Prince wows the crowd in Malahide Castle.
Katie Abrahams
There is one man who could draw me back to the homeland from an East Coast beach, without a morsel of regret. Bear in mind this was a beach where Brown University’s bronzed male students would descend for a game or ten of volleyball. Furthermore, the day’s most torturous decision always centred on one question; “when?”. Yes, when to drag one’s gaze away from Rhode Island’s finest, set the can of Coke down on the sand, and wander a few feet yonder for a cold shower. Life, as they say, was sweet Stateside.
Alas, there is no doubt in my mind that without aforementioned sparsile man, this little shameless pervert would never have come to appreciate the male form. For many, it was a five foot, two-inch Minnesotan who, through the media of MTV andradiowaves, high-pitched shrieks and a series of dance routines focused on rhythmically jerking his crotch, taught them about sex. Were it not for Prince, I may even still think that babies came via special order, to eventually be collected from the back storeroom of old Christy’s grocery shop in Mount Merrion.
So, I hurried to Boston Airport. Aer Lingus flight number EI139, a few hours’ sleep, and a DART to Malahide Castle; these were the only obstacles keeping me from what I had built up to be the best concert of my life. After twenty-one years and the heartache of gaining then senselessly losing the opportunity to see Prince back in 2008, it was finally time to aurally and visually critique a very strange, very tiny and very sexual man.
To witness Prince perform is to observe omniregence perfected in musicianship and stage presence. I suspect I will never again see a crowd of 35,000 transform with such speed into nubivagant hip-swivelling beasts. Maybe the speakers had a dual-function of ventilation, installed for the purpose of injecting mass amounts of pheromones into the audience. Fun, physical abandonment was the ambience de nuit. It was comical to see women and men alike revert back to their glory days – as reflected by their cries of adoration and vigorous gyrating. The only reason it wasn’t emotionally scarring was because Mac and I were too hypnotised, instinctively whooping and grinding alongside them.
He emerged swathed in a monk-esque, cream tunic, accompanied by supremely glamorous, glitter-covered, bald singer Shelby J., who was more than woman enough to share the stage with the legendary headliner. Bassist and vocalist Sheila E., and one more dazzling backing singer periodically joined him onstage. They also served to further excite the fans, and knew just when to rush to Prince to strap on his customised Fender. The set list was almost flawless, sampling many of his greatest hits. The initial bars of show-opening “Gold” created a frenzy, which was continuously stirred and intensified by the thrilling, ensuing medley “Let’s Go Crazy/Delirious”. Of course, with a career spanning nearly three decades not everyone was treated to their personal wish list of Prince tracks. However, I was, and that’s all that matters here. Twenty-five songs were performed with unwavering and insurmountable energy.
The highlights of the night were two-pronged. “Kiss” was awe-inspiring. Punctuated by those shrieks, Prince mastered the same crotch-work and tight pants as boldly as he had in his prime. Then again, and certainly after this tour’s great standard, it’s debatable whether the 52-year old has ever fallen from his zenith. It’s a cliché – and “Little Red Corvette” is technically my favourite Prince tune – but “Purple Rain” was the second stand-out performance. Sometimes in live outdoor shows, the weather has an uncanny way of drastically turning, mystically aligning itself with the mood of a song. Yes, it began purple raining. The gentle spitting of raindrops had begun moments before, as Shelby J treated the crowd to a beautiful and moving cover of Dylan’s “To Make You Feel My Love” (Adele, watch and learn). For sevenish flawless moments, it seemed like the troposphere itself had stalled to partake in the party at Malahide Castle. The skies stayed a brighter shade of grey, while warm rain strafed us all, and Prince played one of the greatest guitar riffs of modern music. From the end of the walkway that jutted out from the main stage, there was a sudden enormous eruption of purple confetti, and the pieces were carried across the crowd. Many adjectives seem a little too weak to synopsise that live rendition of “Purple Rain”. I’m not quite sure that an apt enough word exists.
The set in its entirety fell just short of two hours. It was a one-man show, with his trademark squiriferous elegance combined with a frankly overwhelming ability to get tens of thousands of middle-aged pelvises to thrust their way out of any possible libido slump. A sea of swaying hips, smiling faces and flushed cheeks. A series of encores featured- three to be exact. It became a game with an identified but nonetheless appreciated outcome; the crowd would vocicate his name, and after a few units of time, Prince returned to deliver and satisfy. Repeatedly, he would shout “I just got too many hits! We gonna keep going all night!’’. Judging by the absence of a bead of sweat on his face, a need to take a breath, or rest for even a moment those delicate replacement hips, one got the sense he would have if time constraints ceased to exist. The old saying still rings true – Prince comes to bring a party, not a concert.
He disappeared, presumably for a quick change into yet another impeccable outfit, after “U Got The Look”. Then, the lights cut out. The crowd fell silent. Was this finally it, the end? Surely he would come out again to provide, in a blaze of luminosities and glitter, the concert’s equivalent of break-up sex. An “oh okay, just for old time’s sake” rendition of Little Nikki, perhaps. Minutes passed like milliseconds, and slowly, people began to exhale again. It was over, and time to let go with love. In this abrupt and unwelcome aftermath, I turned to my friend. Mac looked welmish all of a sudden, her eyes were glazed like a lake conquered by frost, and her mouth hung open like a catatonic simpleton. Then I looked around, everyone had the same expression. I, too, looked like the victim of ECT gone wrong. It may seem melodramatic, but there was a peculiar immobility that had overpowered the crowd. It was as if our brains’ circuits had been blown, lazily-repaired, then blown again. And again, and again. I turned back to Mac, who finally spoke with eyes still fixed on the vacant stage.
“I think I’m pregnant.”
I knew I was. With bruised pelvic bones, strained muscles, damp hair and an insatiable desire for a cigarette, we followed the masses out of the castle. I am scheduled for hip replacement surgery next month.
