The time was 1984, the place was the historic Wescott Theatre in Syracuse, NY, and I was still a teenager, only a handful of months away from moving to Alaska. By myself in the back, I had the surreal experience of seeing hundreds and hundreds of silhouetted arms all held in the air, hands silently swaying in unison over the closing track of “Purple Rain.”
By then I had already worn out my copy of his “1999” album: the underlying foundation of respect and inspiration as an artist was his not just raw proficiency as a musician, but the fact that (aside from vocal support) all the tracks were written and performed by himself.
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