I was lucky enough to attend the Prince, Piano and Microphone concert a few weeks ago now.

The thing that struck me then, and still does now, is how sad I felt watching and listening to the music pour out of this man.  I was struck with an overwhelming urge to cuddle him.

His music has touched my heart and my mind for decades.  His raw and radiant sexual energy has been the soundtrack to break-ups and make-ups and make-out sessions since I was in High School.

Genius comes at a cost.  The man on the stage in Auckland was saturated with genius.  His brain and voice and fingers and body were a portal for musical perfection that will never be  repeated.

Here’s what I’ve been thinking today:

There seems to be an inescapable correlation between pain and creativity.  People seem to suffer for their art, whatever that art may be.  And quite often, “tortured souls” seem to spew forth impactful and amazing food for our senses, hearts, brains, and souls.  The likes of Vincent Van Gogh, Robin Williams, Edith Piaf, Billie Holiday, or any number of legendary “tortured” artists.  I do think the tortured artist stereotype is a bit obtuse, as every one of us is exceptionally unique and traveling our own road.  Lumping clever people with mental illness into a whole category seems dull and simplistic.  Still,  I do think that pain feeds creation and creativity.  And I would guess that Prince had a lot of pain.  His love affairs alone would have opened up the flood gates to rivers of tears that most people will never even have to imagine coping with.

There also seems to be a negative correlation between fortune and fame and happiness.  The pages of newspapers across the decades have been strewn with stories of the well heeled being embroiled in scandal of one sort or another, or struggling through personal trials.  There have also been too many headlines telling us that some of the most gifted artists and entertainers lost battles with demons and took their leave by their own hands.

Watching Prince being Prince made my heart ache for him. He was in total control and had every single one of the hundreds of people in the audience eating out of his beautifully manicured hands.  We all Loved him.  We’d all be blown away and changed forever if he were to even speak a word to us on the street or at a bar. There he was, all alone giving us a part of himself and his soul.  I recall the lyrics (particularly in the middle of the set before he gave the audience what they came for with his top ten repertoire) made me wish he would find Love, comfort, safety, joy, peace, and connection.

The reports are still pretty sketchy at the moment.  But it sounds as though he was struggling with some demons as so many geniuses do.

The world has lost a shining star.

And there are oceans of tears being shed the world over for a man that was very private, and iconic, and eccentric, and beautiful.

Rest well you Sexy MF.  And thank you for creating so much of the soundtrack to the backdrop of my life.

I am off out to have dinner with my bestie so we can pontificate on just what the actual eff the world is coming to these days.

Thanks for reading.





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