Laura Boswell

Carpe diem. Tomorrow.

His Name Is Prince. And He Was Funky.


What’s that Kanye? I can’t hear you over my Oscar.

Dig if you will, the picture: In 1984, I was a white, suburban sixth-grader who collected unicorn stickers and attended 4-H Club and church summer camp.

Yet I had become utterly possessed by an elfin, spandexed, sex-crazed crooner whose lopsided curls looked like they had been styled with Crisco and a pair of eggbeaters.

I had followed pop music since cable TV had arrived in my Tennessee town somewhere around fourth grade. MTV was already in full swing by then–Martha, Alan, Nina and the gang inviting me in each weekend for the Top 20 Video Countdown. I wanted to shock Peter Gabriel’s monkey and stand heartache to heartache with Pat Benatar.

Gen-Xers will recall that we didn’t have a lot of readily available sources for music back then. I liked artists and songs because my friends told me to. Or Rick Dees. Or my uber-cool older sister.

But when Prince appeared on the screen, slithering steamy from a tub toward me on his stomach as white doves took flight, it was as if some cosmic bedsheet cracked, and every note of every song I’d heard heretofore snapped away into the ether, blank and clean, and all that was left was purple, purple, purple.

Prince left “Xanadu” in the dust.

Prince in my knock-off Walkman became the highlight of my morning schoolbus commute. The joy of junior high dances. My comfort when no one asked me to couples-skate.

Prince was my royal raison d’etre.

I liked him because…I don’t know. I just liked him. I didn’t find him especially attractive; he was effeminate, he was short, his outfits looked like he’d raided a laundromat while Louis XVI and Jimi Hendrix went out for a smoke. Some of his lyrics were so dirty they escaped my comprehension; they hinted at acts I wanted no part of then or ever.

But there was something about him and his unapologetic bad-assness that resonated with me, hit some musical sweet spot I didn’t realize was wanting. Something set him apart from other artists. I’d always had a penchant for traditionally “black” music – Commodores, Parliament Funkadelic, Ohio Players. These were the albums I liberated from my sister’s collection and played on my Fisher-Price record player, got down to on “Soul Train.”

Maybe it was the bass. Or their fantastic bellbottoms, the altitude of their afros. IIIIII…wanted the funk. Give me the funk. Lots of it.

Or maybe the music presented for me a glimpse into a world in which I otherwise did not belong. I had black kids I counted as friends; but where I lived, I could also count them on one hand.

Then came Prince, or more specifically, “Purple Rain,” which melded for me the best of both worlds: funk I could find on pop radio. Common ground for kids of all colors—he even had white girls—GIRLS!—in his band. In satin nighties, but still. And they weren’t just rattling tambourines, they could really play.

Simply put, Prince made me go crazy.

Thirty years, five concerts and countless records/cassettes/CDs/downloads later–and now his untimely death– nothing has changed. I am a fan with blind faith. Through assless chaps, through band and label and religion and hairstyle and name changes, through no name at all, it doesn’t matter, Prince found the righteous one in me. Anywhere, any time Prince appeared, I ceased all activity to watch, to listen, to try and understand the hold this tiny, funky man had over me.

Everyone remembers his rain-soaked performance at the Super Bowl, or how he dominated the Hall of Fame induction. But even during last year’s Grammy’s with my friend Quinn—it seemed somehow unholy to speak, move, or bust on the artists (except Kanye) while Prince was onstage–and he was merely presenting. Rumors had circulated for weeks that he would be there–few if any artists build that kind of excitement, that far ahead of time. We sat still as stones as he brought a housequake, indeed.

He received even greater appreciation during the Golden Globes, when a ballroom full of Hollywood’s absolute elite went—for lack of a better word—completely APESHIT as Prince, adorned in a long jacket and silver cane, took the stage like the Willy Wonka of…Wait, What the F*%$, PRINCE IS HERE OMG PRINNNNNCE!!!!

His death has proven to me I am not alone—there are purple people everywhere. I think Prince appeals to pretty much anyone between 30 and 60 because his career was that long and that universal.

I realize not everyone cares for his music like I do (“Graffiti Bridge,” anyone? Me either.), but trust and believe, if he walked into your home or office right now, you would leap up and scream like…well, Prince.

Because, I have realized, Prince was hope. He was the living embodiment of resilience, reinvention, rejuvenation. He had ridiculous success, and some almost laughable failures, but he Just. Didn’t. Give. A. Shit. He just kept on doing what he wanted to do, and people respected that.


Prince is making my eyes bug out and I don’t care! PRIIIINNCE!

I’m just a puny black kid from Minnesota? I will grow up to become rock royalty anyway. Write the soundtrack for Batman? Why not!? I can’t control my own musical creations? Peace, bitches, I’ll start my own label. I can’t use my own name? OK, I’ll make up a new one—in fact, I’ll use a symbol. Appear on “The New Girl” just because I’m a Zooey Deschanel fan? Yup, and we’ll set the show’s viewership record with that episode too.

Oh, and along the way, I will also master more than 20 instruments, quietly write hit songs for fellow superstars and help launch others altogether. I will be inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame while I am 45 and still at the height of my career. I will win an Oscar, seven Grammy’s and countless other honors. I will work tirelessly for the rights of artists and accessibility of our craft to everyone.

Because baby, he’s a star. Then and now and always. And we are all the more blessed for it.




Prince Versus Plasma: My 80s Cassette Tape Conundrum

cassetteAmong Best Buy’s TVs, some stretching nearly three yards across, the 46-inch plasma model suddenly looked small. And the fifty was on sale “with, like, a free Blu-Ray player,” noted Trevor, my Product Consultant, braces glittering on the smile beneath his peach-fuzz mustache.

My bleeding heart already doubted a new TV. Where did all the old ones go? Shouldn’t I be reading more? I drop cell phones into toilets. I melted my last laptop setting it on the stove to study a recipe. Why should this tech dunce go digital?

But I couldn’t argue with Trevor’s “Service Superstar!” badge. And I couldn’t bear another football season calling friends for scores of the game I was already watching on the square analog set I’d had since college. I signed the keypad, a happy new member of the modern world.

Two days later, the delivery truck beeped slowly backward to my stoop. The drivers slid out a box the size of, oh I don’t know, a beluga whale, and deposited the TV into my living room.

Wow. The great thing about a 50-inch TV is…it’s 50 inches of high-def bliss. The “Hunger Games” resolution invited me to jump right into the action, like Mary Poppins and Dick the chimney sweep in his London street pastels. Except this was “Hunger Games,” and the dancing penguins would eat your face.

The problem with a 50-inch TV is…it requires 50 inches of space. More, actually. Which meant cleaning and re-arranging the living room, an exercise in dust bunnies, extension cord snarls and a “souvenir” from puppies I’d fostered in 2010.

The Blu-Ray player and cable box also needed homes, which required the worst cleaning of all: sentimental. I pondered the shelves of sleek Pottery Barn bins secretly stuffed with four decades of music cassette tapes. Madonna, The Clash, Prince, Elvis, Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch. (What? He’s a serious actor now.)

I had nowhere to play the tapes, but how could I trash them? Especially the home-made mixes (play, record, stop, rewind, erase, yell at your mom for talking over the track, repeat…).

iTunes could never replace Richard Marx’s “Waiting for You,” scrawled with a summer camp crush’s devotion. Or “Casey Kasem’s Weekly Top 40, March 6, 1985.” Or “Chicago 16,” the last Christmas gift from my father before he died. Every tape bore the smears and tears from hundreds of rotations marking some adolescent event.

And let’s not forget the investment. Tapes in my childhood cost a scandalous $7, the bulk of one babysitting job. I now had in front of me…nothings of dollars in plastic. But immeasurable value in memories. And you can’t write a love note on an iPod.

I’m sure Trevor would laugh at these musical mah-jonng tiles—colorful, clackety, ancient—just like I laugh at his contemporaries’ devotion to the Next Big Whooseewhutzit. Every generation believes their music/hair/clothes/values are better than the other dullards’ decades.

And I am no different. I love my new TV, but I tense up every time it blinks, or the signal fades, or worst of all, the whole shebang goes black for no apparent reason at all. At least with tapes, a quick twist of your pinky did the trick.

Which is why I dumped the cassettes into a duffel bag and shoved it into the spare room closet. Maybe someday cassettes will enjoy vinyl albums’ revival. Maybe someone will find a nifty new use for them, like those t-shirt quilts. Maybe the Funky Bunch will get back together.

Or maybe when I give in and buy the Next Big Whooseewhutzit, Best Buy will have to haul the tapes away to some island of misfit technology, but where they will always be cherished among the TVs, the eight-tracks, the memories of technophobes past.


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