#1, “Purple Rain,” Prince and the Revolution (1984)

150 Favorite Songs: #1, “Purple Rain,” Prince and the Revolution (1984)

There’s a myth that most young artists tell themselves. It’s the idea that the process of making something can change the world somehow—whether it’s in a grand way, where, like, their short fiction will restore America’s romantic spirit, or in a smaller, more personal one. That the act of making the thing, and putting it out there, and being heard or seen or read will show the person they want to like them back the depth of emotion they carry within, and their feelings will thus be reciprocated. I think you have to believe that sort of myth to even try. Otherwise, what’s the point of any of it? It’s so much easier not to make things than it is to do it.

I’ve struggled with this a lot in my creative life. Why do it? What will it matter? Who will it help? More to the point, I’ll admit was often the case—how will it help me? And how capable you are of convincing yourself that the answer you come up with is true will shape a lot of what you end up doing.

Part of the maturation process for those same young artists is recognizing that the belief that your art can change the world, or just your world, is, in fact, a myth and not actually anything real. That’s the point at which you have to make real decisions, because none of us have the power to decide how we want the world to be and then to change change the world so it is that way. That isn’t to say I don’t believe that people, and the things they create, can change the world—they have, many times. But when it does happen, it’s A) rare, whether you’re talking about the grand scale or even just the small and personal one, and B), a matter of kismet, timing, and luck, not determination or talent or effort. You can’t pre-determine the outcome, or everyone would do it.

So why do it?

It’s hard to explain how “Purple Rain” is the answer to that question, but you have perhaps been with me now for one hundred and fifty of these, and this is The Big One, so I owe it to you to try.

“Purple Rain” is the biggest, grandest, most sweeping and beautiful song I know. It is an epic, and I am drawn to the epic in all things. Not everyone is, and that’s cool, but for me—I want the world to feel as big as possible, for everything to be bold and brightly-colored and to feel heightened in the moments when elevation is called for. And it was written for a movie that is also called Purple Rain, which was written for Prince and which is about a young artist trying to change his world—to fix his home life, his love life, to find an opportunity for himself in a world that does not freely offer opportunities to skinny motherfuckers with high voices. The movie climaxes with Prince’s character, who doesn’t get a name in the movie except “kid,” performing Purple Rain in an attempt to change his world all at once.

I’ve never read the screenplay to Purple Rain, but I imagine that moment appears in the script looking something like this:

In the movie, that’s what the moment calls for. Because it will work—it will change his world. His abusive father will see the error of his ways, the girl he loves will see his sincerity and soul, the enemies who have tried to keep him down will recognize his undeniable gifts. But of course, for the emotional beat of the scene to land, the song has to be the best song ever written. Otherwise, we will never believe that it could have that power. The entire myth that art can change the world requires that art be great. No artist strives to be mediocre. That’s what AI art is for.

I think sometimes about what that must have felt like, if you’re Prince in 1984, twenty-six years old and unbelievably talented, but not yet cemented as one of the greatest artists America has ever produced. To simply have to meet the moment, to have accepted the responsibility that this movie that many people have worked so hard on, that cost so much money, hinges on you being able to deliver the greatest song in the world, and then to do it. To actually change your world in that way, with intentionality. To succeed at it.

When I think about that, and I realize what went into that moment, it takes the pressure off. I know it’s possible, because Prince did it. But I also know that he is the only person who has. And so when I listen to “Purple Rain,” the question of why do it becomes clearer: because “Purple Rain” is perfect, all I need to do is my best. I am unlikely to change the world, but I can change myself through each act of creation, and that is an uncommon power, too.

“Purple Rain” opens with a single, reverb-drenched guitar, and it unfolds at its own pace. The drums come in as Prince starts to sing, along with an electric piano, and it builds slowly. The song gets bigger, grander, more sweeping. Eventually a string section comes in, two cellos, a violin, and a viola. Prince’s voice gets more impassioned by the line.

Through the process of working on this series, I’ve come to realize just how important lyrics are to me in connecting with a song. The magic of music—and of pop songs in particular—is that they’re the product of an alchemy, words that, in most cases, would rarely stand up outside of the context of the song, chords and riffs that are the same building blocks that everyone works with, performances that can sometimes elevate those things. But when you put it all together, you create something incredibly meaningful. And “Purple Rain” is maybe the finest example of that, because the lyrics are not incredibly meaningful on their own. They’re both vague and specific at once—written for the moment in the movie in which the song appears, addressing characters in the film, but also non-specific enough that they work completely removed from that context. The verses are a lament, or maybe an outright apology—i never meant to cause you any sorrow, he sings to open the song. i never wanted to be your weekend lover, he sings to start the second verse. honey, i know times are changing, he leads the third verse with. Those are common sentiments, expressed just artfully enough to feel meaningful when accompanied by those drums and the guitar and piano and strings. And then the chorus is even simpler: He simply sings the words “purple rain, purple rain,” three times, with a slight variation each fourth line. I have no idea what purple rain even is.

Except I do. Prince said that he meant for the imagery to be apocalyptic—that “Purple Rain” refers to a rain of blood and water together, red and blue, and, like… I guess? But what I hear in it is less specific and more artful than that. What I hear is him singing about something beautiful and unexpected falling from the sky, and wanting to see the world and the people you love in it bathed in the impossible. It transcends literal meaning and means what you want it to, a sentiment expressing pure majesty.

Prince sings the last of the song’s words before it hits the four-minute mark, but the grandeur of “Purple Rain” continues; by the time he is finished singing, we are not yet halfway through the song. The guitar continues, Prince playing an ongoing solo while the strings swirl behind it, and then after another minute of that, his voice returns, this time wordlessly delivering a lovely series of woo-hoo-hoo-hoo howls that run for another several minutes, and then the song ends, except it still doesn’t, as it continues to unfurl on the keyboard for another minute and a half.

In performance, part of the meaning the artist gets to create for the audience is in how the performance ends. I’ve heard it called “letting the angel pass,” although Google tells me that is not a common term for it, so who knows where I got it from. But that is something that happens, again in “Purple Rain,” with great intention. The song is over, but it is beautiful and important and an emotional experience, and so that extended outro is a chance to reflect on it before the next song, whatever it may be, starts.

When I listen to “Purple Rain,” I hear an artist working at his absolute height, rising to a moment that it ought to be impossible to meet, and creating something that is effective in a number of wildly different contexts. I hear one of the most beautiful and majestic recordings anyone has ever made, not just a song but an experience, and one that feels—for me, at least—a little bit transformative every time, if only because it lasts for nearly ten minutes, and focusing for ten minutes on anything will have a meditative effect on a person. I hear an answer for why a person should make things, knowing that whatever it is you make is unlikely to mean anything in and of itself: Because at least once, a person made “Purple Rain,” and that’s reason enough to keep trying.