant, creative and real; I knew it was something significant. For the rest of that summer, every time we were our way home from a softball game, I’d make the coach search for the song on his car radio until he found it. Luckily, it was everywhere and everyone was obsessed with the album.

Then, like every phase in a young girl’s life, the urge to be a part of this very important thing vanished. I didn’t step back into any Prince music until I started heading to dance clubs in the summer right before I started college. “80s Dance Night” was the most popular night. We danced like Belinda Carlisle from the Go-Go’s to “Let’s Get Crazy” or sang along to “When Doves Cry.” Prince was the unifier; no one stood on the sidelines for him. Once a year, I got nostalgic for Purple Rain. Like every classic album, there was something fresh and surprising each time I listened to it.

The opening track, “Let’s Go Crazy” established that same initial camaraderie I felt with my softball teammates: we’re all going to be together even after we die, but while we’re here on earth, you’re not alone. Its somber undertones underlined the message of finding a sense of communion at the altar of his Purple Majesty at every wedding reception, school dance, or 80s Night at a cheesy club. When the first two words—”Dearly Beloved”—come on, knowing looks are exchanged and the unspoken message to each other is, “Oh yes! We’re about to rock this bitch out on the dance floor and we’re gonna do it together.”

“When Doves Cry” was the rare song where the testing of the average pop listener’s expectations of a big hit is a payoff for the creator. A hybrid of rock, metal, R & B, and pop that has hardly been matched to this day, one still doesn’t notice the absence of a bass line. It’s odd, and yet comforting. My personal favorite, “The Beautiful Ones,” was a pleading temper tantrum that built up into an explosion of the admittance of unrequited love and powerlessness in a relationship. One of the most blatant examples of Prince at his most vulnerable and wounded, it was easy to imagine him pounding his tiny fists into his guitar until the blood from his wounds stained his white lace cuffs red. The album closer and title track, “Purple Rain,” is another sober yet uplifting song about hope, forgiveness, and acceptance, further intensified by what the song represented in the Purple Rain film. With this album, Prince found a way to ease the feeling of loneliness.

Prince bridged the gap between the elitist music snobs and the folks just looking for a solid fix of ear candy. This stuff was full of hooks, large musical gestures, and wicked lyrics, but it was also intelligent. He made it complex yet simple and pushed the sonic boundaries. Purists couldn’t feel bad about listening to an artist like that because he was a kindred spirit. A musical genius in sexy frills, and no longer just a sexy, howling James Brown-lite with some serious guitar skills, Prince was the unifier of all music fans. If a man with a deceptively simple-sounding album was able to lift the spirits of a cranky eight-year-old girl looking for communion in any way she could, and could continue to do so for decades to follow, he should be known not just as a nostalgic comfort, but also a classic.