The King

This is Fiction

"I only want those who knew George, please Mike," Olivia begged the producer. It was three hours until show time. The band was prepping rehearsals for a rendition of 'While My Guitar Gently Weeps,' as written by the late great George Harrison. He was to be inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame that evening in New York City. It was February and the hands of the musicians were cold. They demanded extra performance time to warm up their fingers.

"I know you did say that Misses Harrison, but it would be so memorable. A legend honoring a legend," he pleaded with her.

"I just... I just don't know," she replied.

Dani had overheard her consternation. He proceeded over to support his mother.

"What's the problem?" he asked.

"It's the band," Olivia began. "Michael is insistent that Prince be a part of the lineup but I only want those who knew Dad." Her eyes started to well up.

"They all knew Dad, Mum," Dani proclaimed.

"It's Prince, she's not sure about Prince," Mike explained.

"He didn't know your father," she said in a croaking voice.

Dani put an arm around his mother and held her.

"Trust me, Mum, this is one of those rules you want to break. Having him will cement the performance," Dani said.

"But he doesn't even want to rehearse with everyone," she sniffled.

Dressing Room.

Prince was hanging up his suit and checking the sizing of his matching shoes. He had never worn the pair before and was hesitant over a nasty blister experience from a similar manufacturer months earlier. The producer Mike had knocked on the door and let himself in.

"Why bother knocking if you're just going to march on in," Prince said sardonically.

"I'm sorry Prince, time is not on my side here. I just got word from the family that you're cool to play in the ensemble tonight," he explained.

"Wait... You mean, I wasn't supposed to be playing tonight?" he was shocked.

"No, it's just..."

"Get out," The artist demanded.

Tonight was not off to a good start.

Prince was to be inducted into the hall himself and he was to play the lead solo on the ensemble for George Harrison's masterpiece. He inserted himself into the spotlight after everyone involved agreed that Tom Petty or his lead guitarist would helm the responsibility.

Prince had other ideas.

Five months earlier, Rolling Stone Magazine had crafted its definitive list of the 100 most influential guitarists who ever held an axe. Prince was not listed amongst his contemporaries. He was considered a 'pop' act.

But he was so much more.

He had sat for fourteen, fifteen hours a day in his early teens to his early twenties perfecting his craft on the strings, constantly mimicking the tones and vibrations of his idol Carlos Santana. He had built a musical presence the likes of which the world had never encountered, incorporating sex, rock, disco, and pop all into one super genre. He had redefined the game and was rewarded with a snub on the list that recognized musical greatness.

Prince knew Rolling Stone had a table in the front row of the stage, his management had confirmed. He was not going to be snubbed from the ensemble and he was not going to let some understudy take the lead on this iconic song.

Not on the night he was to be inducted into the hall.

The door rang out with a knock.

"Who is it?"

"It's Tom,"

"Tom who?"

"Petty,"

Prince walked over to the door and opened it. There's not many for whom he would. The two icons looked at one another through the darkened tint of their sunglasses.

"We're taking the song for another spin, care to join us?"

"No, Tom. You do you. I won't pre-empt what I'll be delivering tonight." Prince said.

Tom frowned.

The two men eyed off one another until Petty broke first.

"See you tonight then..." he said as he turned to leave.

The stage lights darkened, the floor monitors buzzed and the high hats rattled out a count of four.

"One, two, three, four,"

The song rang out in the key of 'D'.

Prince let the orchestra do its work, he wasn't ready yet. He could let the song play out and chime in with a strum of a chord or two... If needed.

He looked out amongst the dark to see the Rolling Stone table. He tried to make them out. It was tough amongst the sea of halos.

"I know you're out there you assholes," he said in an inaudible voice.

The song progressed. The band was heating up. The crescendo was approaching. Everyone hit the right notes on the right corners of what would be the finest performance ever captured of the song written by the former Beatle.

Then came the closing solo.

Petty looked stage left to his man holding the Stratocaster. He was holding the high note on the fretboard, his eyes were closed.

Someone else was watching him.

Prince had his fingers on the same note and he knew his guitar would swell louder when he maneuvered the volume knob on his telecaster knock-off.

That's exactly what he did.

He let the note swell high above the band and ring out amongst the masses. He was the loudest voice in the room. He played the pentatonic and beyond.

This needed much more and he knew it.

He shot his palm back and forth, up and down the fretboard. He hit the open notes and palm muted the down notes. He bent strings in ways they had never been heard before. He didn't need effects or onboard mechanics like a whammy bar. He needed one pick-up - the bridge pickup, high gain, and his fingers.

His index did most of the heavy lifting.

He let the notes soar in quick succession like rapid, machine gun fire. He was aiming his notes like bullets and the editors of that shit-rag that dared cut him from the line up of axe holders.

He was the one who built the guitar to function for his needs.

The guitar was a slave to him, he was not a slave to it like so many of the other phony masters the magazine had presented as gospel.

Fire after fire, note after note, Prince punctured holes in the eyes of anyone who doubted his master of the craft.

As the finale ended after three solid minutes of scales ascending Hendrix's depths of soul expression, Prince - sensing the climax, removed the instrument from his shoulder and launched it into the audience. He then exited the way he came before the final note had been played. He wasn't prepared to stick around for the back pats and the gracious displays of affection.

He was an ego machine, obsessed with nurturing one instinct: The need to feel validation at the expense of others' inadequacies.

He walked passed a stagehand who was surprised he had appeared before the rest of the band had emerged.

He addressed the young man who opened the door to the dressing rooms for him.

"Thank you,"

"You're welcome, Prince."

"Tonight, I'm the King."