I awoke with a yearning for The Melissa Harris-Perry Show. I wanted to hear varied voices rap thoughtfully if not poetically and even combatively about all we experienced this week: primaries, surprising endorsements, potential wars, trans outing, births, deaths…
The void is deafening.
I filled it with music. His music.
I sat contemplating the impact he has had on my life.
He did not compare in immediacy to Luther Vandross, who I loved the first time I heard his voice.
He has not traveled the now near —- decades with me like Soca and Salsa though my now American tongue has lost its original language and accent.
He could not replace the relevancy and rebellion of my teenage fascination with rap and reggae.
He was something all together different.
He was the first to have me marvel at how classmates and then colleagues white, black and other related to him. He helped us relate to each other. He helped bridge musical genres.
He showed the world our musical truth.
He was his own unique thing. A thing I admired, defended and even looked to for answers.
All this and yet I could not pen coherent words about him. For my pen and mind, his early departure left him amorphous. He had become my fog, all around but untouchable.
Then I read, Why I Was Late to the Hypnotic, Erotic Genius Prince Party.
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