Review: Prince: The Beautiful Ones

It’s misleading to call Dan Piepenbring’s co-written autobiography of Prince an autobiography as it’s nowhere near that. The man who was iconic enough to go by a symbol for years passed away right as he was starting this endeavor. Perhaps aware of his waning years (although that’s obviously speculation) he approached the idea with excitement.

But then he died of an accidental overdose, same as Tom Petty.

I don’t know whether this was at the insistence of the book’s publisher as a desperate money grab or whether this was at Prince’s estate’s behest. I also don’t know how much Piepenbring had any say in this. But all of that is beside the point.

If you’re looking for an autobiography of Prince, this ain’t it and never will be except for some early years. If you are looking for insights into Prince the man, it might fit.

Piepenbring’s affectionate and reverent recounting of his three-month account of getting the job to work with Prince on his book reads like a whirlwind romance tragedy, which in a way it was.

One can see his initial meeting at Paisley Park, flying halfway across the globe to Australia to chat with him by phone and seeing him in New York to announce the book to the world as an overwhelming dream. Prince’s sudden and untimely death and the chasm left behind is like waking from a dream to a cruel reality.

Piepenbring’s introduction reads like a person who finds himself at the beginning of what would have ultimately been an artist/protégé relationship. The kind Prince nurtured over his career with various musicians. Like Bowie, the line between “grooming” and “generosity” might have blurred, but I doubt the ones who were “groomed” felt anything but awe.

Piepenbring had a brief glimpse into Prince’s insight in those last months of his life. His ever-evolving creative decision making. Eccentricities, for lack of a better word. (Who flies someone to Australia only to sit in another room in your suite while they are there reading an opening to a book?) But there were also some deep, multi-hour conversations about racism, music, creativity, the evilness of corporations, The Fountainhead, exploitation and growing up in Minneapolis.

In the end, he had just thirty or so pages of Prince’s notes to go by. An introduction of sorts to the boy with epilepsy and nervous energy. An acutely observant child who was aware of his parents fractured relationship from an early age. The duality defined him.

A loner, he disappeared into music and movies, including The Wizard of Oz. One can fill in the blanks to see his childhood was the same as most artistic kids (minus the obvious racial intolerance and broken home life) who grew up in that era.

His mother was a partier who stole his babysitting money. His father was a Bible lover and had, according to Prince, “a keen sense of morality and class.”

When his mother remarried when eh was 12, Prince chose to live with his father. Because his father was his hero. His father also held two jobs and could “fix anything.” The implication being anything except his family life. Later, he bought his son his first guitar.

if this sounds is disjointed and fragmented it’s because it is. The problem with the source material is that it is like listening to a song demo. It’s not a finished product by any means, so it’s raw. It shows a future promise. And that’s also this book’s biggest strength.

Prince loves sex. He loves the Bible. He mentions both frequently. It’s written in an offhanded way that is both profound and completely off-the-cuff. Like a virtuoso guitarist deciding to be a painter and demonstrating unknown talents that need refinement. Sure, they might get the colors right and they have an idea of their subject matter and maybe they get the light and shade right but there’s still something lacking. You know they will get it with time. But there was no time.

Prince talks about wanting freedom and autonomy and wanting everyone to unlearn what was programmed into them as children. He writes about hoping he will inspire people to create. As if he hadn’t done that already.

The accounts are frustratingly slim. He writes a short sentence about hearing his first song on the radio from his Datsun. But then he moves on. It’s erratic and sporadic. A man with nothing left to prove musically was just getting started.

The Beautiful Ones is augmented by interviews from the late 70’s and 80’s. They try to add meaning to a point in Prince’s early era. But it doesn’t accomplish what I think it meant to.

When I saw Prince in 2010 in LA. at the Forum I was witnessing a musician in complete control. But is was also a musician who basically turned his setlist into a revue, a long medley of Prince’s Greatest Hits with jokey asides. He was singing from a teleprompter and who could blame him with the amount of songs he’d written over those decades. he evebn made a joke about it, knowing people would see it. “I got so many hits I forget my own words!”

But it felt like it was meant for Vegas like he was an Elvis-in-the-mid-70’s version of himself. Maybe he was being efficient. Maybe he was giving the fans what they wanted to stay relevant as his newer albums weren’t met with the same mass adulation.

With the exception of his 15-minute version of “Purple Rain” as an encore, it felt like it was a Broadway show about Prince rather than a Prince concert. But oh did that encore make up for it.

It was still fucking amazing, mind you. But it just didn’t feel infused with the same energy or dangerous feeling that anything could happen. If you are singing from a teleprompter, how could it be?

Anyway. The last few parts of the book are…all over the place. It’s hard to recommend. But it’s not hard to like.

The Beautiful Ones isn’t an autobiography. It’s an accidental auto-eulogy. Effortlessly if not inadvertently conceptual.

In the end, what it is or isn’t doesn’t matter. It’s art. And if this is a glimpse of art in the making, at least it’s that.

But unlike everything else in his creative world. it’s unsatisfying even though it is compelling.