by Hahn, Alex
But this rise had also left a degree of carnage in its wake. The nominal heads of the Time and Vanity 6 felt frustrated and humiliated, with Day considering his exit and Matthews’ stability beginning to crumble. His treatment of his expanding cadre of lovers had become cavalier and sometimes callous, causing hurt feelings and making it unlikely that Prince would receive genuine emotional support from any of them. And despite the softball games and movie nights, there was an air of contrivance around such events; everyone knew that once the next tour began, Prince would again draw a curtain – or perhaps even erect a wall – between himself and his entourage.
Still, Prince’s aloofness served his purpose of having maximum time and energy to lay down the new musical ideas that were forming so quickly in his mind. His successes so far had occurred not despite his self-isolating tendencies, but in many respects because of them.
Indeed, all told, the goals he had articulated for himself many years ago had been almost fully achieved. He was nearly as successful as pop’s leading hit makers but more authentically cool than any of them. He had not only innovated African-American musical forms, but was now bringing them to a broad audience. His admonition to Warners’ Lenny Waronker after being signed to that label – “don’t make me black” – had proved prophetic, to the point where he was now transcending race without repudiating any aspect of his heritage.
It was at this moment in his career, with his star ascending, that Prince ceased giving interviews to the media. Media fascination about his story was reaching new heights – and now, suddenly, journalists would be left to their own devices in figuring out how to tell it. This would surely generate even more speculation about who exactly this brilliant and inscrutable figure was.
Still, one thing was clear to everyone – Prince, more than any pop star in recent memory, had achieved almost all of this on his own. There was collaboration, but on his terms only; there was cooperation, but it typically ran in only one direction. In the studio, he was more of an auteur than even Stevie Wonder; as a band leader, he was nearly as iron-handed as James Brown. Few pop artists, let alone one so young, had ever sought such pervasive control over every phase of their activities; fewer still had exercised it so rigidly.
The benefits to this approach were almost too many to number. Prince had ensured that no lover, friend, or family member had any meaningful claim upon his time or attention; he had almost unlimited financial resources; and his accountability to his record company and managers was minimal.
That there were also downsides and inherent dangers to this mode of operation was not something that Prince would acknowledge, neither now nor at any point during a career that was poised to enter the stratosphere.
19. Dreams Come True
Prince on the 1999 Tour
The idea of starring in a music film remained of acute interest to Prince even after he discarded The Second Coming project that had been started after the Controversy tour. Ultimately, that project had amounted to little more than friends goofing around inside of a purple-painted house in their underwear, and to move beyond this required financing. “There’s a point where you’ve got to deal with a film company, or you’re just an amateur making a very expensive home movie,” noted tour manager Alan Leeds.
Leeds himself frequently attended movies with Prince, typically flanking the artist with a bodyguard as they sat in theatres. Prince, although not an extremely sophisticated student of cinema, enjoyed films ranging from the Sylvester Stallone film Rambo to David Lynch’s Eraserhead.
For his own potential film, Prince had an amorphous concept called “The Dawn” that he had been pondering during the 1999 tour. He now wanted access to an experienced screenwriter to develop the idea.[216] Financing presented another immediate obstacle; Warner Bros. Pictures, the filmmaking arm of the company that released his albums, showed no interest when first approached by manager Steve Fargnoli. Disgusted and blaming this failure on his managers, he used a key piece of leverage against them. With their contractual relationship with him about to expire, Prince indicated that securing a movie deal was a prerequisite to keeping him as a client.
The unflappable Bob Cavallo approached Mo Ostin, the chairman of Warner Bros. Records, in early 1983 and explained the dilemma. Ostin, who felt comfortable enough with Prince’s career progress to support the idea, in turn approached Mark Canton, the head of production at Warner Bros. Pictures. After a successful meeting between Canton and Prince, a series of interlocking transactions was negotiated. Prince and his managers both agreed to put up about $1 million collectively toward the project. Warners Pictures agreed to provide additional funding for production costs, and Warner Bros. Records committed to covering cost overruns.[217]
On its face, the notion that a young artist well below the level of superstardom could be a mass box office draw seemed implausible. But the support of Warners officials for the project was no accident. These powerful executives understood Prince’s talents, but were also well acquainted with his relentless work ethic and discipline. And Prince cultivated entertainment czars with poise and charm. “He never said an unkind word to me during the ten years I worked with him,” remembered Cavallo. “And he knew exactly how to articulate what he wanted, even if it wasn’t in a whole lot of words.”
Prince now had the funding to set the production into motion. Developing a film would be an immensely complex process, and Prince had to function essentially as the chief executive officer of a mid-sized company. Above him sat a de facto board of directors that included Ostin, Canton, and to some extent his own manager Cavallo, all of whom needed to remain personally invested in the project. Any failures of execution could jeopardize that support in a moment.
Below Prince in the organization structure would be several mid-level officials with diverse portfolios. These included Alan Leeds, and two important players to be named later – the film’s screenwriter and director.
Leeds, who had relocated his family to Minneapolis, took over day-to-day operations, establishing a base in a cavernous warehouse in the Minneapolis suburb of St. Louis Park where rehearsals and acting classes would take place. As the manager with the most day-to-day contact with Prince, Leeds found his job at once exhilarating and jarring. Appreciating Leeds’ knowledge of R&B music, Prince sometimes treated him as almost a mentor, and on a few occasions, the bandleader even opened up emotionally to Leeds. But in the end, the tour manager, like everyone else, was expected to fulfill whatever need emerged in the moment. “It was as if he were saying to me, ‘Okay, now I want Alan the big brother,’” Leeds recalled. “Then it might be, ‘Now I want Alan the best friend.’ Then it might be ‘Now I want Alan the gofer.’ I’d better not confuse the three roles, because if he sends me on a mission and I come into rehearsal empty-handed, and I start laughing and joking like we did in front of the TV last night, I’m not going to last very long.”
Back in Los Angeles, Cavallo and Fargnoli searched for a screenwriter and director, eventually handing both roles to experienced television director William Blinn. Prince envisioned a tale of a struggling musician who overcomes the odds to achieve stardom. Blinn, while comfortable with this concept, initially had great difficulty communicating with Prince, finding him at best cryptic and at worst completely unresponsive. When they went to a movie together in an effort to warm things up, Prince left without a word after twenty minutes.
But the relationship gradually improved, and an outline of a script called “Dreams” emerged from their discussions. Prince would play the tortured performer known as “the Kid,” a nickname coined by Cavallo. Morris Day, leader of the Time, would be the Kid’s professional and romantic rival; they would quarrel over the beautiful Vanity, played by Denise Matthews. Another key element was the Kid’s troubled family life, particularly his relationship with an abusive father. All of this would take place against the backdrop of an incestuous, highly competitive music scene not unlike the one Prince had known during his teen years in Minneapolis.
Seeing Wendy as a potential star, Prince made her a focal point of the Revolution. Her guitar work was distinctive in its use of dense, ethereal chords. Her vaguely masculine appearance – she had an asymmetrical haircut and a kind of toughness – created an intriguing counterpoint to Prince’s more feminine androgyny.
As the band immersed itself in rehearsals and acting classes, Prince constantly reminded everyone how important the movie was to all of their fortunes. “Do you have what it takes to be a star?” Prince asked Matt Fink one day at rehearsal. Fink, taken aback by the blunt query, said that he did, but Prince responded with a sarcastic smirk, indicating that he found the response unconvincing. But gradually, through a combination of cajolery, flattery, and intimidation, Prince persuaded his comrades that the film would rocket their careers into the stratosphere. “Prince would say to me all the time, ‘Mark, after this, you’re never going to have to work again,’” recalled bassist Brown.
These promises were ultimately a form of psychological motivation; seeing wonderful things ahead, the Revolution remained focused through exhausting preparations for the movie. “He convinced them they were a self-contained band, and he played that to the hilt to get whatever he needed out of them,” said Leeds.
Even as the new band took shape, the production hit a snag; William Blinn’s television series Fame was renewed for a third season, leaving him without time to complete the script. Cavallo and Fargnoli began a hasty search for another writer-director that led them to thirty-yearold Albert Magnoli, previously an editor for the renowned director James Foley, and whom Foley had recommended. At first, Magnoli was uninspired by Blinn’s script and said he would pass. But a brainstorming session with Cavallo left him much more optimistic, and Magnoli agreed to meet with Prince. They connected with surprising ease, and Magnoli took the job.
Meanwhile, with Prince having succeeded in turning his five-piece band into a powerhouse, the Revolution’s debut took place on the sweltering night of August 3, 1983 at First Avenue, Prince’s favorite hometown club. The club was packed with admirers for a show that would raise money for the Minnesota Dance Theatre, a facility where Prince and the band were tutored for the movie. An extensive last-minute guest list submitted by Warners and Prince meant an overcapacity crowd, leading to concerns that fire marshals might shut the event down before it even started.[218]
Outside the club, engineer David Rivkin captured the show on tape from a mobile studio. The band was unaware that anything was out of the ordinary, as Prince typically recorded every show. But Prince, hoping that some of the live recordings would be used for the movie’s soundtrack, planned in advance to wring every ounce of emotion from the performance. The night would also include the live debut of a swelling rock ballad called “Purple Rain.”
In the balcony, taking in the band’s nine-song set, Albert Magnoli watched intently as Wendy took the stage for the encore, and struck the opening chord of “Purple Rain.” She ran through the chord progression once, and then was joined by the rest of the Revolution, who backed her. After playing the progression nine complete times, in a moment of 19-year-old awkwardness, she smiled anxiously and seemed ready to break character. Prince finally appeared, prompting Wendy to right herself. Wearing a purple brocade jacket and hoop earring, Prince was soaked in sweat after an already long night. He joined Wendy on guitar briefly, then flung his guitar behind his back and approached the mic stand. Seemingly overcome with emotion, Prince backed away again before starting to sing.
The first performance of “Purple Rain” lasted more than thirteen minutes. The crowd was silent until the end as it took in the new song. Magnoli, from the balcony, wondered if this vulnerable rock ballad might provide the emotional climax for a movie that was essentially a story of the Kid’s search for redemption. After the show, Magnoli shared his idea with Prince, venturing that “Purple Rain” might be the missing puzzle piece that would make the movie whole. Prince initially objected, saying the song was unfinished. Undeterred, Magnoli continued to argue forcefully for the song’s inclusion. Prince, his resistance softening, then asked whether “Purple Rain” could also be used as the title of the film.[219] And with that, a major building block of the film – and indeed, Prince’s entire career – was in place.
***
Among the guests Wendy Melvoin invited to Minneapolis for her debut with Prince’s band in August 1983 was her twin sister Susannah, who greatly resembled Wendy but had a more feminine style. Prince was delighted to discover that his favorite new band member had a beautiful double, and an instant mutual attraction developed. Well-educated and stylish, Susannah stimulated Prince intellectually as well as physically. But she had a boyfriend in California and was not immediately available for a romance, which infuriated Prince.
This jealously helped to inspire the stunning ballad “The Beautiful Ones,” which he recorded in September. The song, which explodes into a torrent of jealous screams in its climax, was a brilliant amalgam of emotions. It was designed for the axial moment of the movie’s plot, as the Kid furiously insists that Apollonia choose between him and his rival Morris.
Prince also planned to include music in the film by the Time and Vanity 6. But both groups would in truth be, as had been the case on their earlier albums, essentially fictions; Prince would write, perform, and record most of the songs, with vocals being the only major contribution of the groups’ supposed captains, Morris Day and Denise Matthews.
Among the songs recorded over the summer of 1983 for the second Vanity 6 album was “Vibrator,” in which Denise Matthews sings about a sex toy whose batteries run out. The song then recounts her visit to a convenience store run by her romantic rival, Jill Jones, who offers to take the device downstairs to install new batteries, and presumably to use it as well. Matthews then encounters a clerk at a second store, played by Prince, who both provides batteries and hurries Matthews home to bed; the song then concludes with a torrent of Matthews’ moans.
Such absurdities provided little actual relief for Matthews, whose excitement about being in a motion picture was sapped by her ongoing frustration at being a puppet band leader and having to complete for Prince’s attention with a bevy of other women. Morris Day felt equally frustrated by his role, and Prince underscored his powerlessness by firing Jimmy Harris and Terry Lewis after they missed a show as a result of their work on a side project. This move effectively tore the group apart, as original members Monte Moir and Jellybean Johnson quit, unwilling to continue without Harris and Lewis. Prince restocked the lineup with relatively unknown Minneapolis musicians, leaving Day and Jesse Johnson with a dramatically different Time.
To make matters worse, Day developed a cocaine problem, making him even more moody and confrontational.[220] As recording of the Time’s third record began, and Day again went through the tedious exercise of mimicking Prince’s guide vocals note for note, it was apparent the end was near for the Time. “It was a very tense situation,” recalled Susan Rogers. “Morris was very unhappy and basically non-participating. He was going to get the movie over with, and then it was obvious that he was out of there.”
This left Jesse Johnson – who felt underpaid and overworked, and who remained angry about the coat rack incident – as the group’s leader. Like Harris and Lewis before him, the talen
ted Johnson wanted badly to express his own ideas and succeed on his own merits; realizing Prince would never allow this, he also began to consider going solo.
Initially, much of the public and media were fooled into thinking that both the Time and Vanity 6 were freestanding groups that created their own music. But when Prince finally started dropping public hints that he was in fact Jamie Starr, the alleged producer of these acts, being unmasked added to the humiliations of Day and Vanity. “When you realized that Vanity 6 was really all his concept, from the lingerie they wore, to the songs they sang, to the music that was played behind them, it wasn’t the same,” Leeds remembered. Furious about these issues and her disintegrating romance with Prince, Matthews started to numb her feelings through heavy drinking and cocaine use, starting her down a road that would eventually leave her health in ruins.
Partly as a retort to Prince for his womanizing, Matthews flaunted affairs she was having with both men and women. She also developed a close friendship with Alan Leeds, who found Matthews lonely and increasingly upset about Prince’s treatment of her. “It didn’t take long to realize she was a competitive pistol that hungered for companionship and wasn’t about to let Prince’s desire for control sentence her to the confines of her hotel room,” he remembered.
A turning point in the relationship came when Vanity had an affair with Albert Magnoli, enraging Prince. Despite production being only about two months away, the transgression was intolerable and Prince fired Matthews from the production. He made no effort to correct the record when she claimed to the media that she had left over money issues; the point was that she was gone.
Prince and his team now scrambled to fill this key vacancy on short notice. Hundreds of obscure and would-be actresses answered a call to audition for the vacant role. Prince quickly settled on 22-year-old Patricia Kotero of Santa Monica, California, who had starred in the miniseries Mystic Warriors. The reason for the selection was obvious to everyone: Kotero looked very much like Matthews, just as Matthews had resembled Prince’s previous girlfriend Susan Moonsie. Prince inauspiciously dubbed her Apollonia, after a character in the first Godfather film who is killed by a car bomb.
