Prince's royal influence
New Hall-of-Famer casts long shadow over modern pop

The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame says Prince is one of the most unpredictable as well as one of the most magnificently charismatic figures in the entire pop landscape.

By James Diers-MSNBC contributor
Updated: 9:49 a.m. ET March 15, 2004

Steven Parke / AP

For an adolescent boy living in the Twin Cities in 1984, no other source of civic pride was as edifying or as infectious as Prince & the Revolution’s Purple Rain. Local mayors had done their damnedest to stir reverence for milkier favorite sons like F. Scott Fitzgerald and Garrison Keillor, but could those literary squares ever hope to compete with the musical freak-of-nature born Prince Rogers Nelson in Minneapolis, USA?

His “oww-wa!” was a commanding alternative to the poncey “hee-hee!” of Michael Jackson, whose Thriller had provided the previous pop-rock-R&B juggernaut two years earlier. Rain’s string of hit singles detailed a world in which rippin’ guitar leads, church-ready keyboard vamps, and dancefloor-filling beats could party together as one—and where, as evinced by the hypnotic “When Doves Cry,” you didn’t even need a bass line to be funky. As a film, of course, Purple Rain’s legacy is one of cult embrace more than cultural transformation. The soundtrack album, meanwhile, still resounds with a globally potent amalgam of electric rock, ambient funk, and futuristic pop bombast. In its day, we Minnesotans knew full well that Prince had outgrown our little slice of flyover country, but we didn’t fully appreciate the impact his songs and persona would have on two full decades’ worth of pop music.

In announcing Prince’s induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame (the ceremony is scheduled for March 15), the Hall itself summarizes its case thusly: “Self-produced since his debut at age 20, Prince is one of the most unpredictable as well as one of the most magnificently charismatic figures in the entire pop landscape. His fusion of rock, funk, soul, metal and punk has defied all stereotypes.”

Nicely put. But that last bit, the one about defying stereotypes, doesn’t resonate so much with those of us who grew up listening to the man. Fact is, over the years, he’s defied everything and everyone, including conventional funk-pop balladry and form-bucking experimentalism. Prince not only exploded stereotypes, he exploded anti-stereotypes. His uniquely eclectic vision and multi-instrumental mettle boiled down to the kind of singular artistry that exists on its own plane. Sure, he’s shared radio bandwidth with everyone from Madonna to Young MC to the Eagles, but the guy’s always had his own thing.

No doubt, there has been some curious energy emanating from Paisley Park in recent years. It’s fair to say that Prince has isolated himself over the last eight years or so, struggling to find a commercial foothold for his own NPG label imprint, perplexing fans with diversions such as The Rainbow Children (jazz-inflected spiritualism) and N.E.W.S. (wordless, meandering studio jams). It’s also fair to say that he’s simply been doing his best to survive and thrive in an industry that’s more imbalanced and artist-unfriendly than ever before. As for his apparent reawakening as a Jehovah’s Witness, well, Mel Gibson just proved that religious indulgence and market viability aren’t mutually exclusive, so why question? Anyway, Prince could chuck it all in favor of a fundamentalist commune or a Krispy Kreme franchise tomorrow and still cast a long, lasting shadow. From “Dirty Mind” to “Darling Nikki” to “Gett Off”, Prince put frank sexuality in the mainstream mix long before the so-called Culture War took shape. Like Madonna, he managed to wrap lascivious carnal impulses around a penitent Christian core, preaching sex and love and faith and unity in the same hot breath. Today, Britney Spears’ ongoing virgin-whore musings, Janet Jackson’s esoteric halftime escapades, and countless MTV set pieces all bear shades of Minnesota’s famed pop provocateur. Even Marilyn Manson must have a naughty Prince track or two on his iPod.

Like Manson, Prince has historically been unafraid to flaunt his feminine side along with his liberated libido. Lace accessories and flamboyant melodrama were staples of his ’80s image; he used tape-speed manipulation to create a full-blown female alter-ego named Camille, featured most notably on the song “If I Was Your Girlfriend.” Take a listen to “She Lives In My Lap” on OutKast’s recent Grammy-nabbing The Love Below and count the parallels—the layered vocal androgyny, the swervy arrangements, the dualistic sex appeal. (As an aside, 1999 and Sign ‘O’ the Times are superior double-albums that went Grammy-less.) Likewise, ponder the lineage of sensitive falsettos from cats like Pharrell Williams, Justin Timberlake and D’Angelo. Stage names and stylized aliases have been a part of hip-hop from the get-go. But before Puff Daddy went P-Diddy and ODB redubbed himself Big Baby Jesus, Prince broke the self-makeover mold by legally changing his name to a mysterious customized glyph. His reasons were convoluted by a tense relationship with Warner Bros. label execs (he also scrawled the word “slave” across his face for a short while), but the move ultimately warranted a new level of attention to his tortured genius, confounding the world’s copy editors in the process. The subsequent decade has seen pop stars switching names and spellings like they were hairstyles.

But for all his high-profile peaks and valleys as a pop icon, Prince’s most lasting influence may have more to do with his life behind closed doors. Among students of recording-studio arts, he’s been as groundbreaking as any producer in recent memory, plying unorthodox sounds and juxtapositions that can turn the most musically mundane source material into distinctive sonic manna. Directly or indirectly, the spare, vacuum-packed rhythm tracks of his mid-career classics seeded stuff like the Neptunes’ recent singles and Timbaland’s wiggy manipulations on Missy Elliott tracks. Prince’s unique penchant for stacked vocal harmonies has doubtless informed the work of singers like Lenny Kravitz and Beyoncé. And that’s to say nothing of his sometimes-muted allegiance to old-school soul, which may well have fostered a modern context for contemporary artists like Musiq and Alicia Keys to explore.

Most any current Top-40 artist will claim an eclectic range of influences, having grown up alongside hip-hop itself and enduring four or five rock mini-movements in the process. In this light, we can view Prince as a rare breed of musical hero who could feasibly have inspired them, or us, on any number of fronts: sumptuous R&B songcraft, generation-hopping rap-funk, masterful rock-guitar expressionism, hazy anti-corporate grandstanding, extroverted sex symbolism, and/or introverted studio genius. Of this year’s Hall of Fame inductees—among them ZZ Top, Jackson Browne, and the late George Harrison—there’s no question which one’s got the most potential to surprise us all over again before the party’s over.

© 2004 MSNBC Interactive