When Doves Cry

Back when I was young and adorable, I was asked by a friend to attend a sleepover "lock-in" party at her church. My parents approved, obviously, as God would be monitoring the situation. Though my friend wasn't Presbyterian, she was a brand of religion known to be very restrictive and devout, which had the tempered blessing of my parents.
By restrictive, I mean that my friend wasn't allowed to get sexual education instruction at our school with the rest of class. She was made to sit quietly in the library while the rest of us sat stunned in front of a series of movies that made our stomachs knot. When she would walk back in the room every day after our sex education was complete, we'd all give her knowing glances even though we had no idea what the hell we just witnessed. All we knew was that we sure as heck weren't getting within ten feet of a penis. Turns out, those things inflate by themselves, my friends. I'll stick to my Sweet Valley High books, thankyouverymuch.
By devout, I mean that it was the goal of the flock of my friend's particular religion (and, I suppose, most religions) to spread their word like manure across the countryside. That's not a knock against her religion, it just that I'm from Illinois and we like to use manure in most of our analogies.
Anyway, there I was, sitting in a chair in front of two adult members of her congregation in the basement of a school or possibly a church or abandoned mental institution or slaughterhouse (my memory is fuzzy on this point), and they were discussing the finer points of their God (who, I believe it was implied, could totally kick the butt of my God). There seemed to be a distinct emphasis on this being the "locked-in" part of the evening. We'd had already been bowling, they had feed us, and given us plenty of sugary drinks. But now, as payment for the bowling, food, and drink, I was going to by-god hear about some salivationing. They read from the Bible, gave me my own copy of the entire Book of John (door prize), and asked what I thought about the whole wacky God thing. At some point during the conversation, I think I bought a timeshare in the Keys and agreed to finance an Ark of some kind.
Point is, they had done a decent job of brainwashing me. I literally drank the Kool-Aid. I began to hang out with my friend more and when I went over to her house one day, we began to talk about music. I knew there were certain things to which she was not allowed to listen, but I really didn't understand why.

Me: So what can you listen to? What do you have here in your collection?
Friend: I have some country and western stuff, I guess you'd call it. Cowboy stuff that my Dad used to listen to. Gene Autry. It's good. He sings about life and I can understand what he's saying.
Me: Yeah, but...like, what about more recent stuff? Do you listen to the radio?
Friend: Not much. Just a lot of wailing to me.
Me: But like, there's this new Prince record that's really cool. From his movie? Pretty much every song on it is a hit! You should listen. I can bring it over.

This is where the friendship took a decidedly negative turn. Based upon how red her face got and how she begin to stammer, you would've thought my head started spinning around right there in her parent's newly wood paneled rec-room.

Friend: Prince is...he's Satan in disguise. His music...it has hidden backward lyrics and turns people into children of Satan. You shouldn't listen to it. You'll go to...you'll....You're going to Hell.

And there it was.

Me: But, um...I mean, have you listened to it? Because it's pretty good. I don't think I into Satan now or whatever. I mean, it's got a good beat, ya know? When Dove's Cry? It's good. It's on the radio, so I don't think Satan is on it or whatever.
Friend: Satan is very tricky. Maybe you should go.

I could tell she needed a very hot shower. Or a bath in holy water. Cleansing needed to be performed, that much was clear. I was pretty confused, so I did what any decent young Christian person would do in order to get back on the path of righteousness. I sprinted home on my bike and played Purple Rain backwards on my parent's record player. I couldn't really make out much, but it turns out at the end of Darling Nikki, there are backmasked lyrics wherein he says "Hello, how are you? I'm fine because I know that the Lord is coming soon, coming, coming soon. Ha ha ha ha ha." It's definitely freaky and undoubtedly the work of Satan. Also the work of Satan.. that stuff Nikki does with the magazine. It's dirty and definitely not appropriate for someone just beginning his or her sexual education.
The reason that this story has jumped to the top of my mind recently (besides hearing When Doves Cry on three serperate occasions on three different radio stations during the last 72 hours) is that it seems that my musical heroes have to die, reinvent/"sell out", or fade away. I mean, come on, if you would've said that Prince would have played halftime at the Super Bowl twenty years ago, there would have been rioting in the streets. And the Red Hot Chili Peppers closing the Grammy Awards? Twenty years ago, they never would've gotten past security. I can't fault them for shape-shifting (because Satan loves the shape-shifting), but it's all-of-the-sudden very bizarre to me. To put it more succinctly, I am getting old and not happy about it. Fat a lot of good it did to devote my life to Satan when I listened to Purple Rain backwards. I never even got my autographed " I (Heart) Satan" T-shirt. Total gyp.