TAFKAP: I'll Live My Life In Taxicabs

TAFKAP: I'll Live My Life In Taxicabs

Hunter J. Thompson


Don't know where I'm goin' 'cause I don't know where I've been.

I have my own private Prince tribute party every time I get in my car.

His catalogue is always used when I’m trying to court a female.

Reports say that Prince was advised to remain in hospital for 24 hours, but when he was denied a private room, he “decided to bail.”

Say no more.

You’ll hear in the coming days that he was a mix of Little Richard, James Brown, Jimi Hendrix, and Michael Jackson all synthesised into one. I always feel that comparisons after the fact are mildly disrespectful. Having said that, he probably does belong to this club, all of whom are pioneers in their own right (besides Little Richard, possibly).

A ‘behind closed doors’ superstar, he was an enigma, an anomaly in the sequence of hair bands, new wave, and hip-hop. He couldn’t be more culturally referenced.

We knew a lot about Prince Rogers Nelson, but at the same time we knew nothing at all.

 

It said ‘thank you for a funky time, call me up whenever u want to grind’

His songs encapsulated a bizarre mix of the psychosexual, nursery rhymes, religion, and anything risqué. The result of this is not so much a bridging of different genres, but instead a hybrid fusion of sound, reigning superior to all others concurrently.

He expressed a raw sexuality and femininity that said, “Take it or leave it…”

It didn’t matter if you were the most glamorous diva or the most unsavoury gang member – Prince was always the man.

The songs almost sounded like they came out of the recording studio backwards and his stage shows mocked convention as he ascended to become a pioneer of androgyny. Close your eyes and listen to harmonies on the chorus of Private Joy or the haunting snare drum on Sign o’ the Times. 

The creative process was as simple as running to a bass guitar anytime a melody entered his head. Triggers as simple as the vibrations from his toothbrush.

What is often lost on people is that Prince was himself a supremely talented guitarist, a studio technician given free rein to express himself in front of an audience. This was never more evident than during the Super Bowl XLI half-time show, during which God abided to the script by opening the heavens during Purple Rain.

Animals strike curious poses; they feel the heat, the heat between me and you.

On a purely anecdotal note, my old man was in a covers band in the late 80s – early 90s.

How much mayonnaise was added to this story?

I’m not sure.

From what I have gathered, the band was playing a regular gig at the former Metro Nightclub. During the set, they were informed that Prince had secured a private area to come and watch the band play, who themselves included a range of his songs.

After the show, they were all invited to come and rub shoulders with him and his entourage. All that I’ve mustered from this exchange was that while the band probably all ran around like school kids, Prince sat, sucking on a chupa chup talking about the music.

Prince to a tee – expect the unexpected.

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But it was Saturday night; I guess that makes it alright.

The closing of Matt Thorne’s 2012 biography Prince says…

‘One thing seems certain: he will be out there performing, somewhere, onstage or in the studio, every year for the rest of his life. Who knows how long this will continue? Endlessly, we can hope. Prince once said Wendy wants to live forever. So does Prince. Maybe he will.’

Unfortunately, this hopeful forecast has been proven wrong. But his death only adds to the myth of a man who graced us with production and flamboyancy, and won’t take anything away from the timelessness of the music.


The Collective