Publication: London Sunday Times [UK]
Date: November 24, 1996
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Title: "The End of the Purple Patch"
Reviewed By: Andrew Smith

As Prince, he ruled the 1980s. What he needs now is more than a name change. Some quality control might help, says Andrew Smith.

It is hard to believe that nearly 10 years have passed since Prince unveiled his Meisterwerk, Sign 'O' the Times. The previous decade had seen him systematically rewrite the pop rule book on a series of brilliantly bold albums, which included Dirty Mind, 1999, Purple Rain and Parade. Even those that were considered relative failures at the time, such as Around the World in a Day and, later, Lovesexy, were very, very good. But by 1987, we expected more from Prince than very, very good, and Sign 'O' the Times, a double package that ranged from the wildly hummable pop of I Could Never Take the Place of Your Man to the elliptical, weirdly affecting minimalism of If I Was Your Girlfriend, and the towering title track, was more. At this point, Prince seemed unstoppable, creatively invincible. There was nobody, from any genre or tradition, that you would have felt pretentious in comparing him to.

How times have changed. These days, we are not even sure what to call him. A few years ago, after coming through a period where he purports to have been "very ill" and afraid for his sanity, he decided to celebrate his new-found mental stability by the obvious means of changing his name to a small glyph-like doodle, the kind of thing your dog might accidentally create while lying on the floor chewing a pen. There was a word attached to this squiggle, but nobody could remember what it was, and we were soon being instructed to call him Symbol, then The Artist Formerly Known As Prince. Coincidentally, no doubt, a serious creative decline began at about this time, and his new moniker became subject to a number of popular variations ­ The Artist Formerly Known As Sane was a good one, though the American shock jock Howard Stern's The Artist People Formerly Cared About was more to the point.

What do we call him these days? Those closest to him at his new record company, EMI, for whom he made his debut last week with a triple album called Emancipation, know him as the Artist. That's when he's within earshot. When he's not, they call him Prince, like the rest of us. In a recent American interview, Prince maintained that, contrary to what we all thought, he had decided to change his name long before the well-publicised spat with his previous record company, Warner Bros, began. Like so many of the things Prince says in interview, this sounds unlikely. Either way, it would be true to say that the Artist's most recent works, particularly this year's Chaos and Disorder LP, have given every indication of being contractual obligations rather than labours of love.

For the best part of a year, the Artist went everywhere with the word "slave" scrawled across his cheek. Now he is free. The contract with his previous employers expired on November 12, and it is time to find out what Emancipation means to Prince. This, claim his new suitors, is the album he was "born to make". His reputation will stand on it, more than on any previous effort. His deal with EMI is, essentially, a production and distribution deal. Prince can do what he likes. Should we be pleased? Can he still cut it?

Oh, how the alarm bells must have been ringing at EMI when Prince strolled in with a big grin and Emancipation tucked under his arm. If, indeed, it would fit under his arm. In conversation with Rolling Stone magazine, he described the idea behind the album in terms of some gobbledegook about the geometric relationship between the great pyramids. There are three CDs, each composed of 12 tracks, lasting exactly one hour. Geometry notwithstanding, that adds up to three hours' worth of music. Contemplating the prospect put me in mind of several things. One, that, in the real world, one person's freedom to tends to collide with someone else's freedom from. Two, that Prince had originally conceived Sign 'O' the Times as a triple album (it was to be called Crystal Ball), but that someone had been on hand to refuse permission. Three, that expectant or very recent fathers should never write songs. I rest my case at the end of CD 2, with the syrupy ballad, Friend, Lover, Sister, Mother/Wife, which has clearly been inspired by his pregnant wife, Mayte.

If you gathered up the best of the 36 tunes Emancipation offers up, you could compile a decent Prince album. Significantly, most of the standout numbers are cover versions. The single, a reading of the Stylistics' classic, Betcha by Golly Wow, is superb (though the singer only just gets away with the pint-size Barry White spiel in the middle and at the end). The Delfonics' sublime ballad La La La Means I Love You, which the Jackson 5 and others have done well with in the past, is equally enjoyable, while an unexpected tilt at Joan Osborne's recent hit, One of Us, makes the original sound lame. As far as new material goes, Sex in the Summer, which opens CD 2, is funky and insistent; My Computer, which boasts vocal contributions from his new labelmate Kate Bush, is quirky but sweet; In Bed I Scream could live on Parade or Purple Rain; Dreamin' About U has an ethereal, dreamlike allure; Joint 2 Joint is sleek and understated; and The Holy River is reminiscent of Raspberry Beret, one of his finest moments. Stir in the big, blowsy ballad, Saviour, and busy, George Clinton-esque title track and you have 12 songs. Bung them on a cassette and here are the makings of a fine (though, at £20 a shot, expensive) Prince comeback album. The remainder is a ballad and funk-rock workout, a 12-bar pudding.

You have to suspect that EMI knows all this. Last week, it borrowed a trick from the film industry and refused to allow reviewers to hear Emancipation until the day it was released, thus ensuring several days of product in shops with no dodgy reviews to put off punters. They appear to have got themselves into a fix. Prince still takes a childlike delight in music. Concomitant to that is the need for someone to change his nappy and send him to bed without his supper once in a while. It would seem that nobody has the contractual right to do that any more and that, as a consequence, we are being robbed of one of the rock era's most extraordinary talents. We used to love him because he always did exactly what he wanted and perhaps it is unfair to start criticising him now for the same thing. Too bad. Prince, even more than other artists, needs an editor.