The Rise of Prince 1958-1988

by Hahn, Alex

  With their presentations to the labels complete, Prince and Husney returned to Minneapolis, hoping that formal offers would soon arrive. Although RSO and ABC decided to pass, the other three labels all remained interested. Husney then began issuing the demands he and Prince had settled on. A&M would offer only a two-record contract, which ruled it out from the start. Warners and CBS were offering lucrative three-record deals, but both were hesitant to let Prince produce himself. CBS proposed what it thought was a wonderful concept: Verdine White, bassist of Earth, Wind & Fire, would produce the first album.

  Prince angrily rejected the idea, seeing it as a sure sign of heavy-handedness to come. It also seemed obvious to Prince that A&M’s executives wanted to ghettoize him by pairing him with a well-known black artist. He also felt that Verdine White’s syrupy R&B sound was a thing of the past, and certainly not one that he wanted to emulate.

  This left Warners. Thyret was on board, but the final decision lay in the hands of chairman Mo Ostin and president Lenny Waronker. These executives’ careers had been linked since 1966, when Ostin, a thirty-nine-year-old vice president at Reprise Records, hired the younger Waronker as part of his artist development team. When Ostin became chairman of Warners in the early 1970s, Waronker joined him as an executive. Both men developed a sterling reputation within the industry; under their stewardship, Warners became a company that signed interesting artists and carefully nurtured their creativity.

  Waronker, who had also met Prince during the courtship period, had been floored by the demo tape and his preternatural confidence. Still, Prince’s slate of demands, and in particular the insistence on a three-album package, continued to divide company officials. Prince’s talents were undeniable, but could he deliver a hit record? This, as with all things in pop music, was nearly unknowable, but such questions loomed even larger given Prince’s youth and the hard bargain he was driving.

  Waronker and Ostin solicited input from all levels of the company, ranging from business affairs lawyers to talent scouts. Finally, the executives reached a decision that was as much intuitive as analytical: Warners would meet nearly all of Prince’s demands. They would only go so far as to allow Prince to coproduce the first album, but otherwise he would function autonomously in the studio. And Prince and Husney would have their three-album commitment.

  Prince, still just 18, had achieved a dream that had eluded thousands of other brilliant musicians from his hometown, spanning multiple generations. These included his own father, Andre Anderson’s father, and countless others. Indeed, going back to the earliest African-Americans of Minneapolis who had arrived during the Great Migration to form a vibrant musical community, a great many had come to nurture hopes of having professional careers. Somehow it was the shy, slight Prince Nelson –who had been effectively abandoned by both of his parents, causing him to suffer disruptions, dislocations, and traumas throughout childhood – who was now better positioned than any member of this community before him to achieve national prominence.

  After accepting Warners’ offer over the phone, Prince and Husney flew to Los Angeles to formalize the relationship. A flurry of congratulatory meetings took place, and Waronker brought Prince to a studio to explore some of the equipment. “We didn’t want him to feel like he was auditioning, we just wanted to see him do his thing,” Waronker recalled.[173] Prince quickly immersed himself in recording a song, moving from guitar to bass as the executives watched. Eventually, Waronker suggested that they conclude the session.

  “No, let me do a bass overdub,” Prince said quietly. Waronker, surprised, said that Prince was free to take the tape with him so that he could continue work later. Then, for the first time, Waronker saw a flash of anger on Prince’s face, and his voice became firm. “No, I need to finish the track,” he responded.[174]

  Later in the impromptu session, Prince sat in the narrow recording booth and listened to a playback of the song. As Waronker walked past him to speak to the session engineer, Prince looked up at the executive and spoke up again, this time delivering a message about how Warners needed to handle his career. “Don’t make me black,” Prince said, and went on to describe white rock artists he admired, demonstrating a deep knowledge of popular music.[175] The message was clear: Prince would refuse to be pigeonholed as an R&B artist.

  For Waronker, it was yet another positive sign. Prince had not only had talent, but a clear vision. And the studio session demonstrated that his focus on achieving his goals was likely to be monomaniacal.

  Prince signed a three-album contract with Warner Bros. on June 25, 1977, just weeks after turning nineteen. At a final celebratory luncheon with company executives, Prince reverted to behaving in a shy and awkward manner; with the business details concluded, there did not seem to be a great deal to say. Not long afterward, he returned to Sound 80 in Minneapolis to record a song that represented his own way of communicating with his new patrons; called “We Can Work It Out,” the song’s charming and unassuming lyrics express hope that the Prince-Warners partnership would be a happy one. The peppy song, easily as catchy and assured as anything on the demo tape that had led to Prince’s signing, seemed to portend a fruitful and happy relationship.

  The song abruptly ended, however, with the sound of an explosion.

  7. Record Sense

  Prince with Warners’ Marylou Badeaux on June 25, 1977, the day of his signing to Warner Bros. (Courtesy Marylou Badeaux)

  Only weeks after Prince inked his contract with Warner Bros., questions began to arise over who would control the relationship.

  Although the company had agreed to at least let him coproduce his first album, left unresolved was the choice of the co-producer and, more fundamentally, how large a role Prince would play in shaping the album’s sound. Not long after they returned to Minneapolis, he and Husney tried to place the issue of Prince acting as a solo producer back on the table. Their argument was a simple one: he had demonstrated beyond question that he could function on his own in the studio. A co-producer would do nothing but get in the way and stifle Prince’s creative energies.

  Still, the issue was one on which Warner Bros. was reluctant to yield. Despite their belief in his talents, Mo Ostin and Lenny Waronker weren’t sure they could entrust Prince with this complicated and expensive task, which required both technical knowledge and an intangible known in the industry as “record sense” – that is, the ability to create a radio-ready sound. Throughout the 1970s and well into the 1980s, the role of the producer remained paramount, and skilled professionals were almost always brought in to shape the work of new artists. Giving a 19-year-old such authority was unprecedented in Warners’ history.

  The executives faced a dilemma. Already having a keen understanding of Prince’s personality, they realized that a dispute over such a fundamental issue could poison the relationship in its nascent stages. Treading delicately, Ostin called Owen Husney in summer 1977 to discuss the co-producer issue, and to suggest names that might appeal to Prince. The chairman’s initial suggestion was one of the biggest names in R&B music: Maurice White, the leader (and drummer) of Earth, Wind & Fire, which had released a stream of successful albums during the 1970s. The group’s danceable songs showed considerable songwriting craft, and its slick sound helped define 1970s urban radio. Singles like “Serpentine Fire” and “Shining Star” scored big on the charts and were also widely influential among R&B producers. Ostin saw White as someone who could both provide cachet and serve as the perfect mentor for a young artist.

  Husney knew that Prince would be mortified – he had, of course, already rejected CBS Records’ bid to have Maurice’s brother Verdine produce his first album. But Husney, while expressing his doubts to Ostin, agreed to take the proposal to Prince.

  As expected, Prince rejected the idea emphatically, and then wrote a detailed memo to Husney that marshaled arguments against it. Earth, Wind & Fire’s sound was dated and generic, he contended, and White’s input would detract from, rather than enhance, his own highly
original vision.

  When Ostin and Husney spoke again, the chairman backed down regarding Maurice White, but argued that Prince was too green to be sole producer. In response, Husney floated the same idea that had worked so well with CBS: Prince would undertake an in-studio audition to prove his readiness.

  Prince had already passed this test with Waronker during the impromptu studio session that had occurred after his signing in June. But company executives who had not been present viewed the idea as a good one. This time, though, Prince would not be informed what was happening; Husney would simply say that Warners wanted to give him a weekend of free studio time, and the executives would surreptitiously view the session.

  Prince was flown to Amigo Studios in Los Angeles and set up with a studio engineer. The officials discretely drifted in and out as Prince recorded yet another version of “Just As Long As We’re Together.” “He thought these people were janitors,” Husney later recalled.

  The executives, after watching Prince construct the song in the better part of a day, decided it would be folly to force a producer upon him. Although his studio production skills remained raw, an artist this talented and determined would simply have to learn on the job.

  But Warners added an important caveat. An “executive producer,” someone with ample technical experience, would have to be present to oversee the recording process. Prince and Husney agreed, realizing that they were unlikely to wrest further concessions. Selected for the role was Tommy Vicari, a veteran recording engineer who had worked with Carlos Santana, Billy Preston, and others.

  Prince wanted to record in Minneapolis, and work thus began at Sound 80, where he had made his first professional demo. Vicari had favored a more sophisticated facility, and when technical problems interrupted the sessions, he proposed relocating to a sleek Los Angeles studio. Husney disagreed, arguing that any 19-year-old, even one as disciplined as Prince, could be distracted by the city’s party atmosphere. They compromised on the Record Plant in Sausalito, a pleasant northern California city near San Francisco. A beautiful house overlooking the San Francisco Bay was rented in nearby Corte Madera, and Prince, Andre Anderson, Vicari, Husney, and Husney’s wife, Britt, all moved in.

  On the surface, the environment seemed idyllic. The Record Plant was a venerable studio where many important albums had been made, including much of Fleetwood Mac’s smash 1977 album Rumours. In truth, the facility’s acoustics had caused problems for many artists, including Fleetwood Mac itself. Studio designer Tom Hidley had pioneered the concept of a “dead room,” in which natural reverb was stifled by extensive padding and other insulation. The intent had been to capture a band’s sound more accurately and transparently, but in practice it robbed the studio’s two main rooms of any natural character. “It was horrendous; the room was so dead, it just sucked up all the sound,” recalled engineer Betty Cantor-Jackson, an engineer at the Record Plant in the 1970s.[176] Indeed, during the recording of Rumours, Fleetwood Mac and its producers had struggled for months to achieve a robust drum sound in Studio B, the very room where Prince would be recording.

  As the sessions began, Prince felt the pressure that came with being the youngest producer in Warner Bros.’ history. He insisted on an atmosphere that was monastic – “no guests, no phone calls, no pizzas, no dogs, no hangers-on, nothing,” recalled studio manager Michelle Zarin.[177] This was in stark contrast to business as usual at the Record Plant, which was notorious during the 1970s for the large amount of cocaine and other drugs consumed on the premises by famous artists.

  As usual, Prince recorded each song himself, creating a foundation of bass and drums and then adding other instruments. But while the recording of his demos at Sound 80 had been marked by moments of lightness and good humor, Prince was now deadly serious. Making sure every note was right, he burnished the songs into a state of perfection. But this was not all to the good; Prince’s deliberate process, as well as the sterility created by the insulation in the studio, made many songs sound like an aggregation of overdubs, as opposed to an organic whole.

  At first, Prince barely spoke to Vicari or assistant engineer Steve Fontana. Eventually, wanting to bring a sense of familiarity to the sessions, Prince asked that David Z. Rivkin be flown in from Minneapolis to record vocals; this lightened the mood and loosened his behavior. When he, David Z. and Vicari had dinner one evening at an upscale Sausalito restaurant, Prince took out a squirt gun, and the trio took turns surreptitiously shooting water at the ceiling. “People three tables away were looking up, wondering if something was leaking,” Rivkin remembered. “We tried not to laugh.”

  Back in the studio, however, the atmosphere remained hyper-focussed, with Prince perhaps overly intent on proving his ability as a young wizard of the studio. “He was definitely out to make a statement: ‘I can do it all, and you can kiss my ass,’” recalled assistant engineer Fontana.

  The vocals proved most difficult and time-consuming of all, as Prince insisted on recording the parts countless times to achieve harmonic perfection. As a result, Rivkin felt any sense of spontaneity drain from the sessions. “The pressure caused him to keep doing things over and over and over,” he recalled.

  Another problem was that various songs had previously been recorded multiple times in different studios; Prince was largely bored of songs like “Just as Long as We’re Together,” which further robbed them of any freshness. And surprisingly, for all of his insistence that he would chart an original artistic path, the music he created was mostly straightforward R&B, with an emphasis on ballads. Prince had discarded strong material that had been recorded in primitive conditions on Russell Street North, such the Joni Mitchell-influenced “Nightingale,” and the ethereal piano ballad “Leaving for New York.” These works were more original than anything Prince was recording in Sausalito. Despite his surface brashness, Prince seemed to have suffered a loss of nerve that caused him to steer clear of more experimental material.

  “Soft and Wet” was one of the songs that had been recorded countless times in various settings; in Sausalito, Prince dropped some of the interesting touches that had been present on the Sound 80 version, such as the prominent funk guitar in the song’s final chorus. And only one rock number was recorded, the overdub-drenched “I’m Yours,” further undermining Prince’s stated goal of being a stylistically diverse artist.

  As a result of the glacial recording pace, the album went well over budget. Although Warner Bros. did not complain, Waronker did fly in one afternoon for a progress check. The chill in the air could be felt from the moment he arrived, with Prince obviously viewing his presence as corporate meddling. When Waronker suggested adding more bass to the song “So Blue,” Prince erupted and insisted that the executive leave the studio. Waronker returned to Los Angeles, realizing even more clearly that the label had on its hands an artist who, for better or for worse, would never be satisfied with anything short of total command over his career.

  As work continued, Prince also showed less and less interest in the input of the executive producer, Tommy Vicari, who had hoped to play a significant role in shaping the album. Recalled Fontana, “He kind of looked at Tommy like, ‘Oh, the babysitter’s here, Dad’s home.’” After several weeks of quizzing Vicari about how to run the equipment, Prince started ignoring him. When Vicari offered substantive suggestions, the responses were curt and dismissive.

  One evening, Prince’s resentment of Vicari’s presence was underscored through a bizarre practical joke. When everyone else was out, leaving Prince alone in the Corte Madera house, he stuffed an outfit of Husney’s clothes full of leaves, placed this makeshift dummy on Vicari’s bed, and stuck a knife in its back, Rivkin recounted. “Vicari came back at four in the morning and thought Owen had been killed,” he said. “He was really screaming.”

  As the hostility of the prank reflected, Prince recognized no further need for an executive producer. “He had absorbed everything he needed out of Tommy Vicari’s brain,” Husney noted. “Prince already wa
nted him out by that time, and Tommy was heartbroken, because he had just been treated like shit.”

  Another frequent presence in the studio was Andre Anderson, who also wanted to contribute. But while Prince appreciated his friend’s company, the bassist’s creative assistance was not welcome. “He got left out, because Prince wanted to make the whole album himself,” remembered Husney. While Prince recorded, the bassist chattered impatiently about how he would soon be making his own album, Rivkin recalled. “He kept saying, ‘I’m going to do my thing, I can’t wait to do my thing.’”

  Throughout most of the sessions, Prince cordoned off Studio B from other activities at the Record Plant via a sign on the door limiting access, as well as through a bodyguard at the door. Tony Saunders, a 21-year-old session bass player working on a project with the rock guitarist Greg Brown in Studio A, was surprised at such behavior from an obscure artist no one had heard of. “I was like, who does this little dude think he is?” Saunders recalled. Eventually, Saunders began socializing with Prince in the Record Plant’s rec room, and they talked about their respective histories with music. Prince was particularly interested to learn that Saunders had been friends with Sly Stone since age ten, when Sly had bought him an organ as a present.

  Sly himself was a regular Record Plant client, and worked in a special studio room known as “the Pit,” which had been designed to Sly’s specifications, with the mixing board submerged below the musicians to achieve unusual acoustical effects. Once, Sly and Prince encountered each other at the studio and briefly played together; among other things, Sly tutored Prince on the “slap bass” technique used on the pioneering funk song “Thank You (Falettinme Be Mice Elf Agin).”

  Eventually Prince somewhat relaxed the security outside Studio B, allowing Saunders and others in to watch him work and make small talk between takes. But the socializing did not last long; as soon as Prince began to feel distracted, he cleared the room out. “I had never seen somebody so focused,” Saunders recalled.[178]