They asked him: “Why is she trying to be so urban?” and “What is she doing?”
“I think that’s just her shit. That’s what she really likes,” was his transcendent answer. Exactly right!
It’s just her shit. Namaste, suckahs.
When I first met Prince, he told me he loved “Honey.” Oh! My! God!
Prince knows my song! I shouted in my head. I was over the moon—the maestro of modern music knew my song! We went on to talk about songwriting and the treachery of “the industry” in subsequent casual meetings at parties or a club (Prince was notorious for randomly, mystically appearing at a nightclub); he was always very giving of his time with me.
One night he, JD, and I stayed up all night talking about the State of the Industry and how, as new leaders, we could gain more independence, agency, and ownership over our work. Then, one day, I got the invitation to Paisley Park. I had frequently fantasized about writing with him, like Wendy and Lisa, or Sheila E.—all incredible, undercelebrated musicians. (I really, really wanted to write and record a “Purple Rain”-esque ballad duet. I mean, who didn’t, but I know it would’ve been pretty perfect.) I remember when I arrived at the Paisley Park compound, from the outside it looked like an unremarkable series of big white structures, almost like a big car dealership. But then I went inside and saw the magnificent purple motorcycle from Purple Rain. I knew I had entered a whole ’notha world.
I brought Prince sketches of a song I had been playing around with. My process with writing partners is to come in with some concepts—lyrical or melodic sketches—then go back and forth with ideas. We did a lot of talking. I think it was a bit of a test; you see, Prince was a real writer and composer—a lot of people claim they are, but we know. I think he wanted to see where my head and my writing chops were. I was already thinking about songs for Silk (the girl band I had in Glitter, who I loosely modeled after Vanity 6). I talked to him about how I wanted to use “Nasty Girl,” the song he wrote for Vanity 6, as a sample for a film I was working on (similarly to the way ended I up using “I Didn’t Mean to Turn You On”). Prince challenged me.
“That’s Vanity’s song,” he said.
He asked me why I couldn’t be “inspired” by it, as Puff and Biggie were with “You nasty, boy / You nasty.” I let him know rather than just the catchy words, I loved the structure and the beat of the song—the feeling. Prince wasn’t at all being shady; he was being protective. He was being instructive. He told me to finish the song I had begun, and we would work on another new one. I never finished the song, and we never made our song together. I really wish we had (remaking “The Beautiful Ones” would be the closest I would get). Protect your ideas, protect your music, was the message I got from that trip to Paisley Park.
When the Glitter debacle was in full swing, Prince reached out to me. He called me often, and what he said to me then I always will cherish inside. He was deeply private, and I will keep the details to myself. But I will say his wise words soothed me. He gave me encouragement, like the big brother I never had. I listened to Prince’s music nearly daily (and to this day—Roc and Roe can identify all his G-rated songs!). I don’t know if he could ever know what his connecting with me in that storm meant to me. It gave me hope in a desolate time.
Prince had his own singular and wondrous relationship with God. He composed his own concept of spirituality and sexuality, and it was as special and unique as he was. But in the end, when my soul was in need, Prince sent me the sacred scriptures, the beloved books, the Word of God bound together. Prince helped save me on a soul level, when I needed it the most, and through his music he continues to save the day, every day.
DEM BABIES
Boy meets girl and looks in her eyes
Time stands still and two hearts catch fire
Off they go, roller coaster ride
—“Love Story”
Much of the iconic television of the 1990s missed me. I never got to watch Seinfeld (now I’m such a stan of Comedians in Cars Getting Coffee) and I had no time for—and was isolated from—actual friends, let alone sitcom ones. All my time was spent hustling, working, praying, and making “Mariah Carey.” I barely watched children’s shows when I was a child, so I certainly didn’t know of any Nickelodeon shows or their stars. I had no clue All That was all that, and I had no idea who Nick Cannon was until 2002, when I saw the film Drumline (which I loved). I thought he was very good in it (I also thought he was cute—very). That was all.
A couple of years later, Brat was telling me, “He loves you. He always talks about you,” referring to Nick. She was a fan of Wild ’N Out, his hip-hop–infused improv sketch-comedy show on MTV, which I also had no knowledge of. Wild ’N Out came out the same year as The Emancipation of Mimi, which consumed me in a
