A transformative moment of my tragicomic teenage years was watching Prince belt out The Beautiful Ones for the dark and delicious Apollonia. Hearing the Purple One's blend of throaty roar and falsetto–"I may not know where I'm going, baby/I may not know what I need/But one thing, one thing's for certain baby/I know what I want.../I want you!"–did something for me, for which I remain grateful.
The only time I say "baby" these days is talking to my seven-year-old daughter. But Prince's lyrics and approach were a revelation–it was the first time I'd ever heard desire so forcefully and unambiguously expressed without offensive carnality. I didn't know it was possible to speak to a woman like that. Neither did many women. It changed the way I did man-woman things. (With mixed success.)
All this came back three decades later, watching Purple Rain on VH1 over the Easter Weekend with a flush of nostalgia and surreal horror. For the uninitiated, Purple Rain, the flick: a hot nightclub, First Ave, in Minneapolis, USA. The star, The Kid–flamboyant, androgynous, a little twisted, tiny. His nemesis, the suave Morris Day–the smoothest player in the game back then. The babe: Apollonia. The conflict: ambition, crazy parents, a musical duel for love and honour.
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