The Rise of Prince 1958-1988

by Hahn, Alex

  The band continued to perform gigs around the city, and by spring 1976 had saved enough money to purchase recording time at an inexpensive studio. They chose Moonsound, run by a lanky Englishman named Chris Moon.

  Moon, whose personality was equal parts laid-back and fanciful, had moved to Minneapolis as a teenager and opened his studio after graduating high school. His interest was less in making money and more in working with interesting musicians, as well as exploring new recording techniques. He was also a frustrated songwriter who wrote lyrics copiously but lacked skill on any instrument.

  As the Shampayne sessions began, Moon became intrigued by several aspects of Prince’s personality. First, there was the discipline; he would usually arrive early for the sessions to practice on various instruments. Second, he was shy and quiet, in contrast to the boisterous personalities of Andre, Terry Jackson, and Morris Day. This reticence caused Moon to speculate that Prince had less of an ego than his bandmates, something that might make him an appealing collaborator.

  One afternoon in the studio, Moon approached Prince with an idea: if he would provide instrumentation for Moon’s lyrics, Moon in turn would provide free studio time for the young artist to work on his own material.

  Prince pondered the offer for a few moments, and then he grunted; it was hardly a definitive answer, but Moon chose to interpret it as a yes. “Let’s shake on it,” Moon said, and Prince agreed. He was then given a key to the Moonsound studio, meaning he had free rein to work on music after school.

  When his Grand Central mates found out what had happened, their pride was injured, and they issued Prince an ultimatum: he had to choose between Moon and Shampayne. A deeply conflicted Prince phoned Moon and expressed hesitation about leaving his friends. Moon calmly told Prince that he was free to make whatever decision he wanted. Two hours later, Prince called back and reaffirmed his commitment to the Englishman.

  Shampayne continued without Prince, and the Twin Cities’ lively community of young bands continued to thrive. But it had become clear to Prince that this local scene did not present any commercially viable path. Record executives were not going to come to Minneapolis to discover acts; another approach had to be found.

  Moreover, despite the city’s many seemingly up-and-coming groups, Minneapolis’ indigenous funk community was waning. The golden years of KUXL were over, and Black and Proud Records lasted just two years. Maurice McKinnies, one of the leading lights of the local R&B community, became disillusioned by the lack of opportunities and left for California. Against this backdrop, Prince saw clearly that working alone in a recording studio would offer more opportunity than gigging with his friends.

  Since Moon had to work a day job, Prince was usually alone in the studio in the afternoons. Working with lyrics Moon had left for him, Prince would sit at a piano to create melodies. Moon taught him how to use the studio equipment, and soon Prince started to construct full-fledged songs, playing one instrument after another just as he had planned when experimenting with those rudimentary recordings in the Anderson basement. And although Moonsound itself had limitations, it was a quantum leap forward for Prince.

  When the weekends arrived, freeing Prince from school, he worked virtually around the clock at the studio. Like his father, he needed very little sleep to refresh himself. As the sessions continued in coming weeks, he became more sociable and talkative with Moon. Still, his work habits were relentless; when Moon smoked a joint or cracked open a beer, Prince shot him disapproving looks and insisted that they return to work.

  Prince graduated from Central High in the spring of 1976, giving him even more time to spend at the studio. Prince was a quick study on the studio equipment, and could soon run the controls with ease. He and Moon competed to control the faders, their combined hands like an octopus on the mixing board.[170] Nonetheless, Moon saw that Prince had an innate understanding of how sonic frequencies could be arranged to create a professional sound.

  Moon liked to experiment, and found that Prince did as well. Tricks were employed such as playing instruments backwards in the mix, a technique often used by Jimi Hendrix. The songwriting was relatively collaborative, with Moon providing lyrics, Prince creating musical riffs, and the two then negotiating how to combine them.

  While he enjoyed exchanging ideas with Moon, it became clear that Prince’s ultimate goal was to control the recording process and work primarily on his own material. Moon, while hoping to play an ongoing creative role, recognized that Prince would be the public face and driving force of the project. Both were committed to creating a demo tape that could get Prince signed to a record label.

  After several months, 14 songs were completed, far more than necessary. All of the instruments were played by Prince, but just as he had hoped, the results sounded remarkably like a full band. While many of the songs ended up being meandering creations, the catchy funk-pop number “Soft and Wet” emerged as the obvious flagship choice for a demo tape.

  One afternoon Moon invited local drummer Bobby Z. Rivkin to the studio to meet Prince. Rivkin was the brother of David Z. Rivkin, who had engineered Prince’s sessions at API Studio earlier in 1976. (The brothers’ shared middle initial was a nickname coined by their grandmother). When he arrived and saw Prince playing piano for the first time, Rivkin was stunned. “It sounded like he had four hands; he was filling out more chordal information on the piano than I’ve ever heard,” Rivkin remembered. In the weeks to come, Rivkin kept hanging around Moonsound. He had already decided that this young musician was worth devoting his entire career to.

  ***

  Prince Rogers Nelson was now 18 years old. Over the past six years, he had gone from being a shy youth to a member of an important local band, eventually becoming the band’s leader. Now, among a tremendously talented community of musicians, he had been singled out for special attention in a manner that might lead to a professional career.

  With his friends, Prince was still a source of practical jokes and easy laughs, and continued to enjoy the congenial atmosphere of the Northside. At the same time, a distance was forming between himself and that world, one born of his need to dominate every phase of his music. His ambitions, discipline, and drive outstripped that of any of his colleagues. And the results of his solitary work in the studio – which showed him to be an emerging songwriter as well as an extremely capable multi-instrumentalist – made him even more committed to the principle of self-reliance. Thus, despite a growing group of loyal patrons and supporters, Prince was by choice becoming more alone.

  6. Demands

  With high school complete, Prince had ample time to play music and an increasing sense of destiny about his future. The primary concern now was money. Day-to-day survival was not an issue, as he remained sufficiently cared for at the Anderson household. But to advance his career, he needed financing, recording time at a superior studio, and promotional machinery.

  Having finished a slate of demos at Moonsound, Prince felt he had essentially outgrown the need for Chris Moon as a collaborator, and asked him instead to begin serving as a manager. But Moon, wanting to be a creative collaborator rather than a business functionary, declined. “The piece I don’t do,” he told Prince, “is booking your hotel, making sure you’re wearing the right kind of clothes. I’m not interested in that.”

  So Prince flew alone to New Jersey, where he stayed at his half-sister Sharon Nelson’s apartment and began reaching out to Manhattan music executives. But he had wildly overestimated his ability to proceed without representation, and his calls to labels went unreturned.

  Disappointed and frustrated, he contacted Moon in Minneapolis. Not wanting to see Prince fail, he agreed to make some phone calls and present himself as Prince’s manager. Unfortunately, almost to the extent of his client, Moon lacked either business experience or music industry contacts; just as Prince’s had, his efforts to penetrate New York’s executive suites went nowhere.

  Unwilling to admit defeat, Moon resorted to extreme measures. Upon reac
hing an administrative assistant at Atlantic Records, he claimed to be Stevie Wonder’s manager and insisted upon speaking to her boss. After the assistant nervously patched him through, Moon sheepishly admitted that he actually represented an artist named Prince.

  “If you like Stevie Wonder, you’re gonna love my artist,” Moon blurted out. “He’s only eighteen and he plays all the instruments. And he’s not blind!”

  For all its chutzpah, Moon’s stunt led to a meeting and an airing of the demo tape, but nothing more. Atlantic passed, and other labels remained unwilling even to meet. Still hunkered down in New Jersey at Sharon’s apartment, Prince found his options waning.

  Back in Minneapolis, a likewise gloomy Moon continued to circulate Prince’s demo tape among music industry acquaintances. Among those he approached was Owen Husney, a Minneapolitan with a small but thriving advertising agency that also provided marketing services for musicians. Idealistic and passionate, Husney had been the guitarist for a local group called the High Spirits during the 1960s. His agency was located in Loring Park, a charming green space in downtown Minneapolis. By this time in his career, Husney combined the energy and verve of a former musician with the savvy of an experienced businessman, making him an ideal candidate to assist Prince.

  Moon, consistent with his flair for the dramatic, decided to spring a surprise on Husney after intimating that he had identified an unheralded local band. Husney, busy with other projects and viewing Moon as well-meaning but naïve, rebuffed him for several weeks. But eventually Husney gave Moon an audience at his office. Moon threw on Prince’s demo tape, and Husney agreeably tapped his foot to the rhythm of “Soft and Wet.”

  “Who’s the band?” Husney asked.

  Moon then dropped his big surprise: this was no band, but rather an 18-year-old local musician playing every instrument. Husney, immediately recognizing the opportunity in front of him, jumped on a phone call with Prince and offered to be his manager. Striking a paternal note, he warned Prince that given his age, people were going to try to manipulate him. “I’m going to be the protector of your creativity,” Husney told him.

  Not even waiting for his client to return home, Husney entered into a whirlwind of activity. He undertook a capital campaign, forming a corporation and talking up Prince’s talent to wealthy friends. Quickly, $50,000 was raised off the demo’s strength. When Prince returned to Minneapolis, he learned that Husney had rented him an apartment and placed him on a fifty-dollar-a-week allowance. He entered his first home as an adult, leaving behind the Anderson basement forever.

  Next, Husney identified two core tasks – developing a live band for eventual concerts and recording a new demo. The Moonsound tape had already made the rounds at most major labels, and a more polished product was needed. Husney cautioned Prince that before they re-entered a studio, he needed to write additional catchy songs in the vein of “Soft and Wet.”

  The interpersonal chemistry between Prince and Husney was both strong and combustible, with tempers occasionally flaring. There was also a tenderness to their bond; after one loud argument over strategy, Prince stormed out, but later in the day invited Husney over to hear a new song. He played Husney a plaintive ballad called “So Blue.”

  “It just was his way of saying, ‘I know what happened between us and I’m sorry,’” Husney recalled. As he listened to the song, Husney’s eyes filled with tears.[171]

  Husney also purchased new instruments and converted a room in his office suite into a rehearsal studio, which became a place to jam on new ideas with local musicians. Andre Anderson, whose resentment about the end of Shampayne had passed, typically handled bass duties. Bobby Z. Rivkin, who had been awed by Prince’s piano skills at Moonsound, sometimes made his way into the drummer’s chair, in part due to being employed with Husney’s agency as a gofer.

  Prince also began recording material in a makeshift studio in the office, trying to write tighter and catchier songs as Husney had suggested. One was entitled “Hello, My Love,” written about Husney’s secretary, whom he had developed a crush on. Prince’s romantic life had not yet flourished to any meaningful degree; because he remained nervous around women, music constituted an alternative means of flirting.

  While the studio in Husney’s office was fine for jams and recording basic ideas, it was insufficient to the task of creating a professional demo. Husney thus booked recording time at Sound 80, an important local studio where Bob Dylan, a fellow Minnesotan, had recorded portions of Blood on the Tracks in 1974. David Z. Rivkin was brought back in to engineer the sessions.

  Many local funk artists were circulating through Sound 80 during this period, and one afternoon Prince was recruited to play guitar and add backing vocals on the song “Got to Be Something Here” by The Lewis Connection. Adding to the friendly, collaborative atmosphere, David Z. was simultaneously producing records by other local groups at the studio, including the notable recording “Thieves in the Funkhouse” by Band of Thieves.

  As had been expected, Prince continued to perform all instruments by himself. David Z., by this time a veteran engineer, found himself stunned by the efficiency and relentlessness of Prince’s process. Prior to beginning a recording, he would hum into a hand-held cassette recorder the basics of each part he intended to record. He would then scamper around the studio and pick up various instruments, recording the individual parts and using the cassette player to provide prompts as needed.[172]

  All told, the early part of 1977, with Prince still only 18 years old, became a period of immense productivity. Prince’s fluency with studio equipment improved by the day, as did his musicianship. Between sessions, Prince continued to jam with Andre and Bobby Z. at the Loring Park rehearsal space. The trio began exploring sounds that were radically different than the pop material that Prince was recording at Sound 80. Among other things, the group stretched out into long-form instrumental grooves that straddled funk and jazz, with Prince shifting between guitar and a Moog synthesizer.

  Prince, intrigued by the results, enlisted Husney to bring in basic equipment to record the ongoing sessions. The intent was not to release the long jams that were recorded – they contained neither vocals nor traditional pop hooks – but rather to document Prince’s explorations into different musical realms, and perhaps to save ideas for further work down the road.

  The primary focus, however, remained on creating a professional demo at Sound 80. Husney was insistent on a high-quality collection of just a few songs, as opposed to the sprawling Moonsound demo that had been rejected by Atlantic early in the year. Progress was made quickly, and by April, a slate of songs was completed that included the re-recorded “Soft and Wet” along with the ballad “Baby” and the mid-tempo pop number “Make It Through the Storm.”

  After assembling a glossy promotional kit to go with the songs, Husney prepared to approach record labels. Brimming with confidence about the demo’s strength, Prince and Husney decided that, rather than lower their expectations after Prince’s disappointing trip to New York, they would issue certain non-negotiable demands to any interested labels. A three-record deal was essential so that Prince had time to build an audience and hone his style. They also would insist that Prince play all of the instruments. And most audaciously, they would require that Prince produce the album himself.

  This final demand was in all likelihood an unreasonable reach. Most major artists relied on outside producers who were typically seasoned pros with decades of technical experience and hit-making savvy. Prince was still a teenager, with less than two years of working in recording studios. But he deeply feared that his creativity would be stifled by a producer, a concern shared by Husney. And he was highly resistant to the idea of answering to any authority figure.

  Next, using tactics only slightly less brazen than Chris Moon’s Stevie Wonder gambit, Husney used subterfuge to drum up interest. He had a solid contact at Warner Bros. Records, an executive named Russ Thyret. Rather than simply asking for a meeting, Husney told Thyret that Princ
e already had active interest from other labels, and was being flown out to Los Angeles by CBS Records. He suggested that Thyret get Warners into the mix before a deal was inked.

  Enticed, Thyret agreed to meet when Prince arrived in California. Husney then called CBS and A&M Records and continued the charade, emphasizing that two other labels were actively interested. Quickly, Husney had booked a full slate of meetings.

  Husney and Prince flew to Los Angeles and visited five labels: Warner Bros., CBS, A&M, RSO, and ABC/Dunhill. The manager made the initial pitch by himself, after which Prince came in and said just a few words. The intent was to portray Prince as a mysterious and elusive wunderkind, and it worked; following the meetings, Husney’s phone began to ring with follow-up queries.

  One of the potential suitors, CBS Records, expressed interest but remained skeptical that Prince had created the demo without other musicians. Calling what they thought was a bluff, executives from the label offered Prince a day of free studio time, asking him to re-record a song from scratch. Prince re-cut “Just As Long As We’re Together” at a local studio as the executives watched. Unfazed by their presence, Prince methodically moved from instrument to instrument and produced a pristine recreation of the track. The notion that the demo was some sort of hoax was dispelled within the hour.

  With enthusiasm suddenly high, the executives began to court Prince and Husney in typical Los Angeles fashion. Lavish dinners were lubricated with expensive wine, and Prince was regaled with promises of fame. But if the duo was not entirely immune to such charms, they appreciated the contrasting approach of Warner Bros.’ Russ Thyret. He took them to low-key lunches rather than high-end dinners, and also invited Prince and Husney to his home. “He sat down on the floor and just talked music with us,” Husney remembered.