(Photo by Mark Weiss/www.weissguygallery.com)
I do not want to write this shit.
Not now. Not ever.
This is personal.
But it’s either this or continue sitting around enduring this sick feeling of inertia on the edge of a loathsome face-off with mortality.
During the most prolific musical period of my life, my early twenties, when I wrote and played music for a living, more or less, there was only one artist that mattered: Prince Rogers Nelson.
This was a dark time of transition for me from the late ‘70s Punk movement into New Wave and then a lot of stuff I did not relate to on any level beyond a strange imbalance of apathy and abhorrence. There was U2, the Violent Femmes, a little later, Jane’s Addiction, REM, the Beastie Boys and Public Enemy, but mostly, I was lost. But one thing that could always be counted on was a new Prince album that would snap me back into coherence and make me love new music again, as I …