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Best prince biography

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Prince’s Memoir Isn’t Really Prince’s Memoir

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Dearly beloved, we R gathered here today 2 get through this thing called life—or rather, 2 browse through this thing called a book about Prince’s life, The Beautiful Ones. But I’m here 2 tell U (and 4give me, I’ll quit it with the Princeoglyphics now) that it’d be false to say the book actually represents the Artist’s memoirs, pieced together after his maddening death in April 2016, at age 57, due to apparently misprescribed painkillers. The great (perhaps greatest) late-20th-century songwriter, live performer, funk-pop-rock synthesist, and cultural trickster had begun that effort a few months earlier with Dan Piepenbring as co-writer, then a Paris Revieweditor in his late 20s who’d never writte

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Le Grind: The Ongoing Enigma Of Prince

Sitting up late one night not so long ago with a bunch of musicians, I found myself immersed in the sounds of Prince’s Parade – a record that, at the time of its release, became something of an obsession of mine. But, in recent years, it’s been neglected on my shelves, pulled out only occasionally, and almost always for its closing track, the exquisite ‘Sometimes It Snows In April’. That night we played the record without pause, marvelling at the lack of bass on ‘Kiss’, and the way its percussion seems to distort ever so slightly; at the brilliant absurdity of the Caribbean steel drum on ‘New Position’; and at the swooning romance of ‘Under The Cherry Moon’, which flows like a river despite its deliberately plodding drum beat. We thrilled to ‘Mountains’, chuckled admiringly at the French pretensions of ‘Do U Lie’ and gasped at the sublimely inventive brass and wind arrangements on ‘I Wonder U’. We all agreed: Prince, at his finest – and1986’s Parade is unquestionably one of Prince’s finest albums – is triumphant.

The arrival of Ma

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A little later, Prince said, “I’ll be honest, I don’t think you could write the book.” He thought I needed to know more about racism—to have felt it. He talked about hip-hop, the way it transformed words, taking white language—“your language”—and turning it into something that white people couldn’t understand. Miles Davis, he told me, believed in only two categories of thinking: the truth and white bullshit.

And yet, a little later, when we were discussing the music industry’s many forms of dominion over artists, I said something that seemed to galvanize him. I wondered what his interest in publishing a book was, given that the music business had modelled itself on book publishing. Contracts, advances, royalties, revenue splits, copyrights: the approach to intellectual property that he abhorred in record labels had its origins in the publishing industry. His face lit up. “I can see myself typing that,” he said, pantomiming typing at a keyboard. “ ‘You may be wondering why I’m working with . . . ’ ”

We’d been speaking for well over an hour when he paused. “Do you know what time i

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