Mourning the Loss of Prince, His Royal Badness
A photo posted by PRINCESTAGRAM (@prince) on Apr 2, 2016 at 3:21pm PDT
There are some artists who are simply in their own universe, ahead of the curve — a sonic unicorn. The way that the opening riff from “When Doves Cry” propels itself into your ears and straight down to your gut isn’t something that comes from taste or passion: It’s that intangible talent that only is bestowed upon that one-in-a-million. As much as unique personalities are now welcomed in lieu of cookie-cutter artists, our galaxy simply can’t produce another Prince. His music bouncing off of your walls was all the art you needed hanging from them.
It wouldn’t be hyperbole to say there will never — and probably could never — be another musician quite like Prince. He was the rarest breed in a medium filled with rare breeds, and that is what his fans loved. He could change his name to a symbol, he could vanish for years, he could even refuse to put his music on the internet, but he’d always come back with devastating force.
A photo posted by PRINCESTAGRAM (@prince) on Mar 15, 2016 at 9:06am PDT
He was the king of sexual innuendo, buried in pure rock and pop genius with a fresh coat of auteur over it all. “Raspberry Beret” had nothing to do with hats, and “Little Red Corvette” was the furthest thing from an ode to muscle cars.
His albums could be sob-inducing movies, or they could be the thing that turns your party into overdrive. We dare you — double-dare you — to play “Kiss” and not do the falsetto. And then he’d do all of that at the Super Bowl, 20 years later, and burn the house down.
“We’re all excited / But we don’t know why / Maybe it’s ’cause / We’re all gonna die,” he said.
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