Prince Passed Away At Age 57
- Thread starter Admiral Ackbar
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Absalom's Thought
Banned
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Cat piss martini
Veteran
Another Lonely Christmas, brehs
song gets me in the chest everytime.
darlin darlin you.......you shoulda been there.
Tenchi Ryu
Ashtray B!tch
So its sounding like Prince OD'd on a highly potent painkiller a week before his death, being the reason for the emergency stop in Illinois the other day. Hoping it is the theory of a blood clot and not this that took him out.
Adebisi_Said
Truth is Power
Cat piss martini
Veteran
You dont know miles man.........
My great uncle is a serial jazz head.
dude got them thick wax faded label recordings that
are worth thousands each and got pics with miles
and cicely tyson.....my great uncle aint been the same since
miles died.....he got stories for days about miles.
the shyt that came to mind reading your post is that
miles respected very few people in music.
if he couldnt see your music you were lower than
shyt to him because he felt you were taking up
space in sound........miles had real respect for prince.
Why There Will Never Be Another Prince
By Bomani JonesApril 21, 2016
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Prince is dead. It sounds implausible, even in a world where the only kinds of people are those who will die and those who already have. But if there were two types of people on the planet, Prince always seemed to belong to a third. And now he’s done the only ordinary thing any of us could ever imagine him doing.
There is no fear of hyperbole when remembering Prince. He was the best recording artist of his time, the most versatile, more influential to a broader array of artists and genres than anyone. As long as it’s not a horn, he might have been the best at playing any basic pop instrument. He was a singular tour de force, using each of his albums to defy silly record-store categories. He could be as energetic and defiant as James Brown, as traditionally masculine as Teddy Pendergrass, as unbounded as David Bowie, as vulnerable as Marvin Gaye, as insightful as Paul Simon and as electric as Michael Jackson. At the same damn time.
He was the only one who could dream of being so much and then summon the talent and ambition to pull it off.
No one could simply encapsulate his career or his influence. When he was with us, it was hard enough to make sense of him, let alone sum him up. He moved too fast for that, almost to his own detriment. By the time the world could digest 1999, he was already onto Purple Rain, which somehow managed to be hard rock, soul, pop and gospel at once. Before we could fully comprehend that—but after buying roughly a zillion copies—he was on to Around the World in a Day. Two years (and one bad movie) later, he was on to Sign O the Times, a double album with no filler to be found. Next thing you knew, he was butt naked on the cover of Lovesexy, rebelling against the strictures of the nascent CD format by making the whole thing one continuous track. That’s how he wanted us to listen.
His mistakes came when he tried too hard to be like someone else, whether it was the awkward attempts at incorporating hip-hop (dear God, the gun microphone) or smoothing his sound to make R&B more palatable to ’90s urban radio.
But doing what he wanted? That’s what Prince at his best was all about. Appearing on the cover of Dirty Mind in a trench coat and G-string, releasing “When Doves Cry” without a bass line or demanding to do a movie when he’d never acted in his life. He wore what he wanted. He said what he wanted. He did what he wanted, fully aware that we couldn’t help but indulge him. Why? Because he was the baddest motherfukker on Earth, a tiny man who somehow oozed masculinity while playing with a traditionally female aesthetic.
He was the only man who would dare tell Michael fukking Jackson that he wouldn’t join him on the title track to the follow-up to Thriller.
His songs all center on that most precious commodity in music: audacity. Few things are more daring than emotional intelligence combined with physical freedom. They were ever-shifting Venn diagrams of sex and love, confidence and insecurity, hope and resignation. He had the rare talent to write songs for women that actually sounded like they were written by women. In other words, he was man enough to sound like he wasn’t.
Where Bowie was great at being so many people, Prince’s gift was showing so many sides of himself. The expressions of raw sexuality were so pointed and clever, and the romanticism was so measured, each with equal parts self-assuredness and self-awareness. He knew what he was capable of on “Do It All Night,” but was fully aware someone else might get there first. He’d somehow lost his woman to the dude she brought for them to play with on “When You Were Mine,” and yet wanted her back with no equivocation. And “Adore,” with its soaring declarations of love and the groundedness to say that she better not lay a finger on his car, is as real as any love song has ever been, even if some of that love was for an automobile. Being shy in Prince’s world was useless, no matter how crass or uncomfortable the truth may have been.
Prince wasn’t Bob Marley. His music wasn’t supposed to change the world. It was the world as most could only wish it was. It was the soundtrack to dreams, even if it seemed like his real life. Because the dream for so many is freedom, to be liberated from convention and guided by how they felt, no matter what that feeling was.
There’s just no way anyone would ever dream that Prince would die, and there’s no point in dreaming up a replacement. We had our one, and I hope you had a funky good time, because nothing like this will ever happen again.
By Bomani JonesApril 21, 2016
Share
Prince is dead. It sounds implausible, even in a world where the only kinds of people are those who will die and those who already have. But if there were two types of people on the planet, Prince always seemed to belong to a third. And now he’s done the only ordinary thing any of us could ever imagine him doing.
There is no fear of hyperbole when remembering Prince. He was the best recording artist of his time, the most versatile, more influential to a broader array of artists and genres than anyone. As long as it’s not a horn, he might have been the best at playing any basic pop instrument. He was a singular tour de force, using each of his albums to defy silly record-store categories. He could be as energetic and defiant as James Brown, as traditionally masculine as Teddy Pendergrass, as unbounded as David Bowie, as vulnerable as Marvin Gaye, as insightful as Paul Simon and as electric as Michael Jackson. At the same damn time.
He was the only one who could dream of being so much and then summon the talent and ambition to pull it off.
No one could simply encapsulate his career or his influence. When he was with us, it was hard enough to make sense of him, let alone sum him up. He moved too fast for that, almost to his own detriment. By the time the world could digest 1999, he was already onto Purple Rain, which somehow managed to be hard rock, soul, pop and gospel at once. Before we could fully comprehend that—but after buying roughly a zillion copies—he was on to Around the World in a Day. Two years (and one bad movie) later, he was on to Sign O the Times, a double album with no filler to be found. Next thing you knew, he was butt naked on the cover of Lovesexy, rebelling against the strictures of the nascent CD format by making the whole thing one continuous track. That’s how he wanted us to listen.
His mistakes came when he tried too hard to be like someone else, whether it was the awkward attempts at incorporating hip-hop (dear God, the gun microphone) or smoothing his sound to make R&B more palatable to ’90s urban radio.
But doing what he wanted? That’s what Prince at his best was all about. Appearing on the cover of Dirty Mind in a trench coat and G-string, releasing “When Doves Cry” without a bass line or demanding to do a movie when he’d never acted in his life. He wore what he wanted. He said what he wanted. He did what he wanted, fully aware that we couldn’t help but indulge him. Why? Because he was the baddest motherfukker on Earth, a tiny man who somehow oozed masculinity while playing with a traditionally female aesthetic.
He was the only man who would dare tell Michael fukking Jackson that he wouldn’t join him on the title track to the follow-up to Thriller.
His songs all center on that most precious commodity in music: audacity. Few things are more daring than emotional intelligence combined with physical freedom. They were ever-shifting Venn diagrams of sex and love, confidence and insecurity, hope and resignation. He had the rare talent to write songs for women that actually sounded like they were written by women. In other words, he was man enough to sound like he wasn’t.
Where Bowie was great at being so many people, Prince’s gift was showing so many sides of himself. The expressions of raw sexuality were so pointed and clever, and the romanticism was so measured, each with equal parts self-assuredness and self-awareness. He knew what he was capable of on “Do It All Night,” but was fully aware someone else might get there first. He’d somehow lost his woman to the dude she brought for them to play with on “When You Were Mine,” and yet wanted her back with no equivocation. And “Adore,” with its soaring declarations of love and the groundedness to say that she better not lay a finger on his car, is as real as any love song has ever been, even if some of that love was for an automobile. Being shy in Prince’s world was useless, no matter how crass or uncomfortable the truth may have been.
Prince wasn’t Bob Marley. His music wasn’t supposed to change the world. It was the world as most could only wish it was. It was the soundtrack to dreams, even if it seemed like his real life. Because the dream for so many is freedom, to be liberated from convention and guided by how they felt, no matter what that feeling was.
There’s just no way anyone would ever dream that Prince would die, and there’s no point in dreaming up a replacement. We had our one, and I hope you had a funky good time, because nothing like this will ever happen again.
Absalom's Thought
Banned
.
Last edited:
Kobes Two Jerseys
8 or 24 best player of the era
So what artist today is on Prince level?
Cat piss martini
Veteran
ok do this.......
take any artist you can think of and leave them alone
in a room with drums,pianos/keyboards,guitars,
a 48 track board and a sound booth.
some would give you a great guitar track.
others would give you dope drum tracks.
some singing,some with beautiful concertos.
prince would hand you a album.....playing/doing everything.
you'd be hard pressed to name 10 people in the history
of music that could do that.
Cat piss martini
Veteran
I'm gonna get my wax up to.
Sithlord Piff
Superstar
Prince and Miles have had plenty of jam sessions together.I have this cd...they made some funky joints, if you can get your hands on this you struck gold.