I Would Die 4 U: Why Prince Became an Icon by Touré

[GUEST REVIEW by JAKE AUSTEN] (Atria) One way that being a diehard Prince fan is similar to following a sports team is you often find yourself rooting from your heart rather than your head. Despite the brilliant artist crafting some of the most memorable music of the last 35 years, his legendary creative fertility has resulted in almost 40 full-length releases, an inordinate amount of them double, triple, and in once case, quintuple albums. This resulted in stretches of songs, albums, and even a few years, in which you desperately want to get behind what you’re hearing, but the best you can do is hope the next song hits it out the park.

I don’t lead with this to suggest Prince’s lesser works eclipse his masterpieces  – he’s such a captivating composer that I’ll gladly rationalize multiple spins of Jehovah’s Witness-themed jazz, or Available Only at Target three-disc sets for the satisfaction of the occasional winner. I bring it up because I Would Die 4 U, Touré’s study of the Prince’s life and work, invokes a too familiar feeling.  As I turned the pages I kept reminding myself how intelligent, charming, and talented the author was, and kept hoping the next track would get better.

The good news is it eventually does, but the bad news is the cultural critic and TV personality commits early to a desperately shaky hypothesis. His first misstep is opening with a definition of “icon” that includes the (debatable) criteria that one must be “the mirror and shaping force…the thermometer of an era.” The problem with that is Prince became a superstar through monumental talent, cagey provocation, and intense drive to succeed on his terms. His voice was magnificently his own, not that of a generation, and while millions followed with fascination, few emulated. Prince profoundly influenced electronic instrumentation, moderately influenced fashion, and was a groundbreaker in getting warning labels on CDs, but he did not create a nation of androgynous futurists going to school in panties and trenchcoats. People were captivated by Prince because he was one of a kind, not a prototype.

Sticking to this generational theme, Touré spends lengthy passages awkwardly defining generation X (of which Prince was not a part, he was a late term Baby Boomer). Inspired by Malcolm Gladwell, the author surveys data and trends, leading to his bold, and off topic, declaration that the defining aspect of gen X was divorce.  What this has to do with Prince’s complicated childhood, with blended families, parental abandonment, and a strong support system amongst teachers and friends, is unclear.

Questlove, the Roots’ arranger/drummer, is very likely earth’s #1 Prince fan, so when he endorsed this flawed work as the all-time greatest Prince book it would have puzzled me, if, sadly, he wasn’t right. Because of Prince’s enigmatic persona, dense thicket of recorded material, and questionable CEO skills that left trails of sour grapes and non-disclosure agreements, it’s difficult to figure out how, what, and even why to write about Prince. Reading through the choppy, awkward quotes from prior trade books and the jargon filled rhetoric from the Prince-themed dissertations Touré cites makes the lengthy, insightful quotations he coaxes from Prince’s former colleagues more impressive. From an engineer’s heart-wrenching account of Prince recording his most personal song, then wiping the tapes clean, to an icky play-by-play of Prince’s lovemaking technique by an alleged former paramour, Touré’s skills as an interviewer shine. Add to that more access to Prince’s peers and co-workers than any prior Prince prose-maker has enjoyed, and the fact that he’s met the man (I would have been delighted if the book was a 150 page account of the day Touré shot hoops with the Minneapolis Genius), and Questlove’s assessment seems on the mark.

Drag the hinky generational theory to the trash, and I Would Die 4 U becomes pretty solid. Touré deftly explores his subject’s dealings with sex, race, gender, and faith (inherently titillating topics), allowing him to geek out about lyrical themes, numerology, and even bathing habits. This sometimes reveals truths, sometimes generates semantic exercises, but all of it is executed with authority and joy that he can’t muster while trying to relate Prince’s motivations to the Zeitgeist embodied by the teens in John Hughes’ 80s films.

After speaking to a number of close associates who insist Prince savvily marketed himself in his early days with lascivious antics, and a demographic spanning multi-racial, co-ed band, Touré ends the book with a lengthy study of Prince’s spiritual lyrics. These expressions of faith (going back to an un-ironic recitation of “The Lord’s Prayer” in his otherwise mischievous 1981 manifesto “Controversy”) are certainly not marketing tools, and the author concludes that what ultimately has driven Prince from the beginning was a desire to spread the Gospel; the high heels, buttless pants, and joyful incest songs all ruses to get you to open the door for the prosthelytizer who wants to help you get to Heaven. “Prince’s message was a pitch perfect for gen X,” Touré writes, “but, at the same time, it was thousands of years old.”

He’s at least half right, and the book is nearly 2/3 good. Which is a much higher batting average than Touré's subject has enjoyed. And that guy’s an icon!

French Boutik “Ici Paris”

(Copase Disques) Mid-tempo French pop influenced soul-rock, somewhat restrained, but not Northern Soul-dull either. Cool keyboard and guitar arrangements, and fine singing, but while many hommes will no doubt be enchanted by singer Gabriela, you should all take a gander at drummer Zelda…ooh la la…the French invented the Scopitone for a reason! Obviously this is an image conscious band, but that never detracts from the music, as all the cravats and mod gear in the world (of 1966) couldn’t craft mighty melodies that both pick up steam and get steamy. This might not sound enough like bad Supremes/Four Tops knockoffs to win all the Mods over, but I’m a lot easier. And like the Coneheads, we’re not really sure if they are actually from France, but I’ll take Serge Hoffman’s, and Beldar’s, words for it.

Jesse Terry “Stay Here With Me”

(Jesseterrymusic.com) You know who else had two first names? Bob Dylan! Though actually he changed his real last name to the first name of Dylan Thomas…who had two first names! Anyhow, my point is, if you are into folksy, poetic lyricism, in today’s scene the first name in that particular category is…well, it could be one of two, since he has two first names.

Tony Joe White “Hoodoo”

(Yep Roc) Slinky, low-key/deep-impact swamp blues from the Swamp Thing himself. His voice may be wispier (like swamp gas?) but it still feels as resonant, distinct, and powerful as ever. The production has a sparseness that’s eerie and warm, which is not surprising, as White clearly has the superpower to bring the most distinct vibes of the Bayou wherever he travels. One time he played at Schuba’s and it was below freezing outside, yet somehow a fly was on stage buzzing around his head and bothering him for half the show…the man had a Louisiana fly follow him up to Chicago! (Which makes sense…everyone’s a TJW fan!) These recordings mellow down easy, like fine wine, and Tony Joe will get you there in his own good time. My personal fave rave of this set is “(Baby’s Got A) Sweet Tooth),” a stellar blues song that especially intrigues me because for the life of me I can’t figure out the sexual (or maybe drug, but it sounds like it’s supposed to be sexy) metaphors in this thing. I guess “being out of milk” could obviously be about impotency, being spent sexually, or any kind of liquid narcotic, but it sure as hell sounds like Tony’s actually singing about going to the store for actual milk to go along with the chocolate chip goods his sweet tooth baby sincerely bakes and sincerely enjoys    .

Control

(controlxoxo.bandcamp.com) Darkwave synthpop magic with vocals by a sexy Dracula listening to on Joy DFivisiomn/Birthday Party mashups on his cassette Walkman. Like getting rug burns from a black velvet cape.

Records to Ruin Any Party Vol. 4

(www.voodoorhythm.com) There are only a few sure things in this world these days. Youtube comments on any video featuring black people will have some misspelled comments from someone calling Obama the “n” word. The Bulls will beat the Heat in at least one regular season game even if all their starters are hospitalized. And every record on Voodoo Rhythm will be absolutely, chillingly, raggedly enchanting. After what feels like fifty years in the record biz, Rev. Beat-Man’s blues. trash, country, garage, folk, rockabilly, jazz, punk label continues to put out the best twisted Americana by inbred European musicians whose phonetic pronunciations of rural American jargon are scarier and more beautiful than almost anything in “Deliverance” or Harry Smith’s Anthology of American Folk Music. So obviously their latest compilation is all hits, no shits, with The Pussywarmers, Die Zorros, The Future Pimitives, Beat-Man’s own Monsters and more making masterful musical messes that you’ll be happy to mop up.

Not to Be Caught Short: 5 Years of Outta Print & Unreleased sHITS from Magnetic South

(Magnetic South) Pardon me if you’ve heard this rant from me already, but a few years back I almost sprained my arm patting myself on the back for getting the perfect amount of proper sized storage boxes, alphabetizing, and neating shelving what I was sure was my now finite collection of cassette tapes. Then the hipster cassette revolution happened, which wouldn’t have been such a bad thing if so many of the tapes weren’t SO GOOD. I had to keep album-length tapes of unreleased or fresh material from brilliant noise, garage, and punk bands, hadn’t I? Now teetering stacks of unboxed tapes mock my neat row of boxes, and to make matters more ridiculous, I actually have to have a favorite new school cassette label?!? And by “have to” I mean that if a label releases a sitar Banana Splits tribute, bands as badass as Apache Dropout and Open Sex, and my new fave girl group (the sometimes masked Tsunamis, who do  a tribute to the dancing skills of my editor Jake on this compilation…or dare I say “mix tape”) what are ya gonna do? Damn you Magnetic South, why do you have to be so magnetic!

The Lemons “Hello, We’re the Lemons”

(TrippTapes) Lemon is not the most popular flavor of bubblegum (in fact the only lemonade-flavored bubblegum I can recall featured a cartoon of LeBron James on the wrapper, meaning it became a virtually villainous flavor once he signed with Miami). The Lemons, in contrast, are destined to be the most popular classic bubblegum band of the 21^st Century. With tasty tunes about seaweed, Kool-Aid, Ice Cream and Chubby Checker sounding better than all the filler and a few of the singles on most of the Archies albums these local limón-lovers have crafted the first tape of the nuevo-cassette era that I actually wore out from playing so much. The “Chubby Checker” track in particular is such a perfect Kasenetz-Katz revival that it made want to run off and join the Super Circus. In Lemons we (ci)Trus(t)!

The Locals “Stereostatic Funicular”

(localsrock.com) Heard of locavores? Well I’m a LocaMORE! Cuz I can’t get enuf of this hooky alternapop rock n roll hoodoo!

The Fleshtones “Wheel of Talent”

(Yep Roc) Seeing the Fleshtones last October on their Halloween tour was an eye re-opener. Challenging the Cramps for best garage revivalists of the original punk era, the Fleshtones have been reviving and updating the 60s for so long and so well and that they developed a sound too distinct to be linked to nostalgia or any particular era. However, at some point in the late 90s I saw them and maybe one of us was having a bad night, or maybe I mistook Peter Zaremba’s heavy lids for laziness, but I just wasn’t sold, and have been cooler on them then I should have been for over a decade. My bad! The band was positively electric last year, younger than young bands, groovier than any new act, and just plain powerful. I think it helped that they were promoting an album of silly, ridiculous Halloween music, which allowed them to cut loose. And I think had I not just spun that album continuously (after being won over by the live show) I might be more enthused about their latest solid offering. Not that there’s no silly here (monkey orgasm sounds on “Hipster Heaven” qualify), but this is mostly a more mature, feet on the ground take on Farfisa-fueled surf/garage/punk/R&B/pop. All the playing, singing, harmonies, and rocking out is great here, and I really enjoy this, I’m just such a sucker for novelty that I got spoiled by their monster material. Highlights include lovely guest vocals by Mary of Southern Culture on the Skids, a sincere, non-mawkish ode to the Ramones and both bands shared CBGBs days, and a grand, bombastic opening track about awesome availability. Extra points for attempting a Spanish language track, where they make the correct decision of not using a faux Mexican accent when shouting “allright!”