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The Perfection—and Healing Power—of Prince’s ‘Purple Rain’

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today 
to get through this thing called life.”

In January 1985, my grandfather, William J. “Bill” Smith, died of a heart attack at age 67.

I was 14, and it was the first real loss I had known—a bitter, gut-wrenching death that didn’t make sense then and still doesn’t because he was a great man who left this Earth way too young.

Thankfully, something did make sense in that time of immense grief. Something that soothed my mourning. Something that helped me cope amid profound heartache.

I found solace in Prince and the Revolution’s masterpiece, “Purple Rain.” I listened to the album nonstop after my grandfather’s death because it brought healing and joy when nothing else could.

To understand the strange connection between the loss of a serious but loving man I called “Boom Pa” and the healing power of an album from a flamboyant rock star called the “Purple One,” we must travel back to Saturday, Dec. 22, 1984.

I was in the eighth grade, and winter break had begun. Our family was about to drive to West Lafayette, Ind., from our home in Memphis to spend Christmas with my grandparents. This story, my latest installment of “A Fan’s Notes,” begins the night before we traveled north.

‘A world that’s so cold’

On the eve of our departure, my parents gave me one present to open early. When I unwrapped it, I understood why they didn’t want me to wait until Christmas morning a few days later in Indiana.

The gift was a Sony Walkman, something I coveted so I could listen to tunes in private. I was most eager to play Prince’s “Purple Rain,” a birthday present from a few weeks earlier.

Though it’s a soundtrack from the movie of the same name, “Purple Rain” stands on its own and ranks No. 8 on Rolling Stone’s 500 Greatest Albums of All Time. It’s high on my list too—and its lofty ranking was solidified in the weeks that followed.

With headphones, I could listen with no criticism about the volume, no comments about my insistence on playing the same songs over and over, no raised eyebrows about Prince’s subversive, often explicit lyrics.

On the drive to Indiana the next day and the trip home a few days after Christmas, I listened to “Purple Rain” dozens of times. I probably mixed in some other tapes, but it was mainly Prince because I thought the album was perfect from start to finish. I still do.

Soon, the holiday break ended, and I was back in school. But just when I thought everything had returned to normal, a call came over the intercom summoning me to the principal’s office. The secretary said I needed to collect my things and head to the office so I could “check out and go home.”

Perplexed, I walked to my locker to grab my jacket and book bag. It must be a mistake, I thought. But when I arrived at the principal’s office, a dread washed over me when I saw my Mom standing there. She was uncharacteristically disheveled, as if she had hurried over and needed to leave just as quickly. Her eyes were puffy and red.

As I approached her, unsure of what terrible news awaited, she told me Grandpa had died. We’d be leaving town that day and driving to Indiana for his funeral. My sister Julie, who was three years older, soon joined us. The three of us walked to the car in stunned silence, our eyes welling with tears.

‘In this life, you’re on your own’

We drove home and packed in a daze. I stuffed items into my suitcase—likely the same clothes I had taken to Indiana for Christmas a few weeks ago—but this time, my Mom told me to bring a sports coat, dress shirt, and tie. Of course, something to wear to the funeral.

Still, the reality of the moment didn’t sink in until I saw my Dad crying in the entryway as we prepared to leave. It was the first time I had seen him cry. I think he realized this and became embarrassed because I remember him wiping away the tears and quickly turning his face from my sister and me. (When I think back now, he was only 43, five years younger than I was when he died in 2019.)

The four of us settled in for a long car ride nearly void of conversation. Thankfully, “Purple Rain” was still in my Walkman from the previous trip. As we pulled out of the driveway, I hit “play” and stared out the window, resolved to watch the dreary landscape roll by and, I suppose, just be sad.

As the miles rolled by, I soon realized that “Purple Rain” and “Purple Rain” alone could lift that sadness. Those nine tracks represented a refuge, a respite, a relief from the reality of death. They filled me with, well, life. And we know what Prince says about that:

Electric word, ‘life,’ it means forever and that’s a mighty long time … .

From the opening beat of “Let’s Go Crazy” to the R-rated lyrics of “Darling Nikki” to the pop power of “When Doves Cry” to the majesty of the title track and every song in between, Prince’s music eased my suffering and transported me to—where, exactly, I’m not sure.

Maybe the famed Minneapolis club First Avenue, where I could pantomime the chorus of “I Would Die 4 U” alongside other fans. Maybe joining Wendy and Lisa in whatever activity they were about to begin in “Computer Blue.” Maybe in an ocean of violets in bloom. Maybe on a lakeshore with Apollonia (IYKYK).

All that mattered was I no longer felt numb. I had somehow escaped the back seat of our 1977 lime green Ford Ltd. as we sped down a desolate Midwestern highway and was now lost in Prince’s weird and wonderful world, wrapped in his musical and lyrical genius, enraptured in some beautiful, purple dream.

I didn’t fully realize it then, but during that trip to Indiana, I began learning the transformative power of music. I also began a lifelong obsession with “Purple Rain.”

‘Make you happy when you’re sad’

However incongruous it might seem, Prince and the Revolution’s “Purple Rain” got me through my grandfather’s death. From the shock of hearing the news to the sadness of the funeral to resuming some semblance of normal life afterward, that album saved me. In some strange way, I still equate the music with his passing all these years later. 

Part of the link was timing, of course. I  started to dig “Purple Rain” just as my Boom Pa died. But more than that, the album consoled me when nothing else could: Not words of wisdom from elders, not hugs from relatives, not sermons from preachers. I like to think fate brought that music exactly when I needed it.

As I faced other losses over the years—including the deaths of my mother, father, other family members, and several dogs—I began to understand the role music plays in the grieving process. It can’t displace grief, but it can serve as a guide that helps us make sense of life when nothing else does.

Walker Percy—the famed Southern writer and a future subject of “A Fan’s Notes”—once wrote that “music ransoms us from the past, declares an amnesty, brackets and sets aside the old puzzles.” It’s not a perfect analogy, but Prince’s music helped me solve several personal puzzles, including how I cope with death.

Over time, I discovered that writing also helps. A few years after my grandfather died, I wrote a poem called “On the Anniversary of His Death.” After college, I wrote a lengthy essay, “Fishing with Boom Pa,” as a tribute, a remembrance of our time together. Neither was very good—maybe I’ll rework and share them here someday—but putting those stories on paper helped ease my pain.

Now, this blog has done the same. I discovered that simultaneously diving deep into my Grandpa’s passing and my fandom of “Purple Rain”—and connecting the two through my experience with each—was cathartic. That’s one reason, perhaps the main reason, I started “A Fan’s Notes” last year.

At the beginning of this entry, I pasted the first words Prince speaks in the opening track, “Let’s Go Crazy.”

In that timeless passage—a faux sermon that sets the stage for one of the greatest albums ever made and certainly one of the most important for me—Prince preaches that we are gathered here today to get through this thing called life.

When I think back, I realize how perfectly he delivered on his promise. For that, I’m forever a fan.

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