On a cold December night out at East Rutherford’s Izod Center, my roommates and I witnessed the first concert of Prince’s “Welcome 2 America” tour (whom he was welcoming was never made clear.) Perhaps the strangest aspect of the evening (normally just Prince himself), was the fact that before the concert and in between the opening acts, the film Finding Nemo played on the multiple enormous projection screens in the center of the arena—without sound. While that certainly did not set the proper mood for a Prince concert (although it is more of an “experience” than concert), it just barely kept those of us who’d seen the movie entertained, and everyone else confused and bored.
But eventually, the animated fish were replaced by a jazz band, led by Esperanza Spalding. A petite young jazz musician dwarfed by her bass and immediately recognizable afro, I’d actually seen her in one of NPR’s “Tiny Desk Concerts.” She’s very good, with a fresh voice that recalls classic jazz singers, but her style is more suited for the intimacy of a club rather than a gaping arena. Then (after the next installment of the Nemo saga) came a singer of arena-sized voice and girth. After this performer’s soulful serenades, we suffered through the finale of Nemo, while eagerly anticipating the headliner. I napped. Then, suddenly, the lights in the arena darkened, and from a trapdoor in the symbol-shaped stage rose the funky, fifty-something-year-old music icon himself.
What can I say about Prince that hasn’t been said before? Let it be known that I’m not really familiar with his oeuvre, outside of the Purple Rain album/film, that is. This, however, did not prevent me from thoroughly enjoying the performance. He began with one of his newer songs, featuring a trio of Amazonian vixens that would frequently accompany him throughout the night. But for me, the concert did not properly begin until he sang “The Beautiful Ones” to his ballerina/muse. And that wouldn’t be the last time he danced on his grand piano, either.
With his band in the center, Prince roamed the stage, making full use of the 360-degree exposure—as well as trapdoors, multiple costume changes, song medleys, and guitars that seemed to appear out of thin air. As an aspiring guitar player, I particularly enjoyed the wailing riffs and tasty licks. Both the openers returned to the stage for a number each, which was nice to see. Overall, the concert balanced upbeat, funky songs with down-tempo ballads. Prince also balanced a mix of new and old songs—but nothing seemed out of place or outright bizarre.
Except for everything.
Essentially, it was as if we in the Izod Center were visited by extraterrestrials from an incredibly cool and funky planet for two hours, and then had to make sense of the world after their departure. Maybe, this is what Prince meant by “Welcome 2 America.” Who knows? All I know, with certainty, is that “Purple Rain” is definitely a 15-minute, sing-along arena anthem; and anyone who says otherwise wasn’t there and just doesn’t get it, and probably never will. I pity them.
And since I really don't have any pictures or videos from said concert (and since Prince thoroughly patrols the Internets for such things), I offer you this dramatized (though highly-accurate) account of the man in his prime:
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