Prince might have been the oldest guy at his club gig in San Francisco this week. That is a trip in itself, but if his actual show is evidence, he's some sort of positive freak of nature for which age is just a number. Seeing him up close, full of energy and fire, hardly breaking a sweat in a sweltering room while leading his band of hard rock women through hours of raging rock and funk, felt like such a privilege. "If we was at home we'd be doing the same thing" he said at one point, underscoring the intimate, loose nature of such a show in such a small venue.
His two nights of shows at the the DNA Lounge sold out in minutes, of course, even with the kind of prices now charged by the likes of the Rolling Stones or Paul McCartney at the Giant's ballpark. The reviews are rolling in so no need to really present a critique here. But the next morning, when asked to use "ten words" to describe the experience, I came up with: Sweaty. Intense. Joyful. Loud. Funky. Rocking. Historic. Shredding. Hendrix. Freaky.
"I love you but not as much as my guitar" he sang. And he indeed focused on his guitar, and how he can play virtually anything he wants with an intensity few have ever matched. I went looking for the Rolling Stone list of 100 greatest guitarists and there he is at #33 -- an entirely subjective ranking, of course, but after this show I'd have to move him up quite a few notches; in fact, into the top ten. His "girl" band was superb and he could do a dozen shows and not run out of great songs; "I have too many hits" he boasted/lamented at one point. There is a video of a couple of songs with this group from March, but by the time they got to the DNA, he had worked the band into an even much tighter unit for this mini-tour.
I'd been this close to him just once before and in fact this show was something of a flashback. Two decades ago, Prince would play the DNA after his local stadium shows; those "after" shows were unannounced, but if you heard through the pre-internet grapevine, you could show up at the club with $20 in hand at 2am closing time, and if they let you in, Prince was coming to jam. And when he did, he would play some of his own favorite tunes, from James Brown, Motown, Tower of Power and the like. Just incredible fun, sometimes almost until dawn. And at one such late show, in 1993 -- exactly 20 years ago -- Prince held court in a unique way backstage/upstairs, sitting alone in a corner with a velvet rope and bodyguard in front of him, separating him from the Fellini-esqe 4am debauchery taking place around him, on display like a zoo animal. It was then I reflected, Why even bother to do that? This man truly is a strange creature -- it's not an act.
But of course these are different times and the city/neighborhood is different as well. This week's show felt like a stadium-type presentation, with a massive light show and smoke machines going wild even in the small room. When Prince sat at the keyboards and launched into "Sign of the Times," maybe my favorite of all his songs, the lyrics evoked a crisis time of AIDS and crack and the 1980s:
In France a skinny man
Died of a big disease with a little name
By chance his girlfriend came across a needle
And soon she did the same;
At home there are seventeen-year-old boys
And their idea of fun
Is being in a gang called The Disciples
High on crack, totin' a machine gun...
And so on. Hardly the party/carnal/car themes of some of his biggest hits -- not that those were bad -- but a haunting warning about twin epidemics on the rise. We hardly knew what horrors were coming then, but come they did. Prince himself carried on, making some of his heaviest funk records and still a living musical legend, although with a lower profile and sales compared to his peak era. For a time his name was just a strange "love symbol" (which still flashed behind him as he played some older tunes at the DNA) and the intermittent reports of his sometimes baffling quotes, behavior, religious and romantic linkages only magnified his mystery. But he's also been voted the "world's sexiest vegetarian" and all the clean living seems to have served him well.
Anyway, now he's just "Prince" again, but San Francisco's "SOMA" (South of Market) neighborhood is much different, and just on that block, fancy foodie eateries and such dominate. Way back in the 1980s, when DNA (along with say, Club DV8 downtown) was like a San Francisco version of Manhattan's Studio 54 in the 1970s, it could be a bit dicey even coming and going, dodging crackheads and muggers and the like to get to the darkened dance floors of not only DNA, but The Oasis' clear plastic pool-cover dancefloor, or the original Stud or Holy Cow and a few others. Then Slim's opened next door, featuring great live music, and some restaurants came and went as gradual gentrification took over. Now I rarely visit the zone -- but Prince remembered the DNA, thank goodness. He again seemed to have a great time, as -- it also seemed -- did everybody present, however packed in we were. He's been one of the world's biggest stars for well over three decades now; seemingly un-aged, unwrinkled, undaunted in doing whatever he wants to do, he's a wonder on many levels.
I've met enough famous and/or wealthy people to not be impressed by celebrity status, but even I have a few exceptions, and Prince is certainly one. "It's like there's some sort of magical force-field around him," marveled a woman after the show after we'd removed our essential earplugs, as again, this was loud, and I'd wager much ear damage occurred in the club that night, with resulting tinnitus to come, which is no fun, as many of us older fans can attest. But most would probably say, at least at the time, that it was worth it.
There were a few quieter poignant moments amidst the auditory onslaught. The great veteran folksinger Richie Havens had just died, and Prince introduced one song by saying "I got a lot of soul and inspiration from Richie Havens -- rest in peace forever," and then sang a slow-burning version of "Motherless Child," an old spiritual Havens performed at Woodstock. On "Purple Rain," he had the crowd singing along on the famed wordless chorus and said it was like a sort of prayer that "changed things" when enough people sang it together. And he ended one of the shows by asking everybody to clap along with the simmering band and chant a word that "changes you when you sing it, and makes things right." I wondered what that word might be -- "love", or "funk", or even something rude. But the word he chose, and that everybody chanted with him? "Compassion."
What a freak. But if he changes his name again for some reason, it might as well be King.