In 1984 I was living in Iowa but deeply connected to Minneapolis, MN. I was born there. My parents grew up there. We went there multiple times per year. I was a die-hard Minnesota Twins and Minnesota Vikings fan. Being associated with Minnesota and specifically, the Twin Cities, was core to my identity. My parents loved the Twin Cities and were always telling stories of their times there. There was a lot of myth and excitement around the Twin Cities. And central to this mythology for a certain period of time was Prince and his movie, album, and tour, Purple Rain. Prince and Purple Rain consumed me and my family for a period of time from 3rd to 5th grade.
My mom dug this album. My mom was a complicated human being full of... complications... including stories and myths around her time in Minneapolis growing up. One story I remember is that my mom went to "parties" where Prince was/played (?). I’m sure she saw him at First Avenue. That alone doesn’t put this album on my list. It’s an album that stuck with me and pokes up at various times in my life. I still find connection to many of the songs.
Prince was not just an artist in my house—he was a presence. My mom loved to sing and dance, and when Purple Rain came on, the living room turned into her stage. She would sing every word and dance with this unbridled joy, and in those moments, the music felt alive. It wasn’t just an album; it was a portal to her younger years, to her life in Minneapolis, to something freer and lighter than what I saw every day.
But there was another layer to it. By the time Purple Rain came out, my mom’s mental health was beginning to unravel. Watching her sing and dance to “Let’s Go Crazy,” there was this duality. The song was joyful and wild, but the words—“Let’s look for the purple banana ’til they put us in the truck”—felt like a warning of the chaos that was coming. My mom was going crazy, and we were all along for the ride. It was a soundtrack to a storm I couldn’t name yet.
I wasn’t allowed to listen to the entire album. Songs like “Darling Nikki” were off-limits, which, of course, made them even more fascinating. The mystery of what I couldn’t hear gave the album a provocative edge, like there were secrets woven into the tracks. Even the music video for “When Doves Cry” felt forbidden. Prince emerging naked from a bathtub with that intense look—it was mesmerizing and a little shocking for a kid. The whole album, from the visuals to the sound, felt like something more than music. It was an experience, a world Prince was inviting us into.
The music itself is what makes Purple Rain timeless. It doesn’t sound like typical pop music, even now. Each track is layered with emotion, experimentation, and Prince’s ability to blur genres into something uniquely his own. My favorite songs, in order, are “Let’s Go Crazy,” “Purple Rain,” “I Would Die 4 U,” “When Doves Cry,” “Darling Nikki,” and “Baby I’m a Star.” The bookends, “Let’s Go Crazy” and “Purple Rain,” hold emotional depth for me that has only grown with time.
“Let’s Go Crazy” is chaotic brilliance. The sermon-like intro feels like a call to arms, an invitation to live fully and recklessly. For my family, it felt prophetic. The energy of the song mirrored the whirlwind of my mom’s mental health, her highs and lows, her magnetism and unpredictability. “Purple Rain,” on the other hand, is a cathartic release. It’s a slow build into something transcendent, with Prince’s guitar solo cutting through everything like a cry from the soul. It’s the song I turn to when I need to feel something bigger than myself.
The other songs are provocative in their own ways. “I Would Die 4 U” is enigmatic and uplifting, a shimmering synth-driven anthem that feels like a spiritual declaration. “When Doves Cry” is raw and jagged, its lack of a bass line defying pop conventions while Prince’s vocals lay bare the pain of a fractured relationship. “Darling Nikki”—even without hearing it as a kid—carried an air of forbidden intrigue. The grinding rhythm and explicit lyrics make it one of the most daring tracks on the album. And then there’s “Baby I’m a Star,” a burst of confidence and joy that feels like the perfect celebration of Prince’s genius.
This album wasn’t just an important part of my childhood; it shaped how I understood music. Before Purple Rain, I was immersed in pure pop—fun, catchy, and surface-level. But this album introduced me to the idea that music could be art. It could provoke, challenge, and connect on deeper levels. Prince blurred the lines between genres, between joy and pain, between performance and vulnerability. Purple Rain taught me that music could be a world unto itself, and I’ve been chasing that feeling ever since.
Even as I’ve grown older, Purple Rain has remained a touchstone. I saw Pearl Jam play “Purple Rain” live in Minneapolis in 2023, and it felt like coming full circle. Hearing my favorite band cover this iconic song in the city where it was born was transcendent. And, when Ed sang the lyrics, "I never meant to cause you any sorrow. I never meant to cause you any pain. I only wanted one time to see you laughing. I only wanted to see you laughing in the purple rain." It really really hit me. It reminded me of the album’s power to connect people across time and space. It’s personal and universal, tied to my memories but also to a broader cultural legacy.
Prince and Purple Rain will always be a part of my story. It’s not just an album; it’s a link to my mom, to Minneapolis, to the mythologies that shaped my childhood. It’s a reminder of the joy, the chaos, and the beauty that music can hold. Even now, when I hear those opening chords of “Let’s Go Crazy” or the first strains of “Purple Rain,” I’m transported. I’m a kid in Iowa, standing in the living room, watching my mom dance, and feeling like I’m part of something much bigger than myself.
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