It felt like one massive cumulonimbus cloud was hanging over the entire country on Thursday.
News broke that Prince Rogers Nelson had died at the age of 57, and comedian Chris Rock summed it up about as well as anyone could've:
Say it isn't so. pic.twitter.com/xdY0bYDtSO
— Chris Rock (@chrisrock) April 21, 2016
Like David Bowie, who also ascended to a higher plane this year, Prince was one of those enigmatic figures that never seemed fully human and therefore couldn't be mortal; like Earth was just a stop on his expedition across the cosmos. There will be plenty of words written about him in the coming days; firsthand accounts of transcendent live performances, chance personal meetings; and I encourage you to read every single one of them.
I have no such stories of my own. I'd heard a song here and there in my dad's car on the way to or from name-your-sport practice coming up, but my first real introduction to Prince was the sketch about him on "Chappelle's Show"; the same that Prince would later use as fodder for single artwork. It remains the best six minutes in the history of television.
And it was at least a little bit true.
I didn't get into Bowie until after I noticed he was Nikola freaking Tesla in "The Prestige." "Guitar Hero" introduced me to Iggy & The Stooges, which led me to "Raw Power," now one of my favorite albums. I admit, it's an ass-backwards way of doing things, but it it's music, you know? It doesn't really matter how you get there. It just matters that you eventually do.
After watching "Prince" hit Charlie Murphy with the illest hesitation crossover in platform boots, I Googled everything, and stumbled across "Rasberry Beret" and "Nothing Compares 2 U," which were basically auditory crushed purple velvet. They helped me toward the understanding that "love" was something more than just a stronger word for "like" -- that it was a whole abstract notion to be explored.
But The Sketch being my in, the stories; the ones that illustrated that genetically unattainable cool he owned-- the ones that were almost too fantastic to believe-- those were my favorite part. You're free to form your own opinions about which is best, but there's one in particular that I like to tell whenever Prince comes up in conversation.
The uneasy rivalry between Prince and Michael Jackson is one of those things that everyone just knows about. But in 1986, with both coming off massive successes in Purple Rain and Thriller, Jackson reached out to Prince for a collaboration of sorts that would never happen. In a 1997 interview, Prince sat across from Chris Rock in a lime green turtleneck and Versace shades, telling Rock about how Jackson's "Bad" was supposed to be a duet between the two of them.
Jackson had played Prince the reference track, and the very first line on it was "your butt is mine," which stopped Prince cold in his tracks: "Now, who gon' sing that to whom? 'Cause you sure ain't singin' it to me. And I'm sure not singin' it to you." Reportedly, that conversation took place over a phone call, and I'd be willing to fork over every penny I've ever earned to hear a tape of the whole thing.
He was iconic. He was an unapologetic visionary. A multi-instrumentalist, a songwriter, and a bona fide rockstar. He was the strongest case for the existence of actual magic, and he will be sorely missed.
