For Prince

I wish I knew enough to say something intelligent about Prince, the pop colossus who died yesterday at the age of fifty-seven. The show I saw at Madison Square Garden in 2004 — with my husband, a devoted Prince fan — was one of the most staggering live performances I've ever seen, in any medium. It was a feast of lusty precision, and the sense of authority emanating from the man in the middle was almost frightening. The relationship between performer and spectator somehow flipped, so that the huge crowd became part of a band that was being closely watched and urged to greater passion. Prince was, above all, a profoundly musical being whose most startling displays of virtuosity never lost sight of the fundamental harmonic landscape of a song (his solo on "While My Guitar Gently Weeps" is a great example). Pop-critic colleagues are writing about him beautifully; try Ann Powers, for a start. Or just listen to Miles Davis, above.