by Ronin Ro
Only when Prince finished recording for the day would they hang and explore the area.
In the studio, Prince continued to insist on flawlessness, especially when it came to his vocals. He kept Rivkin at the board for hours. But with his many takes, Rivkin felt everything sounded canned. In other hands, the title track “For You” would be a pleasant little vocal showcase. But he filled the track with forty-six time-consuming overdubs. Rivkin understood Prince was under pressure and wanted to silence doubts about his production abilities. But Rivkin felt he was cluttering the song, as well as “Soft and Wet,” whose catchy melody was buried under too many keyboard flourishes.
Worst of all from the label’s perspective, the album went over budget—way over budget. “It was really big,” he told Musician, “over $100,000.” The Warner contract meanwhile called for $60,000. Either way, Prince kept creating new ideas. “I went in and kept going and kept going and kept going. I got in a lot of trouble for it.”
They were recording at the Record Plant with Vicari one afternoon when Lenny Waronker and Warner Bros. head Mo Ostin flew in to observe. Prince didn’t want them there, but Husney, in the interest of brokering a peace between his artist and the label, worked to make them feel welcome. During the playback of Prince’s ballad “So Blue,” Husney told the Star Tribune, Waronker said, “Great song, but there’s no bass.”
Prince’s turn was sudden. “That’s it. Everybody out. Get out.”
Husney turned pale. It’s all over, he thought, as the label execs shuffled out. “Don’t worry about it,” Waronker said, reassuringly. “The song is great. I get where he’s coming from. I’m with him.”
In late December 1977, after three grueling months of long sessions, everyone was weary. Prince’s flawlessly produced songs sounded like professional products, but the actual songwriting was a jarring mix of funk, rock, and soul. His maudlin ballad “Crazy You” sat next to his overwrought hard rock number, “I’m Yours.” Prince hoped the variety—a rock number with wailing riffs, a ballad, and two folksy numbers with acoustic instruments—would prevent anyone from shoehorning him into disco, funk, or R&B. But four songs were the usual fast-paced dance stuff. And for all his talk of rock influences and not being pigeonholed, most of For You was R&B and disco.
Still, he left Sound Labs after final touches and turned it in. Warner executives didn’t know what to say about its cost. He had just spent $170,000 on one album when Warner wanted three for $180,000.
Either way, Prince was done with the Record Plant. He booked time at Sound Labs Studios in Hollywood, where he spent January and February mixing it all down.
Externally, Prince exuded pride. But was For You too perfect? It didn’t truly reflect him as a person, he later decided. It was, he said, “like a machine.” He had entered too many sessions after too little sleep. “I didn’t really feel like recording for eighty percent of the record.” But with costs exceeding almost a hundred thousand dollars, he had to do “something great. So, by that time, I didn’t want to make any mistakes.” He resented that Warner installed Vicari as an executive producer; he implied the man tried to control sessions.
Still, Warner deemed the songs good enough to release, and planned an early spring date. They hired an art director for the cover, but Prince’s creative control extended beyond the studio. He posed instead for photographer Joe Giannetti, a shot of his head in a dark room, his Afro illuminated with dramatic candlelight. Try as he might, the shot only made him look more like a disco artist.
Back in Minneapolis, Prince was “a physical wreck,” he said, but proud all the same. With his almost unprecedented record deal and an upcoming album he felt good. He also found that the same people who had once predicted he’d fail were suddenly deferential, eager to befriend the rising star.
“And it made me a much better person,” he said of his newfound acceptance. “It took a lot of bitterness out of me.”
Before releasing For You on April 7 1978, Warner sent the media publicity materials. At black teen magazines, editors asked writers to create features that mentioned Prince’s use of synthesizers, his one-man band approach, his extraordinary deal, and his status as producer.
When For You was released, it charted at No. 21 on music trade journal Billboard’s Soul Chart; but only made it to No. 163 on the Pop Chart, meaning few white stations paid attention. There also weren’t many reviews. Those that did run offered kind words but focused on his age or his one-man-band approach. Prince kept watching the charts, hoping for a leap in sales. When the album failed to rise higher, he stopped watching. With sales at only 150,000 copies in America, for the moment (though this would change dramatically over the years), he watched as the mainstream media and music press continued to glorify soundtrack albums for musicals Saturday Night Fever and Grease, and the white disco act The Bee Gees, while his album languished.
His manager Owen Husney however, took a different view of Prince’s success. If black markets were his audience, then they should be cultivated with a quickly arranged publicity tour. Warner helped, releasing the track “Soft and Wet” as a single in June. By the time Prince arrived at a North Carolina record store for a routine signing, his single was No. 12 on the Soul Singles Chart.
Prince was astounded to find a crowd of three thousand teens screaming they loved him. After taking his seat at a tiny table near a member of the black funk act Cameo, he reached for a pen, signed posters, and autographs—and noticed the line in front of his table was longer. Kids from eleven to twenty were awed by his age. They asked if Prince was really his name, the meaning behind “Soft and Wet,” and whether he really played every note. The crowd got rowdy, so Pepe—who had traveled with Prince to North Carolina and was a de facto bodyguard—suggested they leave. “Just let me sign a few more albums,” he answered, basking in the attention.
“Okay, but the next time I whisper into your ear, just grab on to me and we are getting out of here.”
Within twenty minutes, Pepe gave the sign. Leaping to his feet, Prince raced for the back door, to a car outside. Behind him, Warner reps doled out posters to fans. Author Per Nilsen reported that, at his hotel, he asked Pepe, “How can they love me? They don’t even know me.” He added that he felt like “a piece of meat” on display.
Husney accompanied him as he visited radio stations in other key markets. Though their reception was strong, they still didn’t have any money, Husney recalled. They were sharing hotel rooms. Even worse, Prince kept falling asleep with a loud radio playing. One night in San Francisco, Husney had had enough. It was 4:00 A.M., Husney told the Star Tribune, and he reached over and turned off the radio. Prince quickly sat up. “Never, ever turn off the radio,” he said. “Music soothes the savage beast.” After flipping it back on, his back hit the mattress, and he instantly dozed off.
In Minneapolis, Prince finally had a place of his own, a yellow number at 5215 France Avenue, in Edina, a quiet suburb of the city. He stored his drums, instruments, and a TEAC four-track reel-to-reel in the basement. He didn’t have furniture or carpet, his cousin Charles told Per Nilsen, but eventually set a rocking chair, and some early video games like Light Tennis, or Pong (released in 1977) near a tiny TV
In the months after For You, inactivity got to him. He hoped Warner would provide tour support money (another loan he’d repay from royalties). Predicting they would, he told a writer he was forming a band for a national tour. “So far I only have a bass player, André Anderson, from Shampagne,” he said. He vowed to hold auditions in New York for two keyboardists. He still had to “figure out who’s going to fit” but he wanted a personality group. And while no horn players would be on stage, “I’m going to pick up a flute pretty soon.”
And Warner didn’t disappoint, providing for a small tour. Around late summer, they held auditions in LA. As usual, Prince didn’t speak much. While many worthy candidates auditioned, he didn’t pick anyone.
As autumn 1978 began, he took a new approach to recruiting. He placed an
ad in a local paper that read: “Warner Bros. recording artist seeks guitarist and keyboardist.” Prince’s cousin Charles soon steered Gayle Chapman over to Prince’s house on France Avenue. The white, blond keyboardist had bought a copy of For You (“the first one, with him in the fluffy hairdo,” she said) and played it at full volume in her living room while thinking, in order for Prince to tour, he will need a band.
After auditioning her, Prince added Gayle to the group, which at the time included only bassist André, Then he recruited Bobby Rivkin to play drums. Jimmy Jam, of his old rival band Flyte Tyme, tried out but Prince rejected him. He wanted a young musician named Sue Ann Carwell on the stage with him. He had hopes for a project she was at work on, under the name of Suzy Stone, and he mentored her, telling her during one talk, “Whatever you do, go the other way. Be different.”
He ultimately invited her to sing backup near André, Bobby Z (Rivkin), and Gayle Chapman, and to help William Doughty play the congas on “Just as Long as We’re Together.” But she tired of the group and backed out.
“I didn’t really believe in Prince,” she admitted.
The band was starting to take shape. For weeks, he invited local keyboardist Ricky Peterson to jam sessions. He wanted him in the group and laid out the rules, Peterson recalled in the Minneapolis Star Tribune. “This is what you can’t do: You can’t drink; you have to show up on time … .” Peterson listened, but thought, This sounds like horrible boot camp, and coming from someone that didn’t even have a career yet. “I said ‘no’ to Prince,” he explained.
Bobby Z invited his friend Matt Fink to try out. Fink loved the British Invasion (The Stones, The Beatles, and The Who) as much as he did James Brown, Stevie Wonder, Ray Charles, and contemporary acts Earth Wind & Fire, Steely Dan, Elton John, Yes, and David Bowie. He sounded like a good match for Prince.
Fink would eventually make the cut. And while Prince already owned some keyboards, Fink brought a few of his own. Even more impressive was how he handled the ARP pro-soloist, a chunky wood-paneled analogue synthesizer with thirty preset sounds that most players set on top of a large organ. Finally, after about four months, Husney began to schedule auditions for local guitarists.
On a cold winter day, Prince held auditions at Del’s Tire Mart, a shop near the river and the University of Minneapolis campus, with enough space in a back room to hold his equipment and rehearsals. He was running two hours late. He strolled toward the entrance, surrounded by Andre, drummer Bobby Rivkin, and manager Owen Husney. Warner had released his single “Just as Long as We’re Together” (backed with “In Love”) on November 21, 1978, but it reached only 91 on the Soul Chart. More than just a new band member, Prince was likely thinking that day about how he could elevate himself to the next level of success.
Inside, he crossed the huge space, entering the rear room, where he found his equipment and headed for the keyboard. As he turned it on, he could hear, behind him, others opening the door, and a stream of musicians pouring in. After he was introduced to the group, Prince sat behind an Oberheim polyphonic synthesizer and Hohner Clavinette keyboard. He saw a black guitarist tell Husney he had only fifteen minutes to spare. Could he go first?
The man was Desmond (“Dez”) D’Andréa Dickerson, born 1955, a guitarist with straightened frizzy hair. Dez could play faithful covers of Hendrix, Grand Funk Railroad, Cream, and Led Zeppelin. At home, he had heard his little sister’s copy of For You and decided it’s okay, but they should have signed me: could have done a much better record. Clearly, Dez had put his reservations behind him, because now, Husney agreed to give him the first go at auditioning.
“I was headed out of town to do a gig with my band Romeo,” Dez explained. With Prince arriving two hours late, he added, “I needed to get down the road.”
Prince didn’t speak to him. The frizzy-haired guitarist strapped on his guitar, and Prince started playing a riff. Once André and Bobby determined the tempo and key they joined in.
Dez watched for a minute, taking it in. He then played rhythm.
Prince was pleased with what he was hearing: Dez was capable, but he didn’t try to showboat. With a nod he signaled to Dez, who began to play a restrained solo, then quickly returned to the rhythm. A team player.
Fifteen minutes later, Dez apologized and said he had to go.
In a suprising turn, Prince said he’d walk Dez out. It was cold out, others were waiting, but he had liked what he heard. “It was obvious from the kinds of questions he asked that I had passed muster,” Dez recalled. The guitarist meanwhile thought Prince was “very thoughtful, not overly verbose.” Prince asked Dez his career goals. “I told him it was to front my own thing,” Dez explained, “which I had always done until that time.” He asked about Dez’s musical tastes, influences, and his work ethic. After ten minutes, he shook Dez’s hand, asked him to learn a few songs from his album, then went back in. Dez meanwhile pointed his ride toward I-94 and the Wisconsin border and stomped on the gas pedal.
While dealing with Warner and the media in the months that followed, Prince avoided eye contact. He paused midsentence. He remained quiet. He spoke slowly and in a hushed tone. He backed out of interviews and public appearances. Either he was trying to cultivate an air of mystery or he was just being cautious. Either way, to his dismay, it backfired.
“Everybody at Warner Brothers has a big impression I’m really quiet,” he explained. “‘If he doesn’t talk, he probably won’t dance or sing too much.’ I have to put to rest all those accusations.” He needed them to invest in a tour, after all, and a reputation as a shy, retiring artist wouldn’t do. The only solution was to prove his talents as a performer.
It was time to arrange his debut.
Starting in December 1978, Prince invited the new band—five local unknowns, only one older than twenty-three—to his west Minneapolis home for a series of rehearsals, where he struggled to get used to again involving others in his music. For weeks, he worked out arrangements with them. It was hard performing for others, even just for the band at first—he hadn’t done it since leaving Shampagne, after all.
Prince was still nervous before the first show. He told himself he’d hide his fear of a large audience, “block out the fact that there are people out there.” He’d focus on the music, playing different instruments on specific songs. He threw himself into promoting the event, having a bandmate invite Jon Bream of the Minneapolis Star Tribune over to talk. Bream had been one of the first reporters to notice Prince, and he had visited him as he recorded the album in California.
For forty-five minutes, Prince hid his face with a cap and let Bream do most of the talking. Then, at last, Prince relaxed, and he spoke for another forty-five minutes. He missed out on a lot by focusing on his career, he said, but didn’t regret it. He liked playing music. He liked sports, too, but he abandoned them in the interest of furthering his musical development. Same with college. “I certainly don’t have time for that.” He told himself someday he’d realize another dream: having a kid. But for now, he was too busy.
A booking agency was arranging a short tour, he told Bream. After he toured, there was the obligation of a second album.
With Bream preparing to leave, Prince laughed. “I’ve never talked this much in my life. I swear.”
In early January 1979, Prince and his new band arrived at 2027 West Broadway, the North Minneapolis movie theater called the Capri, described by Dez as “an old classic” venue. Bream claimed Prince could have debuted at New York’s Madison Square Garden if he wanted; he chose to do two consecutive nights in his hometown.
In the three years since Prince arrived on the Minneapolis music scene, he had performed for only very small audiences. There were just three hundred people at his debut performance, but it was still the largest show he had played in ages. He and his band waited backstage at the aging movie theater, hearing local music fans—most of them teenage girls—pile into the auditorium, slide into red seats, and buzz with anticipation. Family members and
friends were present.
KUXL’s jive-talking emcee Carl Ray took the stage, introducing Prince as the next Stevie Wonder. Without further ado, Prince and his band took the tiny stage. For this show, he wore jeans, leg warmers, a slack blouse, a vest, and a raincoat that he hoped—along with his deeper voice during this performance—would position him closer to Mick Jagger, Sly Stone, and Jimi Hendrix than the blow-dried, flashy, polyester-clad Bee Gees set.
Bassist André and guitarist Dez played amid flashy pyrotechnics. Both knew—like every other band member—that Warner executives might attend the show to see if Prince was ready to tour. But Dez’s new wireless guitar setup made the sound system act up. “There were radio frequency problems in the building,” Dez recalled, and the music store that sold them the system hadn’t properly addressed them. Prince was focused on his own falsetto when a blast of feedback burst from the system. He kept singing but more noise erupted. He soldiered on, playing his gentle acoustic ballad, “So Blue,” even as the system emitted an annoying buzz. They stopped a few times to handle technical problems. Still, Prince remained unfazed. He didn’t address the band or audience during these moments. Instead, he resumed playing and showed his command of different instruments. He played his album’s delicate title track. He did a jazz-rock-funk groove and his dance-oriented lead single, “Soft and Wet.” He threw in a few new funk tunes, too, then closed with his new single, the much-recorded “Just as Long as We’re Together,” which Bream dubbed contagious enough for soul, pop, and disco audiences alike.