Um, Prince?

So Duds calls me at 5:30. Prince at the Roxy tonight.

Huh?

I've got plans with Mareka. But that's OK. 'Cause I'm gonna see prince. Fuck it.

I call Mareka. She agress that we gotta go to Prince -- after we see her band. Fine.

We see her band. We go to the Roxy. I think we're not gonna get in, but -- get this -- tickets are available at the door. $31.50.

Duh.

Turns out it's not a prince show, persay, but his protege, Tamar, with him on guitar. You know what? I don't give a fuck. Because even though the only prince album I own is his greatest-hits record, he's one of the top musicians and concert draws on the planet -- and there he is, dressed in purple, playing guitar for the baddest soul band...welll...anywhere. I mean, they were as tight as jeans on a model, tight as a taut rubber band, tight as britney spears on her wedding night (to Jason Alexander, not Federline.) And whoa can Tamar sing: she brought the house down with "When a Man Loves a Woman," OK!

But Prince: when I talk about guitarists, from now on, I'll compare him to Hendrix and Page and Santana. Wailing got a new name tonight, as did pomposity, but that's to be expected; Prince and the rest of tonight's group railed through the history of funk with a genuine energy that's rare and exhilarating. The covers of "Love Rollercoaster" and "Play that Funky Music" were icing on a delicious cake; I'd been won over an hour earlier when the sweet Diana Ross voice came out of Tamar's mouth. I stil feel the sweat on me.

See you at the Viper, Feb 9.

J