In December of 1982 I was walking down East 14th Street with Richie Boy Winick. Our destination was a nightclub or a bar in the neighborhood. Passing under the marquee of the Palladium, I spotted Benji was at the ropes of the concert hall. I had worked with the portly Jamaican at Arthur Weinstein’s infamous after-hour club, the Continental. I waved hello. This wasn’t good enough for Benji and he ordered me to come to the ropes. Benji weighed 300 poounds and carried a gun. I did as he wanted. Richie Boy too.
“You gotta come in and see this band.” The only other time I had seen Benji this excited was when he almost shot some white boy from Jersey. I had set him up for this, because the white boy had japped me at Danceteria. Luckily cooler minds had prevailed, so I could ask him, “What band?”
“Some scrawny boy named Prince. Damn, he’s good.” Benji cuffed us two free passes.
Richie Boy and I expected nothing. Benji was fat. His girlfriends were all fat. I thought the band would be fat, instead Prince treated the audience to a stunning display of showmanship stolen from James Brown, guitar lick pilfered from Hendrix, and singing boosted from Sly Stone with little shards of every genre of rock, soul, jazz, and disco poured into the mix.
Prince was scrawny. Scrawnier than an East Village rat. The girls loved him like they were cocaine starved whores seeking a new pimp. He wasn’t Richie or my type. Scrawnier than an East Village rat, yet we left the Palladium converts to Prince.
We bought his album and brought 1999 to Area, telling Sean the DJ to play RED CORVETTE. The concept club’s blase dance floor took on a new life. Afterwards dancers asked the name of the song. Richie Boy and i told them about the show. People bought us drinks. The DJ played two more songs. The next night Sean th1999 was Prince’s breakthrough LP. He was a star. We had nothing to do with it.
25 years ago Prince was 25.
He’s 50 today.
In 1996 he came to Scottie Taylor’s Beverly Hills club, the Milk Bar. He came alone. He sat alone. His bouncers kept everyone away. He ordered a drink for himself, then left without paying or tipping. He came the next night and I refuse him entrance. His bouncer asked why.
“It’s all right to stiff the club, but he was cheap with the waiters. We don’t need weird misers.”
I excuse myself and walked away. Scottie agreed with me.
“Who the fuck he think he is?”
Prince and then someone else.
50 today and I wish him a happy birthday.
And all is forgiven.
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