Prince mattered to me.

Being a Prince fan matters to me. It matters for reasons I’ve never really considered.

I got to work yesterday having shared tears with my sister about Prince’s death. Colleagues were laughing about the best bits of internet fun on the matter and an argument broke out about whether it was ok for Nick Clegg to ‘come out’ as mourning him.

My contention was that people that have never showed up as fans of Prince, during many years of public ridicule, sticking with him through recent decades of terrible albums, and waiting patiently to do anything to attend the next live show, those people had no right to share in the grief that we ‘true fans’ are feeling.

Now. It turns out I was wrong about Nick Clegg, and presumably my response owed more to my dim view of him in general. However the point still stands — I feel justified in claiming a moral high ground of grief that others who have not been on the journey are not entitled to join.

Years ago I had the chance to trek for four days to the summit of Macchu Picchu in Peru, only to find that a group of people had helicoptered in for the view. The sense of belligerent entitlement and resentment was the same then.

The point is the exclusivity, and when it feels earned all the better.

Prince never appears to have sought critical approval. Unlike many musicians (Morrissey comes to mind), his unique talents didn’t appear alongside a tortured longing to have them understood. If you got it you got it, and there are enough of us who did. Yes he delighted in presenting as ‘other’ and an enigma, and his stupid ‘Slave’ stunt was Prince at his least appealing. But this was never something he sought approval for and as fans we sat back and waited for decent tunes and the madness to pass. It duly did.

The first reaction my sister had when she heard the bad news was ‘But I haven’t actually met him yet’. This isn’t because she and we feel we’ve lost a kindred spirit, or a fellow tortured soul. When Bowie died it was that sense. People felt he politically and culturally mattered. It’s not that with Prince. Something else is going on.

In 2007 Prince payed a long run of shows at the O2 in London. We’d been to a few, including an aftershow until 4am, and on the last night every member of the audience was given not just a free album but also a purple light to wave during the show. Normally I find enforced mass participation as sinister, or at least lazy, but this was joyous. We were surrounded by people whose lives had a Prince soundtrack. I spoke to the bloke next to me about how changes in our lives all had an accompanying masterpiece from Lovesexy, Sign O the Times, Purple Rain etc. Everybody had the same broad grin and during the show the light show stopped and Prince appeared amongst the crowd to play a guitar solo in amongst people that were delighted but not about to faint. This was about real connection with people and having had the delight of seeing him live a few times I am convinced he understood this.

More recently I queued for 6 hours to see Prince at Ronnie Scott’s, a tiny venue. I was very excited and determined but here was no hysteria. Crown control was simply people being given a number and if you didn’t have one you wouldn’t get in. I stood in the rain singing tunes with fellow fans, while my sister texted me from afar hoping I’d get in. Inside the venue I was given free drinks at the bar, Prince played a generous set as ever, and again the atmosphere was one of camaraderie. We lucky few had this important, ridiculously talented man in common. We had stuck out a lot, were soaking wet, but the reward was guaranteed inspiration. I left not knowing that would be the last time.

Prince matters because we stuck with him and he with us. Some of his music was terrible. Some of my life has been terrible. But what the doubters have always missed is the sheer joy outweighed everything.

As my sister said yesterday ‘I can’t stop crying. He made my life better’.