(Featured Image: “The Band with No Name”; from the Sign “O” the Times tour book, 1987.)
Settle in, folks, because today we’ve got not one, but two presenters from this spring’s Prince conference at the University of Salford: interdisciplinary artist/activist Felicia Holman and independent scholar/activist Harold Pride. Both were part of the organic community of Black artists and academics who came together in Manchester and, each in their own way, helped to reclaim Prince’s legacy as a specifically African American artist. The three of us talk about that, as well as their specific papers–Harold’s on the underrated, short-lived “Band with No Name” from 1987–1988; Felicia’s on Prince’s autodidacticism and its connection to traditions of Black self-determination–and, as usual, a lot of other things along the way. It’s a great conversation that could have easily been twice as long; I hope you enjoy it as much as I did!
I still have a handful of these interviews lined up, and will be posting them at least through Labor Day. If you want to hear them, you can follow the podcast on any of the major services (iTunes, Stitcher, or Google Play). Appearances to the contrary, I’m also still writing: I’ll be back to the ol’ grind next week. See you then!
Way back in mid-April, I spoke with writer, philosopher, and fellow Prince obsessive Jane Clare Jones for so long that our conversation ended up being split into four parts; but by the end of that conversation, we were also talking aroundthings more often than we were talking aboutthem. So, last week, we got together for a redo. The resulting podcast is a Frankenstein’s monster–but a fun, interesting Frankenstein’s monster!–of our original discussion on Mayte’s The Most Beautiful(placed, for maximum confusion, at the end) and some setup for the things we were talking around–which we’ll finally address in our episode next week. We also take advantage of the passage of time by discussing some of the major developments in the Princeverse last month: the Celebration, “Deliverance,” and that godawful TV movie. I promise it’s all a lot more coherent than it sounds.
You can listen to the podcast here or on any of the major aggregators: iTunes, Stitcher, and Google Play; feel free also to subscribe and leave a review on the service of your choice. We should have it up on Mixcloud soon, too. If you’re just coming in now, you can–and should!–check out the first and second episodes here. As always, thanks for listening!
(Featured Image: Crappy Cell Phone Photo by Yours Truly.)
I have to admit: when I first heard the Revolution were reuniting, I wasn’t sure what to think. The very notion of the Revolution without Prince sounded bizarre, like Mitch Mitchell and Noel Redding getting together to tour as the Experience sans Hendrix. But when I read the reports from their first set of shows in Minneapolis last year, suddenly it made sense. This was, in many ways, less a conventional rock reunion than an act of collective mourning. All of us, the majority of whom never met the man in person, felt a profound loss when Prince passed; so how does one even fathom what it meant to the people who shared some of his most successful and creatively fertile years? And if listening to “Sometimes It Snows in April” helps to process our grief, can we really blame Wendy and Lisa–who were, as Wendy recalled last night, actually present and involved in the song’s composition–for singing it to process theirs?
Yet even after I understood the reunion, I still didn’t know what to expect. I was two years old when the Revolution disbanded, so they always seemed frozen in time to me: forever lip-syncing on the First Avenue stage in Purple Rain. Did I really want to see them in their fifties–not to mention without the pint-sized whirling dervish of musical and sexual energy who had always been the group’s unambiguous focal point?
Last Sunday, I spoke with writer, philosopher, and fellow Prince obsessive Jane Clare Jones about…well, a lot of things, which is why we ended up having to break our podcast up into four episodes. For this first installment, we talk about our stories as Prince fans and articulate some of the reasons why his music–and, to a not-insignificant extent, the man himself–continues to mean so much to us. In the weeks to come, I’ll post the later installments, where we discuss the two recent books by Ben Greenman and Mayte Garcia, and try to unpack some of our thoughts around Prince’s death last April. I hope you enjoy it.
Every once in a while, we’ll interrupt our usual programming on dance / music / sex / romance to repost something relevant from our sister site, Dystopian Dance Party. Today–and in honor of D.D.P.’s most sacred holiday season, Jheri Curl June–it’s a podcast where my cohost Callie and I look at the cottage industry of (very) thinly-veiled side projects introduced by Prince between 1981 and 1987: including the Time, Vanity 6, Sheila E, Apollonia 6, the Family, Mazarati, Jill Jones, and others. If you’re a Prince fan–and, if you’re at this website, I’m going to go out on a limb and guess you are–then some of this stuff is essential listening.
First, though, a word of warning, as I’m afraid there’s a factual error in this one: I was speaking from memory in the section about Sheila E, and incorrectly stated that “Noon Rendezvous” began life as a Revolution outtake. It was actually co-written by Prince and Sheila for the Glamorous Life album; the Revolution just happened to cover it in concert. Oops! Anyway, I left that bit in because I still like the song, so just enjoy the music and try to ignore the fact that I’m blatantly lying to you.
Show notes are here. We’ll be back to the chronological Prince grind starting, I believe, Wednesday; in the meantime, check out Dystopian Dance Party every weekday in June for more ’80s R&B that owes more than a slight debt to His Royal Badness.