In the early 1980s, I remember my friend Chris singing “Little Red Corvette” in the Pike County High School cafeteria. Chris had no idea what the song’s lyrics implied. I know this because he was a hardcore Christian and would never have approved of such explicit meaning. His naivete was funny then, and it’s funny now.
In 1984, I remember another friend named Chris and I went to see “Purple Rain” in St. Louis. The movie was brand-spanking-new, and had yet to expand to major (read “white”) theaters. So Chris and I headed to a different part of town to check out the film. We were the only white kids there. It wasn’t a big deal for us, nor for the other theater-goers. We were all there for the same reason: to see a cool flick. And we did. When we left the theater, Chris and I were laughing and gushing about how awesome the movie was. She was the only friend I had who had been willing to drive out to see it. And I loved her for that.
By the time it was announced that the Purple Rain Tour would be coming to St. Louis in December of 1984, all my friends were excited. And we knew it would be a hot ticket. So a couple of us made plans to camp overnight outside the arena’s box office. (My parents were not happy about this, but I was allowed to go.) It was such an awesome night. Hundreds of us queued up, were given wristbands and got comfortable. Here and there people were playing “Purple Rain” cassettes on boom boxes and we were about the happiest crowd on non-sleepers you could ever hope to see. And the joy didn’t subside. It lasted all night. It lasted straight through to the appointed opening time of the box office. It lasted as the line slowly moved forward. It very nearly peaked and caused our heads to explode when we reached the point of being next in line. And then we reached the window and were told there were only a few seats left and they were all for the very top row of the highest nose-bleed section known to man. And we said yes, please, and purchased our tickets. The joy levels had definitely dipped, but only a little.
And then the concert happened. I was a kid. And Mister was there, too. (He was also a kid.) And we were on that top row of the highest nose-bleed section known to man and we were so happy to be there! When the lights dimmed and Sheila E. came out to open the show, we all started dancing and screaming and having the best time imaginable. Or so we thought. Because when The Man himself took the stage, all emotions crossed the line and maxed out. It was an astounding show and I’ve never forgotten it. I’ve never forgotten being there with Mister. Just 2 kids in love, hanging at a concert. Forever memories.
Godspeed Prince.