Album Review: Prince - Piano and A Microphone (1983)
I hate to toss around a phrase like ‘corpse humpery’ so
carelessly, but I suppose it is the first thing that comes to mind after I
pressed play on the recently exhumed and released Piano and A Microphone—a short collection of 35 year old demo
recordings from Prince, and the first official posthumous release from his
estate.
Prince Rogers Nelson was, more than likely, not expecting to
die on an elevator in his own home—his vast compound known as Paisley Park—in
April of 2016; in the wake of his death, it was discovered that none of his
affairs were really in order—he had one living relative, his sister, and no
will.
Less than two years after his death, Paisley Park—or at
least parts of it, were open for public tours, and Nelson’s ashes, placed in an
urn shaped like Paisley Park, are on display in the atrium of the complex. And
while a bulk of the last two and a half years have been spent with his estate
shuffling the rights to his vast catalog of work back and forth between
different labels and distributors, there is the question of the literal bank
vault of material Nelson left in Paisley Park—a vault that had to be drilled
open since only he knew how to access it, in what I assume turned into
something straight out of the first Die
Hard movie.
With last year’s Purple Rain remaster and reissue having
been completed before his passing but unreleased at the time of his death, Piano and A Microphone is the first
taste of what was kept in Nelson’s archives of unreleased material. A sparse,
nine track affair, the album runs slightly over a half hour, and seems like a
bit of a strange selection to go with as the first thing to reveal that had
been kept under wraps, since it was committed to tape in 1983.
Taking its title from the solo tours that Nelson had been embarking
on right up until his death, Piano and A
Microphone was found on a single cassette tape in the vault, and is
presumed to be from a demo recording session, recorded all in one take—it runs
the gamut from very brief, one minute sketches or ideas, songs that would never
be fully developed and released, and aloof, lengthy, and sprawling rough
versions of songs that Nelson would later record with The Revolution, or on his
own—the collection’s opening piece, “17 Days,” is a Purple Rain-era b-side, “International Lover” is from the 1999 album, released the year prior to
the recording of this cassette, and “Strange Relationship” would later turn up
on Sign O’ The Times.
“Is that my echo?”
That’s the first thing you hear on Piano and A Microphone—Nelson speaking to whomever is engineering
the sessions for him; then he asks someone to turn the lights down, hoarsely
whispers a funky “Good god,” and
begins scatting a rhythm over the rollicking tickling of the piano, banging out
a jaunty, faster tempo version of “17 Days”—almost a night and day difference
between what was set to tape on this demo session when compared to the
electrified scuzzy and slinky version recorded with The Revolution—one that finds
Nelson funneling into the song into something exponentially more somber and
pensive, even with all that funk backing it.
The first seven tracks of the collection are, more or less,
a free wheeling medley—from the way it’s edited together, it’s tough to tell if
Nelson really effortlessly segued
into a 90 second sketch of “Purple Rain” right after “17 Days,” or if that’s
what whoever gave this collection the green light wants us to believe.
The very, very
rough sketch of “Purple Rain,” sounds very little like the defining epic that
would conclude the album of the same name—musically, there are hints of Joni
Mitchell’s “A Case of You” in it—so it makes sense that Nelson would slide into
a short bit of that very song; he would later go on to cover it properly on One Nite Alone, a self-released effort
from 2002 (it would also be featured on a Mitchell tribute album in 2007.)
There is, again, a bit of an awkward transition between his
short inclusion of “A Case of You,” and the traditional spiritual “Mary, Don’t
You Weep,” which Nelson stretches out to a sprawling five minutes, before
switching gears and picking the pacing back up with “Strange Relationship”—a
far cry from nearly whimsical instrumentation that the song would adopt in the Sign O’ The Times version of the song.
The 1999 version
of “International Lover” is an electro-slow dance, unfolding slowly over the
course of six and a half minutes, with Nelson pleading the lyrics in his
higher, on the verge of becoming unhinged, sexually charged range. With the
song having been released on an album the previous year, I am a little confused
about why he felt compelled to perform a stripped down arrangement of it for
this demo session—cutting the song’s length in half, the version of
“International Lover” found on Piano and
A Microphone s not almost unrecognizable in comparison, but it does lose
some of the slithering, synth-heavy charm of the original; here, it comes off a
little like a lounge singer’s rendition.
“Wednesday,” a short, two-minute sketch, is another song
originally intended for Purple Rain,
and according to various Prince resources on the internet, a studio version
does exist, and was included in an early configuration of the album’s track
list, but was replaced with “Darling Nikki.”
Here, Nelson seems slightly
unfocused on the vocals—the lyrics are incredibly dark (“Saturday night I called you—you weren’t even home. Needed someone to
talk to—hate it when I’m all alone, contemplating suicide from 12 o’clock until
two”) and he’s much more focused on his impressive command of the piano,
and his ability to shift from something somber and emotional, to something
steeped in funk.
“Wednesday” also may end somewhat
abruptly—or at least prematurely, as Nelson is informed that the A side of his
cassette is nearly over, and asks his engineer to flip it over—the B side
begins with the strange, lively funk of “Cold Coffee and Cocaine,” an
unreleased song that is speculated to have possibly been put together with the
intention of passing on to Morris Day and The Time—or, at least, that is what a
Prince specific wiki claims, because Nelson sings in a bit of a caricature—what
they call his “Jamie Starr” persona.
Piano and A Microphone concludes with another lengthy, possibly
improvised, and moderately funky selection—“Why The Butterflies.” Musically,
even for a demo, it’s very skeletal, with Nelson seemingly directing his
attention toward figuring out the song’s hypnotic and alluring rhythm, with the
actual progression of chords not so much taking a back seat, but also not the
primary focus of the song. The lyrics, too—what few there are, seem to be used
as placeholders, with Nelson repeating variations of the same general phrase
throughout the song.
In the end, Nelson lets the song
get away from him—perhaps he’s grown tired from the recording session, or
bored, or can’t take this idea any further, but he proceeds to bang out the
final few chords to the song, speeding up the rhythm slightly, before bringing
the song to a rushed conclusion.
Piano and A Microphone isn’t a bad album—but I guess I should stop
right there; it’s not even really an album is it? There’s probably a reason
that Nelson tucked this cassette away for over 30 years in his personal
archives—maybe only using it as a point of reference later on, but more than
likely, forgetting that it existed. And it makes you wonder, how many other
sparse and loose demo sessions on decaying cassette tapes were found in the
Prince vault? Is this the kind of thing we’re going to be slowly fed as
executives and executors comb their way through his hoard of unreleased material?
At its core, Piano and A Microphone appeals to the Prince completest—and borders
on being a total cash grab. Prince Rogers Nelson never intended for anyone to
hear this tape—but he also probably would never intended for his home to be
open to the public as some kind of tourist destination in the wake of his
death. This collection is interesting, sure, but it is simply a snapshot of an
artist at work—it’s not the kind of thing that you can put on and enjoy in its
entirety.
There is a fragile, haunted
quality to it, but that is maybe simply because of the context. There’s no way
to remaster something that is on a cassette tape as all one track, so you hear
every warble and bit of distortion in the recording, and the sparse, skeletal
nature of this material gives it a certain ghostly characteristic—but maybe
that’s because you want to imagine Prince speaking to us from beyond the 3D
printed urn.
Piano and A Microphone (1983) is out now on CD and vinyl, via Prince's favorite major label to work with, Warner Brothers.
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