Early today, my boyfriend woke me up to tell me that Prince was dead and in my hazy half-sleep I mumbled that this confirmed that he was actually alive. Artists talk about leaving behind a legacy but legacy insists on a retroactive greatness. Prince, whose music is somehow both everywhere and nowhere (it’s hard to stream even his biggest songs, thanks to ongoing battles with his record label) has always made immortality feel like the more extraordinary achievement.
As I got ready for work, I listened to ‘Little Red Corvette’ and it struck me that the death of someone whose artistry transcended the earthly trappings of race and gender, is a reminder of how little it pays to be cowed by the world. Growing up with MTV, where Prince writhed in purple fumes and hot-pink glitter, showed me that tastefulness is a boring ambition and being too much – even if no one ever gets you – is maybe worth aspiring to instead.