Bell Hooks praises Beyonce’s Lemonade, but with a word of caution: the black female experience cannot be neatly tied up in an hour-long visual presentation; that there is no glamorization in rage; that in order to overcome hurt we must let go of the romanticizing of patriarchal-led relationships. Read her poignant article here.
It’s still taking me some time to process the passing of Prince. Yeah, I know Beyonce just dropped a major film and album, of which I watched and listed. Lemonade was great, and I mean that with all honesty. But in listening to her album, and so many other recent hits, I immediately heard the artists and visionaries of those who came decades before her. The artists who have been copied to death, revered to the heavens. And, as great as Beyonce’s new album is, there will never be another Prince. He lit a fiery path that has yet to be duplicated.
Prince. He was a concrete part of my childhood. My uncle would blast his albums day in and day out, and I marveled at this queer sound, full of pulse, passion, rock and roll and blackness. Where Michael Jackson filled me with girly giddiness, Prince ushered me into womanhood, allowing me to relish in my sexual being. We partied to Prince, made love to Prince, smoked to Prince. He was the soundtrack of my youthful coming out. Song after song reminds me of past boyfriends, Alphabet City, stolen issues of Penthouse, and trips to Paramus Park mall.
Prince. Rest in Power and Soul.
Below, the images and albums that personally touched me: