Publication: The London Guardian [US]
Date: August 29, 1998
Section: The Guardian Saturday Page
Page Number(s): 5
Length: 775 Words
Title: "Stropping And Funking; The Artist Formerly Known As Prince Did His Best To Stop Caroline Sullivan Seeing His Wembley Gig. When She Sneaked Her Way In, This Is What She Saw..."
Written By: Caroline Sullivan

'This isn't an easy call to make,' said Prince's public relations woman, 'but The Artist decided at four this morning that he doesn't want the Guardian to have review tickets for Wembley.' The Artist Formerly Known As Rational evidently found a front-page interview celebrating his 40th birthday 'disrespectful'. He had a point. Who would want to be described as 'open, assured, engaging, funny, lucid and eloquent, with just the occasional rough edge', and his singer/dancer wife Mayte as 'charm herself'? Another paper was banned for referring to Prince as Prince rather than by his preferred title, The Artist.

The subject of press relations was still on his mind when he whirled onto the Wembley stage, a miniature blur of red, tan and attitude. 'London, I don't know what you read,' he began in an oak-aged baritone, octaves lower than his singing voice. 'But every time I read about myself I read a bunch of lies and negativity about how I'm going mad, losing my mind, but most of all how you will not stick with me through thick and thin. (Boos from crowd.) But every time I come here y'all are still here, and there's always some new faces, too. (Wild cheers.) So if you like funky music like I like funky music, we're at the same party.' (Standing ovation.) There's no doubt Prince and his Princelings are at the same party. The fans' loyalty is awesome. Having stuck with their man through 18 years, a misjudged change of name and a work-rate that can only be described as unnaturally prolific (it does show signs of slowing, as there have been only two albums so far this year), they're not about to quit now. That The Artist is confident of their goodwill was obvious from the sort of merchandise on sale in the foyer. Next to the usual baseball caps and T-shirts reading 'I love (safe) sex' were more specialist items like a silver Symbol necklace and, most loyalty-testing of all, a cassette titled Kama Sutra and credited to the NPG Orchestra.

'It's his missus,' explained the girl behind the counter. Simon Quinn, a fanzine writer who had come with a coach party from Pontypridd, elaborated. 'It's 10 instrumental songs he wrote for his wedding.' Finally, the gift for the fan who has everything.

The most appealing example of the regard Princelings have for Prince was the reception accorded support act Larry Graham. Most supports are fortunate to play to two dogs and the cleaner, but the former Sly & The Family Stone bassist strutted onstage to a whooping full house. He eminently justified his introduction as 'the funkiest man in the world' with a volcanic set of Sly Stone standards. But he was outdone, as any mortal would have been, by second support Chaka Khan. Hidden under a cape voluminous enough to house a council estate, the veteran belter caused structural damage as far north as Crewe.

One of The Artist's songs once claimed, 'My name is Prince, and I am funky.' He's funky still. 'You're gonna get your ass kicked this evening,' he promised at the outset, a sunglassed sprite in a red flamenco outfit. Then he kicked relentlessly for almost two hours with every corpuscle, sinew and muscle he possessed. He'd have won the Funk Olympics just for the first song, where his James Brown-esque bump'n'grind vocal was complemented by dance moves that would have sent Wacko Jackson's blood pressure off the scale with envy. He finished it off by sliding behind a white piano and tinkling out a few bars of roadhouse boogie just for the hell of it, then falling to his knees, sliding across the floor and leaping up in one fluid motion.

These days Prince calls what he does Newpower Soul, hence the title of his current album. But it's funk by any other name, deep, bassy and shooting from the hip, and it's his milieu. By contrast, the few rock numbers he dusted down, like attenuated versions of Purple Rain and Little Red Corvette, were slow and ponderous. He also slowed down, with better results, for a sleaze -guitared blues number, The Ride, and a voodoo-ish ballad Newpower Soul, The One. How the girls in the front row writhed during the latter when he teasingly offered them his towel, then contemptuously threw it behind him, out of their reach. It was fascinating to watch someone so certain of his attractiveness to the opposite sex, which, I suppose, proves short men need never be stymied by their stature.

But not every man is created to spin around a stage, bathed in magenta light, cushioned by his raucous New Power Generation (who are made to wear capes), and immersed in his own dream of sex and heavy basslines. He was fabulous. His name was Prince. And he is funky.