Ringtones are evil. Islamic countries are fun. The internet is like 'a carjacking', where there are no boundaries. Prince on being pop's 'loving tyrant'
Prince is running late, and when Prince is running late the prospective interviewer begins to worry. I'm in the otherwise empty upstairs room of a chic Paris restaurant, its walls, carpet and banquettes all (perhaps by chance) a Prince-appropriate purple. As last trains and planes out of Paris are missed, I think of the writer in the early 90s who spent six days rattling around Paisley Park, Prince's Minneapolis nerve centre, waiting for an audience, only to have to speak to him on the phone. Even a relatively modest three-hour wait can make one nervous.
But suddenly there he is, sans entourage, full of handshakes and apologies. Perching himself on a banquette, he looks impeccable. His trousers and chunky polo-neck sweater are as black as his shiny, sculpted hair. His ring, ear cuffs and huge, shrapnel-like neck chain all gleam silver. His skin, uncannily smooth, does not look like that of a 53-year-old. Charisma seems to add a few inches to his height. He orders a cup of green tea. "They don't take Mastercard here," he says with a sly grin. "Only Amex. So I'll have to wash the dishes."
You expect funny peculiar from Prince, one of the few superstars who still enjoys an old-fashioned forcefield of enigma and hence endures the rumours that enigma tends to spawn. Funny ha-ha, however, is more surprising. He often seems mysteriously amused, cocking an eyebrow and pulling a coy, wouldn't-you-like-to-know smirk, but he likes to laugh out loud, too. He is determined to be entertaining.
Asked, for example, why he doesn't appear to have aged, Prince embarks on a baroque explanation that takes in an illustration of celestial mechanics involving a candle (the sun) and a sugarcube (the Earth); DNA research; his late father's Alzheimer's disease; the reason he doesn't celebrate his birthday ("If you look in the Bible there's no birthdays"); the importance of study; God's concept of time; and the Purple Rain tour. "Time is a mind construct," he finally concludes, setting his candle and sugarcube aside. "It's not real."
All of this is accomplished in a tone that ranges from preacher to schoolteacher to salesman to stand-up comedian to chat-show raconteur. He very rarely talks to the press ("If I need psychological evaluation, I'll do it myself") and his ban on writers using recording devices suggests a certain paranoia, but he's surprisingly good at being interviewed.
People must be intimidated when they first meet you, I say. Do you try to put them at their ease?
"I do that pretty quick. I'm real easy-going." He stares at me for a moment. "You're not intimidated, are you?"
Not now, but definitely by your reputation.
"A lot of that comes from other people. The press like to blow things out of proportion so this person becomes bigger than they are. The sooner this thing called fame goes away, the better. We got people who don't need to be famous."
Prince misses the days "when I could walk the street without being harassed and bothered". He remembers the first time he realised he was famous, around 1979. "It happened very fast. I had some old clothes on because I was going to help a friend move house and some girls came by and one went: 'Ohmigod, Prince!' And the other girl went," he pulls a face, "'That ain't Prince.' I didn't come out of the house raggedy after that."
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