A Journey to Prince’s Paisley Park
My strange, brief encounter with The Purple One was a lesson in expectation management
When I was just a baby Bison at Howard University, I had one of my first celebrity disappointments. It was Homecoming. It was Yard Fest. I waited all day to see LL Cool J perform. When he finally arrived, he said some weird gobble-gobble and yelled, “Come to dreams!” and darn near dropped the mic as he left. This is why I manage my expectations.
I had absolutely no expectation of seeing Prince when I left from DC to Minnesota for the 40th National Association of Black Journalists (NABJ) Convention and Career Fair. I still had no expectation even at 12:44 A.M. on August 9, 2015, one minute prior to his appearance on stage at Paisley Park. Although I was not on the first bus provided by NABJ to Paisley Park, I am fairly sure I was on the second, or third. I was also not one of the 10 specially, handpicked journalists to meet with Prince in the belly of Paisley Park.
Some of those special journalists who reported their meeting with Prince wrote that he wore a matching gold Lamé pant and tunic set. My not-so-special view saw Prince in Purple — not Gold. Is this a #TheDress situation? Is this a subconscious projection? I hope not, but maybe so. It is funny what we see when we have different lighting, vantage points, opportunities, and experiences. This was mine.
Bus to Salvation
A few of a my fellow NABJ DC Chapter members met up prior to the Paisley Park bus lineup for a drink and a quick dinner. The assumption was that the line for the free — yet RSVP required — bus to the Paisley Park venue would start earlier than anyone would naturally stand in line for a bus ANYWHERE on planet Earth. Such line waiting required food and at least one beverage of choice, and rightly so — there is no alcohol served in Paisley Park.
For some of us journalist and media folks, that’s like saying you don’t serve red velvet at a cupcake shop, or like not having water dispensers at Deer Park. We get it, but we don’t. We understand, but we’re bewildered.
Our industry’s historical, and stereotypical, habit was retired for one night only — and not a night more.
We took a group selfie using the person who had the longest arm and upper body strength. The photo was the subject of my last tweet before I went dark on social media and out of communication — there are no cameras or phones allowed in Paisley Park.
Just thinking about that makes me twitch a little. I could be tracked via satellite since the age of 15. Now, 15 years later, what was essentially my tracking chip was removed. I was literally and technologically free; yet saw it as a burden.
#SadIKnow
I stuffed a hotel notepad and pen in my clutch. I can’t help it! I must have this if nothing else. My last thoughts as I sipped my 60s cocktail in the lobby bar of the Hilton Minneapolis:
“It’s dark. I don’t know where I’m going. Let me send my parents the address and bring my health insurance card — it’s legit about to be 1999 in here.”
We got in the line for the bus that looked like it began at 8:45 P.M.,if not earlier, for an advertised departure of 10:00 P.M. Lord have mercy on us Prince Seekers.
It was getting hot as the line momentum pushed us into the area between the sliding, glass door vestibules. These are the times you start bonding with your line mates; the times where jokes, networking, and card trading occur. Yes, these times are hard on your feet, and your patience. You keep the faith. Then the line moves and you are on the bus to salvation. Hallelujah!
But before you reach the purple gates of Paisley paradise you must ride through the night across densely forested lands, walk across the gravel path in the darkness, and — if you are an NABJ member with a badge — give the door $20 in cash! (And, that was $50 for the collection plate, per person, for anyone without an NABJ badge that night.)
Amen.
Like It’s 1999-ish
The exterior of the building reminded me of a stark white Rubik’s Cube. It was lit in a florescent, purple light that looked like a displaced aurora borealis. It was an amethyst stone surrounded by pasture. This sight alone was cause for excitement.
There was a stiffened air of confusion, and anticipation among the guests as we crossed the threshold. I didn’t know where to move next as the very attractive hostesses with beautiful white smiles, red lipstick and slim black dresses took my crisp, straight-out-the-ATM twenty-dollar bill and added it to the huge stack of cash they held without fear in their hands.
I immediately walked into the main concert stage area. There was polite chaos and selfishness at the table where t-shirts, albums, and posters were being sold.
I skipped that.
As I looked around and saw the guitar display, pool and ping pong tables, I realized this is like home for Prince. You don’t just have gaming tables at a place you don’t frequent. In some capacity, we are in his house. This was evident in the second stage room where a theater sized movie screen (randomly playing Car Wash) and a large dinning table and chairs and various clusters of lounge chairs circled the room. Then, what would catch my eye? His bike from Purple Rain displayed high for all to see. Swoon.
There is one detail that I found personally delightful: Although the venue was rather dark, I feel like most of the furniture was covered in purple velvet or white fabric. Classic Prince.
We decided to get close to the stage — best to be prepared and in good view should he appear. The DJ was playing some great dance and party anthems, mostly from the old school. We danced. Hard.
My friends are dancing juggernauts. We kept the party going. In my mind, at the front-right of the stage the world’s greatest dance party was happening. A hypnotic slideshow of kaleidoscopes played as the visual background for the DJ. This added a psychedelic aspect to the atmosphere. This was one of the best times I have had with my friends and colleagues and there was not one text, tweet, video, or photo of them doing the Running Man or the Roger Rabbit. Until now, it was an undocumented moment in time; like moments I use to have in 1999.
And then he emerged.
Disappointment: Managed
A thin silhouette grew closer from the back of the stage. And the screaming started with the classic mob-push to the front to get closer to the star. With his head tilted down, the lights hit the top of his jet black Afro as he walked closer to the front of the stage. Then the light drenched his face as he tilted his head up and waved at the crowd like a kid waving to his parents in the audience at the family reunion talent show. He seemed, dare I say, shy. As soon as he took the mic off the stand, a boisterous feminine voice from the audience screamed loud and crystal clear a profession of love heard all through Minneapolis— as you would expect. Prince could only help but to giggle a little.
I couldn’t help but notice he STILL grows black stubble on his face. STILL.
BLACK. 50+ years later.
In my eyes: his ensemble was sparkling, purple lamé. (And you can’t tell me any different.)
Lamé is not a forgiving fabric, but Prince has the physique to wear it. His slightest movements gave hints and outlines of slender, yet defined quadriceps. That must be Pilates, or something.
He said a few words. Invited NABJ back for a “proper” performance next time we’re in town…That might be in 2020, but good to know the offer is out there. He then told us about his current project with Jay Z and that we should support Tidal — the same medium where we’ll find his new album.
Then he left as unceremoniously as he entered.
He did not perform.
I had a feeling that would happen.
The DJ played two tracks from the upcoming Jay Z collaboration. Then back to her scheduled spin as she reminded us for a second time that buses were back outside for those of us who wanted to return to the Hilton when we’re ready.
We kept dancing. What else could we do?
I wasn’t getting back on the bus. I danced until my feet hurt some more. You could tell that disappointment had crashed down over the audience. There was disbelief in their eyes and shock on their lips. It was the kind of pain that was so deep that you couldn’t even get angry right. The kind of disappointment where you just feel offended. In the words of a good friend of mine, we “just danced it off.”
Where nothing is promised, nothing is lost. This is expectation management.
The place cleared out quickly, with more local members of the public coming in. A bride in formal white gown and groom in tuxedo appeared in the mix and two young teenagers with their father explored the venue — more to the glee of the father it seemed. The chaos at the t-shirt sales table died down. I bought a souvenir poster. When I returned to the hotel and to my phone, my real reward for being sober and completely unplugged for nearly four hours at a dance party was an honorable mention (but actually a Retweet) from @Prince3EG.
I think that might be better than the poster.
Some of my fellow NABJ members have covered the details of Paisley Park extensively. They got the real deal from Prince himself. Those 10, special journalists are in fact just that — they are truly the gems in the pasture and I could not think of any better people to tell a story about meeting the elusive, music royal in his castle. Please read their stories and make sure to share yours.
Prince: Record Contracts Are “Slavery” by Kelley L. Carter
Prince Compares Record Contracts To Slavery In Rare Meeting With Media by Eric Deggans
Prince Calls for Artist Freedom, Ties Fight to Black America’s Struggle by Errin Whack
