>http://fiyastarter.com/its-only-mountains-and-the-sea/
>
>
>
>
>
>There are some moments for which the word “remember” is
>simply inadequate. Some moments, for better or worse, help
>fuse your psyche. Some moments recode your DNA. There is no
>remembering. There is only you. I don’t remember the day my
>cousin Ann died, as I watched my mother and sisters weep for
>what seemed like forever. I don’t remember when our entire
>neighborhood had a picnic at Rock Creek Park, a moment that
>I’m certain is top 10 for all participants. I don’t
>remember spontaneously jumping off my Uncle John’s boat into
>the Chesapeake, too young to know swimming isn’t instinctive
>for humans, seeing all of that life under the water and,
>eventually, my father’s hand. I don’t remember all of the
>prep time of that November morning when our family braved the
>stinging cold to celebrate Dr. King’s birthday becoming a
>national holiday. I don’t remember the day my father left
>home, exploding into the bedroom he shared with my mother and
>yanking the television from the wall as my friend Randy and I
>played Combat on Atari. And I don’t remember the day I
>discovered Prince. It’s all just who I am.
>
>
>
>After my father left, my time out of school was my own. There
>were no more long bike rides around the city. No more fixing
>cars. No more reading the comics in the paper. I filled a
>large portion of this time listening to music. My older
>sister, Princess (yeah, I know), had all of Prince’s albums
>through Controversy. Prin (which she prefers) had an
>impressive album collection: the Dreamgirls sountrack, Kiss,
>Queen, David Bowie, Marvin Gaye, Parliament, Grandmaster Flash
>and the Furious Five, Michael Jackson, the Sugarhill Gang and
>so much more. I listened relentlessly to all of them,
>especially Dreamgirls, The Message, and Thriller.
>
>
>
>However, I ignored the dude in the bikini briefs on one album
>cover and sitting naked atop a goddamn pegasus on the back
>cover of another. I was too young and it was just all too
>much. Prin would listen to Prince while getting dressed in the
>morning, vibrant and confident, like all young women who
>listen to Prince. Not only did it sound like something I
>shouldn’t be listening to, it sounded like something I
>shouldn’t want to listen to. One time, I blurted out that
>that the hook on that song she loved so much sounded like
>“Touch-Your-Pus-sy” to me. What else would that freaky
>looking guy be singing? My mother laughed her big laugh and
>Prin facepalmed so hard. When they explained to me that I was
>wrong—by holding up the album cover and demonstrably
>sounding out the word “Con-Tro-Ver-Sy)—I decided right
>there I was going to see what was up with this dude.
>
>
>
>Back then, the weekend was peak listening time for me. I’m
>the youngest by a decade, so everyone had something to do or
>someone to see. In those days, a teenager or young adult
>staying in the house was a treasonous act, so everybody was
>gone. I could sit with those albums sun up to sun down,
>without a hint of interruption.
>
>The time had come. I was going to see what was up with the
>dude in the bikini briefs. I needed to understand why Prin
>became so alive every morning.
>
>
>
>So, at nine-years old, I pulled 1999 from its sleeve and I
>noticed the artwork on the cover for the first time. There’s
>a lot there, but the feral eyes in the 9s set a tone. I felt
>like the album was staring back at me, giving me a last
>warning. Enter if you dare. I forged ahead. Every track was
>sonic quicksand. How had I missed it all those mornings? Of
>course I knew 1999, Delirious and Little Red Corvette. Those
>were the hits. But, D.M.S.R.? That groove completely
>eviscerated Another One Bites The Dust, which was my favorite
>song of that time.
>
>I sank deeper. Something in the Water (Does Not Compute) and
>All the Critics Love You in New York? To this day, I still
>don’t know what they are. They’re music, but I don’t
>know what kind. They were recorded in 1981 or 82 and they
>STILL sound like the future. Free? Honestly, I still don’t
>understand my connection to that one, because not even other
>Prince diehards love it as much as I do. But, I reflexively
>hear it every time I’m confronted with the idea black people
>don’t love America or shouldn’t love America. I wouldn’t
>even say it’s a great song. It’s just an incredibly
>sincere statement. Automatic? The actual song, which is
>brilliant, is just a warm up for an unforeseen collision into
>a wall of Prince spoken word, spooky synths, guitar solos,
>sobbing succubi and extraterrestrial backing vocals. This is
>music? 1999 is the album that ruined radio for me. After
>listening to it for a few hours, my young mind understood that
>radio is for entertainment, not for art. If I wanted art, I
>needed to go find it.
>
>
>
>At some point, I got around to Controversy, after 1999 and
>Dirty Mind took me past lunch and into the late afternoon.
>Now, I’m just going to say this and you can take it how you
>want: If the Ramones had recorded Ronnie Talk to
>Russia…undisputed greatest punk song ever. EVER. You think
>about that and be honest with yourself.
>
>
>
>Well, moving on…
>
>
>
>Before I heard Annie Christian, I was about 6 or 7 hours deep.
>I already knew I was a fan. I knew I would listen to this dude
>for as long as he made music. But, Annie Christian is The One.
>That song made me believe God had a hand in this. God wanted
>me to hear this man’s music. Prince’s delivery on the
>track sounds like he’s possessed. There’s no life in his
>voice. There’s only the words.
>
>
>
>Annie Christian wanted to be a big star
>So she moved to Atlanta and she bought a blue car
>She killed black children, and what’s fair is fair
>If you try and say you’re crazy, everybody say electric
>chair
>Electric chair
>
>
>
>Annie Christian, Annie Christ
>Until you’re crucified, I’ll live my life in taxicabs
>
>
>
>She killed black children? Here I am, a nine-year-old black
>boy, hearing this man offer this to the world with the
>indifference of a veteran cop writing a parking ticket. I was
>scared to fucking death. But, I must’ve picked up that
>needle and dropped at start of that song over a dozen straight
>times. I had to hear it. I became possessed. The song is so
>damn unnerving. But, I loved it. It made its way into my
>cells. And as the years passed, more of his music would do the
>same. It’s been been there every day of my life since that
>day. Every high and every low.
>
>
>
>Earned a new belt at martial arts school? Play some Prince.
>Let’s Go Crazy.
>
>
>
>Win another basketball trophy? Play some Prince. Baby, I’m a
>Star.
>
>
>
>Graduate? Play some Prince. Delirious.
>
>
>
>Get married? Nigga…Adore. Adore, nigga.
>
>
>
>Mom dies?
>
>
>
>Stand tall, sweet baby, don’t you fall
>(Tall, baby)
>You ain’t the only one gettin’ beat down
>Happens to us all
>The road you chose to walk in this life
>(The road you choose to walk in this life)
>
>Is one that leads into the next
>So sweet baby, stand tall
>(Sweet baby, stand tall)
>Stand tall
>(Sweet baby)
>
>
>
>I know most people would guess Sometimes It Snow In April. I
>also played that one on the worst day of my life, but Sweet
>Baby absolutely gutted me. It still guts me. I have never
>listened to that song again. I still don’t know why I even
>played it that day, other than I was supposed to.
>
>
>
>First child? Play some Prince. The Holy Trinity: The Love We
>Make. Let’s Have a Baby. Friend, Lover, Sister,
>Mother/Wife.
>
>
>
>I could go on forever about what that man meant to me. I would
>love to talk about how prolific and versatile he was. I could
>talk about how I could hear him in songs from Nine Inch Nails
>to Lil Wayne (Trent Reznor and Wayne would proudly confirm it
>for you, too). I could rage on about how he was underrated as
>a lyricist and guitarist with malice by music critics who
>didn’t want to accept that a black man from Minnesota was
>the apex predator of music, the preferred artistic medium of
>the universe, for the vast majority of his life. I could
>present my case for him being not only the greatest talent of
>the Rock era, but the greatest musician who has ever lived.
>But here’s what I’ll never do and have never done:
>
>
>
>I’m not selling anyone on Prince. If you don’t get it,
>it’s fine with me. It’s a very personal thing and I
>don’t like to trivialize it with petty debate centered on
>music industry metrics. I’ve always likened meeting another
>true Prince fan to meeting someone of the same mutant race.
>The other parts of them, good or bad, do not matter to me,
>because we have a primordial bond. You can be an absolute
>scumbag, but if you’re up on Moonbeam Levels and Electric
>Intercourse and The Grand Progression and Rebirth of the Flesh
>and Train and Billy’s Sunglasses and Movie Star and Empty
>Room and the guitar solo on Just My Imagination…like, if you
>get IT, I got time to talk to you. There’s a place for you
>in my heart, because I understand that we’ve had the same
>profound experience at some point in our lives. We heard the
>future.
>
>
>
>When I learned of his death, I was surprised by how composed I
>was. I opened my laptop to confirm he was gone. But, just as I
>started to get down about it, there he was in my head
>again…
>
>
>
>Once upon a time in a land called Fantasy
>Seventeen mountains stood so high
>The sea surrounded them and together they would be
>The only thing that ever made you cry
>You said the devil told you that another mountain would
>appear
>Every time somebody broke your heart
>He said the sea would one day overflow with all your tears
>And love will always leave you lonely
>
>But, I say it’s only mountains and the sea…
>