3121

Born after such seismic historical events as the demise of Communism and Liverpool’s last domestic title, most of this organ’s fiercely discerning readership will have little or no recollection of the hubris that once defined Prince Rogers Nelson. Or Prince. Or The Artist Formerly Known As Symbol.
They will not recall the time when this great pop pioneer could demand not one, but three vanity film projects, Purple Rain, Under The Cherry Moon and Graffiti Bridge. Nor will they remember ditching all vestiges of purple when His Majesty proclaimed that all should be coloured peach and black.
Sadly, for those under 25, Prince is less easily recognised as the ringmaster behind the grand baroque of ‘Purple Rain’, the grinding sensual pop of Sign O’ The Times and the dirty masturbation funk of The Black Album, than as the weird short-ass has-been with the squiggle moniker.
The wilful semantic instability in which he has been embroiled over the past 12 years has mirrored His Royal Badness’ frequently bewildering musical output. Legal wrangles with record company Warner Brothers saw the Minneapolis born performer contemptuously spit out The Love Symbol Album, Come and Chaos and Disorder with all the creative zest we’ve come to expect from an artist crippled by contractual obligations.
Alas, by the time he attained ‘emancipation’, Prince had found God. Few rock careers have sustained the happy-clappy stupor precipitated by religious feeling and associated urges to straighten up and fly right. Sure enough, drippy post-reformation releases such as The Rainbow Children – a jazzy concept album celebrating his life as a Jehovah’s Witness – suggested it was all over bar the god bothering.
How we cheered – not least out of relief for long-suffering Prince loyalists – when, in 2004, he lobbed Musicology our way. It wasn’t perfect. Tunes like ‘If Eye Was The Man In Your Life’ didn’t seem to know where they were headed. But, by golly, it was a Prince record alright. The synthesiser doodles and funk foot-soldiering, self-consciously styled as music to bump and grind to, recalled the glory days. He was back and he was nasty.
At the very least, 3121 demonstrates that Musicology was no anomaly. The new album sounds exactly like vintage Prince in everything but innovation. The humping ‘Black Sweat’ is ‘Kiss’ with a smuttier punch line (“U’ll b screaming like a white lady/When… I’m working up a black sweat”). The demanding groove of ‘Get On The Boat’ is ‘Get Up’ with a longer title.
It may be nothing we didn’t hear during the last century, but it’s entertaining as hell. And if it ain’t broke…
In truth, I wanted something more seductive. Before 1990, one never wondered how a guy with questionable taste in facial hair, and standing a mere 5’ 2” tall in his stocking feet, could pull impossibly exotic creatures like Apollonia and Carmen Electra. Listening to the dull, half-arsed Marvin Gaye mating call of ‘Incense And Candles’, I’m not feeling inclined to get it on, on the fireside rug with Prince right now. And just to really kill the mood, tracks like ‘The Word’ (“We gotta safeguard against the 4ked tongue and the treachery of the wicked one”) and ‘Beautiful, Loved And Blessed’ (“All I needed was the potter’s hand/And the blood on Calvary”) sound awfully like being doorstepped.
I didn’t sign up for Watchtower. I wanted deviancy. I wanted killer hooks. Damn it, I wanted Wendy and Lisa. Did I want too much?