Tears Go Here

I had no intention of writing anything about the 10th anniversary of Prince's passing. Words unexpectedly tumbled out of me Sunday, after Minneapolis writer Andrea Swensson shared her moving reflections. I urge you to read. Check it out, then come back. I'll wait.

After I immersed myself in Andrea's words—God, how she has a way with them—I found myself in tears over her honest, heartfelt and beautiful assessments. This is not the first time I've been knocked sideways by Swensson's storytelling. Her work on the official Prince podcast teased incredible detail out of several of his best-loved albums; she pinpointed the Los Angeles Times front page that likely inspired the title track to Sign O' The Times and coaxed a heartfelt message out of the long-absent Rosie Gaines, Prince's vocal foil in the early iteration of The New Power Generation. Then there's her work covering the life and career of quietly influential Minneapolis musician Cornbread Harris, who turns 99 on Thursday and continues to gig in the area. (I've written here about her biography of Harris, and an event that allowed me to meet one of the coolest people in history: Cornbread's son, writer/producer James "Jimmy Jam" Harris III.)

It occurred to me, after reading, that I haven’t cried about Prince in awhile. Lately, tragically, thinking about him just hurts. When The New York Times did the postmortem on Ezra’s documentary—a nine-hour opus that sought to hold the equal truths of Prince's artistic genius and occasionally hurtful personhood, scrapped by the estate for not telling a positive enough story—I found myself unable to talk to friends or colleagues about the situation without my vision blurring and my head pounding. Anger was the shape my feelings often took. Andrea's similar pains are palpable in her writing, too. It's "nice," if not exactly comforting, to know I'm not alone.

It’s dually unfair that today's anniversary, which no one wants to celebrate, comes within spitting distance of another day I’m slightly dreading: this week, I will go to the movie theater and see what similar malfeasance may do to telling the story of Michael Jackson on film. Before Prince, for me, there was Michael—both musicians occupying so deep and so oddly public a space in my heart with their work, that the passing of both men inspired close and distant friends to ask me “Are you doing OK?” afterward, as if it was one of my relatives who died and not people who, in their own way, belonged to everyone and no one.

For both of them, I got to touch the hems of their cloaks in my own way—to get paid to write about them, think about them, help shape (with a very tiny instrument) how their works would be sold in my time at Sony Music. For Michael, I anonymously wrote essays devoted to the short films (they wouldn’t ever call them videos). I’m really proud of them, drawn from archival interviews and full of reverence for the craft therein; they were also minimally edited by the estate, something that made me feel proud when my bosses expressed their surprise and pride.

You can’t read them now. Jackson's website has recently been redesigned with far less information, to accommodate the selling of a biopic that I’ll probably be baffled by as much as I was after seeing an audience clap at Bohemian Rhapsody. Someday, I will go into the Internet Archive and save the work. It’s a task I’ve added to the typical chores of a parent. My twin daughters are two now, and they remain my clearest focus, more than any pop archive. I remain in awe of them: their curly hair, their dance moves, the phrases they pick up. (My younger, the more talkative and, I suspect, maybe the second actor in our family after my wife, will leave a room bidding everyone goodbye, and occasionally “I see you later!”) Thank God there is life to remind us of what the disappointments of getting to serve an artist, and then not getting to, can never replace in our minds.

I dry my tears, I remember the first time they came (fucking off of work entirely and writing this tribute while people touched my shoulder in an open-floor office plan to see if I was alright). I am so glad Andrea's piece reminds me of the work fans (fams, whatever you want to call them) are doing. I'm reminded that the organic passion of people, untouched by a corporate entity, may be the salve that soothes us in troubled times. They may not be able to fix the tape drag on the 12” of “Girl” on the Around the World in a Day reissue, but they give us something no lawyer or executor can touch.

In this surprise moment of renewed hope, I'll share one of my favorite Prince deep cuts. The Truth was a mostly-acoustic album (something Prince rarely did) sold alongside the rarities compilation Crystal Ball in 1998. Fans' patience was tested by Crystal Ball, initially sold through direct online orders but later popping up (in sturdier packaging) in Best Buy retailers; this meant that The Truth was, and perhaps is, unfairly ignored by all but the most faithful. He sounds wearied and wounded on it, and he has every reason to be: besides the ongoing battles with the music industry that made him change his name to the unpronounceable symbol, there was the secret, hidden pain of losing Amiir, his son with first wife Mayte Garcia. (He died of a rare genetic disorder at just a week old; shockingly, Prince lied about the situation in an interview with Oprah Winfrey less than a month after it happened.)

Prince would never have told anyone who The Truth's penultimate track "Comeback" was about. But it's not hard to guess. "Sweet wind blew / Not a moment too soon / 👁️ cry when 👁️ realized / That sweet wind was U," he sings. "Don't have 2 say 👁️ miss U / 'Cause 👁️ think U already know / If U ever lose someone / Dear 2 U / Never say the words 'they're gone' / They'll come back."

I can't say if Prince will ever come back, but I hope he's happy, wherever his spirit remains. I hope you're happy, too, even given the circumstances. Tears go here.