Presenting DISGRACELAND - Prince: Control, Ecstasy, Dark Funk and Fentanyl
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Double Elvis.

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Disgraceland is a production of Double Elvis. The stories about Prince are insane.

Those who knew him intimately claimed that he never slept, he never ate, he never had sex. Yes, Prince, that Prince, never had sex, at least not in his later years. He swore it off. Like eating, he claimed sex slowed him down. And the image of Prince as a sex-charged, funked-out nymphomaniac was just that, an image. One crafted as a vessel for his pop star ascent and dominance. But Prince was not just another pop star. Prince was a virtuoso.

Calling him the greatest musician of all time, remarkably, sounds like an understatement.

For Prince was much more. He was an excessively talented musician, yes, a great songwriter, performer, producer, but above all, an artist, in the truest sense of the word. He lived it. He controlled it. Through a small squad of alter egos, multiple personalities, who he would utilize to bring his art to life and to consult with creatively, to deploy to help control what at times seemed uncontrollable, his mammoth, sprawling talent.

Prince worked hard. He never stopped. And that work took its toll on the slightly built but larger-than-life artist. And the result, ironically, would be a complete and fatal lack of control. But not before building a vast amount of great music. Unlike that music I played for you at the top of the show. That wasn't great music. That was a preset loop from my Mellotron called Columbo's Good Eye MK1.

I played you that loop because I can't afford the rights to The Reflex by Duran Duran. And why would I play you that specific slice of ragged tiger cheese? Could I afford it?

Because that was the number one song in America on June 25th, 1984. And that was the day that Prince Rogers Nelson would release Purple Rain, his landmark artistic statement, and demonstrate his complete control of pop culture with the soon to be number one album, single, and movie of the same name.

On this episode: A virtuoso talent, ragged tiger cheese, complete control in the lack thereof, and the almighty purple one himself: Prince. I'm Jake Brennan, and this is Disgraceland. Morris Day walked swiftly past the line of shivering club goers, using his cane for effect. He palmed the doorman a twenty and quickly escaped the cold Minneapolis nighttime air.

He ascended the stairs through the dark, was compelled by the smell of dank weed and the sound of heavy funk pounding out of the club. His heart rate kicked up a notch as he made his way closer to the end of the entryway and toward the greater dance hall. That anticipation, the unknown, the moment just before you've arrived. What might the night have in store for you?

Even though you're a seasoned professional, the unknown possibilities are still exciting. Sex, drugs, of course, career opportunities, all possible, especially for a fly motherfucker like Morris Day, and most definitely when the man came around. And word was, tonight, that his majesty was going to make the scene.

Morris tipped his fedora to the beefy bouncer at the end of the hall, and the no-neck acknowledged him with a knowing nod and a sly wink as he leaned into the door with one sculpted arm in the weight of his very large body, opening it for what he could only have judged as the slickest of VIPs. As soon as Morris entered the club, the music shifted, as if his entry had been soundtracked by some unknown force.

As he moved, he was greeted with low fives, pats on the back, fist bumps, more knowing nods, and more sly winks from the men, flirty bats of the eye, and long head-to-toe glances from the women. A small crowd filled in behind him as he made his way through the club's outer circle, past one of its bars, and toward the dance floor.

Morris walked in his own Morris Day kind of way. His head up, chin extended out slightly ahead of the rest of him. His mouth pinched his shoulders back, one arm working the cane and one arm trailing behind the rest of him as if in an effort to pick up whatever it was he might be missing out on. This dance ain't for everybody, just the sexy people. It was a determined strut, a strut that suggested that the world didn't understand how valuable his time was.

He was going places, and if his gait didn't make it clear, then his clothes most certainly did. Cab Calloway fedora, bespoke blazer with tiger print lapels, skinny tie, hard pressed slacks, and polished wingtips that you would swear left behind a trail of neon with every step.

His man, Jerome, quickly found his way to his side. He kept striding, updated Morris on the goings-on. Who was who, who was where, which one was getting with which one, who had the good stuff, who was holding out, when their table would be ready, and most important, whether or not he had actually shown up.

Quickly, another one of Morris' minions slipped a drink into his hand. Vodka, water, rocks, the Bobby Womack. Morris was now on the packed dance floor. He sipped his drink, stood still, looked around him. The strobing lights, the pounding bass, the packed house seemed to circle around him as if he were the center of the universe. But Morris, as good as it all felt in the moment, knew that that wasn't true.

This was Minneapolis. There was only one center of the universe and that was wherever he decided to be. Morris, from the middle of the dance floor, looked up to the club's second floor balcony and there, aside the DJ booth, he stood.

Stone still, arms crossed, big black wraparound sunglasses on, no expression, shocking white trench coat, six-inch collar open at the neck, skin-tight half-shirt and that perfect pencil-thin mustache that among the many other things he possessed made Morris Day excessively jealous. There he was, high above everyone else, surveying the entire scene, taking it all in, off on his own trip.

at least one, possibly ten steps ahead of everyone else per usual, and somehow doing justice to every one of his nicknames at the same time. His royal badness, the high priest of pop, the purple one, the future artist formerly known as Prince. 1987, Rupert's Nightclub, Golden Valley, Minnesota, a touch west of Minneapolis. What lay before Prince was what Prince had sown from way back then.

Prince was now one of the biggest entertainers in the world. He put the scene on the map and tonight he was looking for something in return. Validation. Prince saw Morris down below on the dance floor looking up at him, looking for his own validation. And Prince ignored him. It was time. The song was about to come to an end.

Prince pulled an advance copy of his soon to be released 10th album, The Black Album, out from under his arm and handed it to the DJ. At the same time delivering a deeply serious look and curt instruction. Spin it! The DJ did as he was told. The vinyl spun. The needle dropped. The speakers swelled with a swooping synth and they quickly gave way to the fattest funk.

The dance floor was immediately filled beyond capacity. The horns then kicked in. The low synth wormed, burrowed deep into the backbones of all in attendance. The bass slapped. Prince's vocal commanded them all to do "La Grind." And so his royal court obliged, grinding on the dance floor, bodies bumping, writhing, sweating.

Seven heavenly minutes later, the track came to an end and was quickly succeeded by a more upbeat dance track with Prince's falsetto soaring over the slinky Nile Rodgers-influenced rhythm. Prince proclaimed that the song was about "a high-class model over in Paris, France." The crowd felt it immediately.

Prince stuck his groove deep in the paint. A hard come on. The crowd loved it. Eyes locked, bodies rocked, tighter as the record continued to crush. From Cindy C all the way to the filthy rock hard in a funky place, Prince's voice pitched up to no doubt hide behind one of his many creative alter egos. But there was no way to hide from what he was seeing take shape in front of him. No way to hide from what his music had inspired. Pure depravity.

Newly formed dance floor couples making out, bumping and grinding out in the open under strobes and sneaking off into dark corners. The neon signage on the brick club walls revealing their passion plays in short intermittent flashes. Prince saw them all, as well as those not coupled up, packing themselves closer together at the bar. Three to one women to men, four deep off the stick. Bartenders in vests and bow ties hustling vodka sodas for the norms. Bobby Womack's for those who knew better.

and knowing themselves that they were missing out on one hell of a party but happy to be in the room nonetheless. Prince could smell the skunk. The smoke glided up the sides of the walls from the hidden nooks where one could steal away for a quick hit off of a bat and be gone before security could weed out the culprit.

Prince could see the pinprick eyes of the speed freaks out on the floor, a step ahead of the beat. Their hair drenched, their collars once popped, now flopped, along with the rest of their clothes seeming to slide off their backs with their sweat. Prince caught the shifting jaws on the coke fiends in their darting eyes, observant of the incredible party unfolding around them but far from the moment.

intent on finding their way to the next available bathroom stall to key their burning bindles and blast off into the never-ending new. And Prince envied the perma-smiles on the faces of the ecstasy heads, tripping over their Cuban heels for his latest masterpiece blasting from the speakers. He heard about the drug's euphoric effects and wanted in on that action, especially in this moment, right now, when his new music had set off a low-key sex-drenched Gomorrah in his backyard.

The spirit child slipped Prince the ecstasy earlier in the night. She'd smuggled it all the way back from LA, supposedly scoring it from a hyperactive, bare-chested punk rocker specifically for Prince, waiting for her back in Minneapolis, and now the drug was kicking in.

Suddenly, it all made no sense. This Gomorrah, this dance club depravity, the sex, the drugs, the bleakness, the blackness brought on by his new unreleased Black album. It was so cynical, and it was all his fault. Prince knew it. The music was too dark, too craven, too cynical. Who was he anyway? Prince or Rudy Ray Moore? There was, of course, no easy answer. Because Prince was many people.

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Do you know about how Steve McQueen escaped murder at the hands of the Manson family? Or about Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson's snatch-and-grab gang and The Rock's nearly ten arrests? What about Danny Trejo running a drug protection racket while in lockup? The obsessive killing of Dorothy Stratton, the real-life murder that inspired David Lynch's Twin Peaks, the three conspiracies surrounding Marilyn Monroe's death,

These stories and more are told in the new podcast, Hollywoodland, where true crime and Tinseltown collide. Hollywoodland is hosted by me, Jake Brennan, creator of the award-winning music and true crime podcast, Disgraceland. Follow and listen to Hollywoodland wherever you get your podcasts.

Hey, discos, if you want more Disgraceland, be sure to listen every Thursday to our weekly after-party bonus episode, where we dig deeper into the stories we tell in our full weekly episodes. In these after-party bonus episodes, we dive into your voicemails and texts, emails, and DMs,

and discuss your thoughts on the wild lives and behavior of the artists and entertainers that we're all obsessed with. So leave me a message at 617-906-6638, disgracelandpod at gmail.com or at disgracelandpod on the socials, and join the conversation every Thursday in our after-party bonus episode.

That night, soon after the ecstasy turned the mood for Prince at Rupert's, Prince bailed, nabbing the slab of vinyl off of the turntable, ignoring the DJ's compliments, ignoring Wildchild, and most certainly ignoring Morris Day. Head down, beeline to the exit, the sidewalk, the back of his waiting limo, security in tow, more security leading the way, a sound 70-mile-per-hour street escort straight back to his Paisley Park compound where he moved quickly to the comfort of his studio lounge.

The heavy doors swung open, and as usual, there was a little party going on in between late night sessions. And they were all there, in his studio, waiting, ready to greet him. Prince's altar, he goes. There was Alexander Nevermind. Hey, how you doing? Joey Coco. Hey, good to see you. Como estas? Hala. Buen companero. And then there was Jerome's brother, Jamie Starr. How you doing, buddy?

And his crew, the symbol known as... - Staying out of trouble? - Camille. - Hey, baby, how you doing? - And then there was Chris the Killer, who was Jesse Thyme's brother. - And he took care of that thing for you. - And you had Gemini. - What's up, Prince? - And Alexander Nevermind. - I tracked that thing and laid it down fat. - And Tora Tora, who got that nickname because he said everything twice, like, "I'm gonna go track the vocal, track the vocal."

Together they made Prince's greatest hits. Camille rocked the Vox on "You Get the Look" and "If I Was Your Girlfriend." Jamie Starr shredded Prince's iconic guitar solos. Alexander Nevermind oozed frontman confidence. He also wrote the steamy "Sugar Walls" single for Sheena Easton, which made it all the way to number nine.

Chris the Killer, aka Christopher Tracy brought the hooks. He wrote Manic Monday for the Bangles which clocked in at number two. A smash. Gemini, so versatile, she could get the crowd going by singing the dirty melody to Irresistible Bitch in one moment and would then bring the crowd to its knees with the ballad God in the next.

Joey Coco penned monster singles, a country single even, "You're My Love" for Kenny Rogers. And Tora Tora laid in the cut, engineering Prince's 1980s output, waiting patiently to one day step out and lead the new power generation. And they were there for him on that night, in his studio, like they always were, lending an ear, supportive. Prince broke it down real quick.

The album was a bust. It was too bleak. What were they thinking? Answering critics. He was too pop? And answering his audience? He wasn't black enough? He was Prince. He answered to no one. This album, the black album, had disaster written all over it.

What if the party really was over? What if they were indeed out of time? We could all die any day, went the thinking. And if so, what if this album was the last thing anyone ever heard of Prince? The Black Album was funky, sure, a new kind of funk, even a darker funk, blacker than anything on the charts, perhaps even too much funk for the charts. That scared Prince more than anything. The Slit. He picked up the phone and dialed his man at Warner Brothers Records, his record label, Shelve It.

What? The album? The album's shipped. It's on trucks heading to record stores right now as we speak. Turn the trucks around. DJs are already spinning advanced copies. I don't care. Sheldon, destroy it. I don't want the album coming out. I don't want the world hearing this. It's wrong. And then Prince hung up.

and the label had no choice. Prince, despite whatever his contract did or didn't say, was too valuable a commodity to not keep happy. If he didn't want this record to come out, no matter the hassle, no matter the financial loss, upsetting him, alienating him, as big of a star as he was, as big of a cash cow as he was for Warners, it wasn't worth it to the record label. Best to keep Prince happy, his creative output was legend besides.

He had, no doubt, another record recorded and ready to ship regardless. The benefits of having an imaginary team of creative alter egos waiting on your every whim to swoop into action. Prince, despite the ecstasy he was on, a big no-no in Prince's world, the use of drugs, was firmly in control.

control of his music, control of his image, control even of his record label bosses. And it had been that way since the beginning, since the first record contract he signed back in 1977. The contract was legendary because of the creative control it gave Prince, who at the time was a young, largely unknown commodity. 18 years old, in fact, and with complete creative control, an unbelievable concession from the label.

Prince would not only be their star recording artist, he'd write his own hits, he'd play all the instruments, he'd produce himself. Total control. Until now. Until the drug caused him to second-guess himself. But prior to the hasty shelving of the Black Album, the results had been undeniable. ♪

His first demo had sparked a bidding war among major labels. By the time he was 22, he had opened for Rick James and the Rolling Stones, appeared on American Bandstand and Saturday Night Live, and released five full-length albums on which he played all the instruments.

Albums full of singles that burned up the Billboard charts in a wide variety of genres, defying easy categorization. Soul, funk, dance, the Hot 100, everything he touched turned to gold, or more often, platinum. This was no unofficial schooling in rock stardom for Prince. Prince schooled his audiences night after night on what it meant to be a star. He'd work from dusk to dawn, and then rehearsal was always at 10:00 AM. And he was never late for rehearsal.

The physical demand of it all was astounding. His next act hammered the point home. Purple Rain, the album and the film, rocketed Prince to an even broader level of mainstream fame. The album netted three Grammy Awards, and the film won Prince an Oscar for Best Original Score.

Prior to big screen success, Prince conquered the small screen with his video for Little Red Corvette that broke the color barrier at MTV along with Michael Jackson's Billie Jean. Prince called his backing band the revolution for obvious reasons. He had risen to the highest heights on sheer creative talent, a prolific multi-instrumental monster who could devour every musical influence that came his way and digest it all to produce something totally seductive, impossible not to dance to, and brand fucking new.

knew. After all this success, all the creative control handed to him because his brilliance was just that undeniable, it was no wonder he trusted his instincts about the Black Album. Prince knew he made the right decision. And they all agreed with him. Camille, Alexander Nevermind, Joey Coco, the artist formerly known as, Gemini, Christopher, Jamie Star, even the sometimes obstinate Tora Tora.

The bleakness of the Black Owl, the depravity it wrought back at Rupert's, would not sink Prince. It would not tumble him from his firm standing atop the charts. It would not cause him to lose control. Nothing would. No one would. Not even the King of Pop. We'll be right back after this word, word, word.

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The score was so big that any common thief wouldn't have been able to pull it off. The heist required resources. The king had those resources. And his cunning was unmatched. The theft was brazen out in the open, pulled off right out from under the owner's nose. A near $50 million heist.

Not in jewels, not in cash, but in melodies, riffs, harmonies, emotions, nostalgia, psychedelic inspiration, pure pop, power pop, revolution, yellow submarines, strawberry fields, Norwegian wood, and any and all perceived mega value from the greatest music catalog of all time, The Beatles Publishing.

Michael Jackson, the king of pop, had befriended the Beatles' Paul McCartney back in the late 70s, collaborated with him on numerous songs. By the time Michael's groundbreaking album Thriller was released in 1982, the pair had duetted on the album single The Girl Is Mine. It hit number two on the Billboard chart, number one on the R&B chart. Critics savaged it.

In 1983, Paul McCartney released an earlier recorded collaboration between he and Michael, Say Say Say, taking full advantage of the new music video medium beginning to dominate the record-buying public's imagination. The video, featuring the two multi-generational pop stars mugging it up in a way that the world hadn't seen McCartney do since his early 60s days with John Lennon, pushed the song to number one.

It was clear McCartney and Michael had all kinds of chemistry, and it appeared that a true friendship had been established.

As close friends do, one confided in the other. McCartney griped to Michael that he had lost control of the Beatles' music publishing, meaning the vast majority of the massive sums of money Beatles' music generated was not going into his pockets or the pockets of John Lennon's widow, Yoko Ono's. It was going into the pocket of an Australian billionaire who had purchased the majority stake in the Beatles' catalogue of music back in 1967.

McCartney explained to Michael that the Beatles publishing was going back up for sale and that he was trying to put the money together to purchase it back for himself. The going price would be at least $35 million, likely more. McCartney had swallowed his pride and went to Yoko Ono to see if she'd be interested in going in on the deal with him, putting up the capital with him to get the deal done because McCartney was short. Yoko told him to go pound sand. Suddenly, she wasn't interested in money.

So Paul McCartney sat on his couch with Michael Jackson, watching cartoons and explained to him how songwriting publishing worked, how great of an investment it was, how every time the material was exploited, played on the radio, in a film, commercial, stadium, etc., the songs generated money. He explained how he himself had recently purchased the rights to Buddy Holly's music publishing as an investment to help dull the sting of not owning his own music. Michael listened like a thief.

McCartney went in for the clothes. He asked Michael if he himself would like to own part of the Beatles' catalog. The two would go in on it together, put the scratch together to buy the music back from the Aussie billionaire and cash in forever. Michael giggled. What did he know about any of it anyway? Paul went back to his cartoons. When Michael left Paul's place, he called his lawyer and told him to get into it. Without Paul, Michael Jackson was the king. He had more money than the Beatles. Hell, he had more money than all the Beatles and Yoko Ono.

And so, he didn't need Paul McCartney, or his silly love songs, or his friendship. He went straight for the booty himself. He outbid McCartney and Richard Branson and some others as well, and stole Paul McCartney's songs and his legacy right out from under his nose for a whopping $47.5 million. Say, say, say, what an asshole. But Michael Jackson had what he wanted. Control.

And in 1985, when he executed this great theft, Michael needed it, the control. Despite being the king, he felt himself slipping from his throne. Prince knew this. And of course, he knew all about the number Michael pulled on McCartney. Prince knew Michael was slippery as fuck, not to be trusted and vulnerable.

In 1982, Michael Jackson released Thriller. The album went to number one, had seven top 10 singles, and catapulted Michael Jackson to becoming the biggest star on the planet. In 1982, Prince released 1999. The album went to number nine, had three top 20 singles, and made Prince a household name. But Michael was clearly on top.

However, between the releases of Thriller in 1999, Prince had released the groundbreaking Purple Rain album, single, and movie all of the same name. And with that three-headed release monster, Prince had the number one album, single, and movie in the U.S. all at the same time, a feat that no artist had pulled off since the Beatles did it back in 1964 with the release of A Hard Day's Night. You can buy the rights, MJ, but you can't buy a three-headed monster.

Prince wasted no time and released his follow-up album, Around the World in a Day, mere days after the Purple Rain world tour wrapped. With no advance promotion and no advance single, the album still went to number one on the back of the infectious Raspberry Beret track. It was clear that Around the World in a Day wasn't trying to pick up where Purple Rain left off. Creatively, it was something totally different. Psychedelic, but still, somehow, more pop.

Prince was pushing himself and pop music in general as a genre forward. He was in control. Whereas Michael Jackson, aside from bamboozling Paul McCartney, was, in a way, reeling, terrified into creative stillness by the success of Thriller. Michael feared the failure of a follow-up. He was too scared to write, to record. He heard the rumors that he didn't have it anymore, that he lost it, that he wasn't in control. So he got an idea. Prince sat across from Michael Jackson and heard him out.

"You see, man, you're bad and I'm bad, so just listen, man. We should duet. You and me." Michael then popped the duet he was proposing, its cassette demo, into the boombox and pressed play. Prince leaned back, completely nonplussed. The horns kicked off the track. The ticky-tock beat kicked in. Prince nodded along.

Michael's voice filled up the speakers with the opening verse line, and Prince stood up immediately, slammed down the stop button on the boombox. He'd heard enough. He looked at Michael. "Hold up. Who's gonna sing that line? That first line? 'Your butt is mine.' I ain't gonna sing that line to you, and you sure as hell ain't gonna sing that line to me." Michael felt the quick sting of rejection, and there would be no Prince collaboration. For Michael Jackson post-thriller, things would never be the same.

Perhaps he knew it then, but this was the beginning of the end. Michael was sunk. Prince was out. He was no fool. He was in control. For the time being, anyway.

Prince closed out the 80s with another multimedia smash hit, the Batman soundtrack. And he kept up his pace of a new album nearly every year. Art just poured out of the artist.

But this created growing tension with his label. Warner Bros., who disagreed about which songs should be singles, wanted to package his back catalog into greatest hits and b-sides albums, and actually asked their star artist to slow down his output, partly out of fear of flooding the market, but more to the point, so Prince wouldn't tear through his contractual obligations so fast. Prince was in a battle for control, the kind of battle he always won.

In order to work around Warner Bros. restrictions, he changed his name to a symbol, known to fans as the Love Symbol, and tore through record after record until he would be out from under Warner's demands. The effort took up most of the 90s, but it worked. Finally free of the label, the name of Prince's comeback album was Emancipation. The world's greatest entertainer was his own man again.

The success, the envy of his peers, the accolades, hell, the fun of life, the thrill and the high of creativity. For Prince, the pop life was all anyone could ask for, but he had been experiencing pain due to the non-stop physicality of his regimen. But Prince would work through the pain for his next performance.

2004, New York, New York. Rock and Roll Hall of Fame induction ceremony. Prince was being inducted. But first, there was the matter of another Beatle to take care of, George Harrison.

He was being inducted posthumously, and his friends Tom Petty, Jeff Lynne, and Steve Winwood were planning a send-off from the stage: a rendition of George's "While My Guitar Gently Weeps," the deep cut from the White Album with the blistering and heavily emotional guitar solo by Eric Clapton. Steve Verone, Tom Petty's drummer, sat behind his kit before their performance, talking with Steve Winwood seated at his B3 organ. "Holy shit, that's Prince!"

Prince was plugging in his guitar on stage. Ferone got up to introduce himself. All Prince said was, "Yeah, man. I know who you are." Ferone went back to his kit. "What's he like?" Wynwood wanted to know. "I don't know," Ferone replied. "Cool?"

Prince then started making noise with his Telecaster and noodled out the meters via Junior Well's riff to average white band's schoolboy crush, a song Ferone co-wrote, while then staring straight at Ferone across the stage with that wry smile. Shit, Ferone thought, he does know who I am.

When the band finally gets down to business and kicks into George Harrison's most famous song with his son, Danny Harrison, on stage aside petty on acoustic, Prince is nearly completely off the stage. In fact, he's in the shadows. It's as if he's embarrassed. Too cool to be on the same stage with this most classic of classic rock lineups.

The song is performed magnificently. Petty and Jeff Flynn nail the vocal. Wynwood's organ gives the song lift and Ferone, as usual, is beastly behind the kit. A machine. Flynn's guitar player, Mark Mann, nails Eric Clapton's solo. It's note for note perfect, as good as any hand-painted fine art replica. And Prince. Prince is in the shadows of the stage, off to the side with Tora Tora. Lying in the cut, strumming along to the chord progression. Nothing special. Waiting.

Petty propels the band forward, forever the bandleader. He's wearing purple, perhaps an affectionate nod to the purple one that he's sharing the stage with. The artist he's sparred with creatively, in his mind at least, throughout the 80s. An artist he has nothing but affection for.

And, clad in red, ever the heartbreaker himself, that artist, Prince, emerges from the shadows during the song's outro, nabbing the guitar solo from Lin's Man, stealing it back and taking it to an entirely new level. Prince is now in control, no longer in the cut, it's his song now. His playing is infectious, petty as cool as ice, but you can see his enthusiasm slip out of the corners of the slight smile forming on his face.

Danny Harrison can barely contain himself. The crowd loses their mind and Prince gives them a Hall of Fame performance for the ages, going above and beyond George Harrison, above and beyond Eric Clapton, clutching the Devil's spark straight from Jimi Hendrix's left hand and lighting up the strings of his telly with it. He smiles, he snarls, he shreds, he turns his back to the audience at the lip of the stage and falls backward towards certain disaster.

He's caught midair by a security guard and pushed back onto the stage. His playing never stops. He's possessed. The band is wrapped. Prince continues the solo, bringing the song home. He's incomplete, in total control. Ferone leans into the crescendo. Prince sustains a final note and lifts his guitar over his head, off of his shoulders, throws it straight into the air and struts offstage before the rest of the band even finishes the song.

To this day, Steve Ferron swears the guitar never came back down. Prince kept walking. Throughout the odds, his legend grew. But so too did something else. His paint.

Chronic pain in his hips, his hands, his back from decades of demanding physical stage performances. Onstage acrobatics, somersaults, high jumps, splits. And by the time 2016 rolled around, a demanding solo piano tour led to crushing pain in his hands. It made it near impossible for him to recover from his performances without the use of painkillers.

Performing, creating, part of Prince's life's blood. It's what kept him going, what propelled him forward. His performances, his recordings, for an artist, they are defining. For better or worse, an artist's entire identity is tied to what they do and what they make. And no artist controlled the whole of their output and their identity more effectively than Prince. Paul McCartney lost control of his music. Michael Jackson lost control of his life while Prince maintained.

until the pain became too much. The irony that the performances led to the pain which led to the painkillers which ultimately led to Prince losing control of not just his art, of his life. April 15th, 2016, Atlanta.

Prince was on stage at the piano, alone. And that's what this tour was all about, just a piano and a microphone, and Prince, no one else. No band, no alter egos, no Tora Tora, no Gemini or Alexander Nevermind, Christopher or Camille, no Jamie Star and no Joey Coco. Collectively, they were too much to wrangle. Not with the pain, impossible for Prince to control all of it. Managing the pain was hard enough, that night especially.

On the plane ride home, on his private jet back to Minneapolis, Prince had already lost track of how many painkillers he'd taken. He passed out in the middle of his meal, and the pilot had to make an emergency landing in Moline, Illinois. Prince got a shot of Narcan on the tarmac and was revived.

His life was saved. He and his entourage made it home, but the pain wouldn't quit. It took over, wrapping itself around him like a snake, constricting his every move. He could feel it all over. In his hips, his back, his fingers, hands, neck, his legs. There was no moving without pain. He pulled more painkillers from the bottle. Prescription pills, Vicodin, supposedly. But in the bottle, a random pill laced with fentanyl. A

A synthetic opioid 50 times more powerful than heroin. It went to work quickly. The drug took control. The drug killed the pain. And ultimately, the drug killed Prince. Throughout his career, Prince was notoriously anti-drug. Sure, he would experiment from time to time. But when he turned to prescription drugs, it was because there were no other options for the pain.

To this day, the authorities and those close to Prince firmly believe that Prince had no idea he was taking fentanyl. He had just unbelievably lost control. And that is a disgrace. I'm Jake Brennan, and this is Disgraceland. Disgraceland was created by yours truly and is produced in partnership with Double Elvis. Credits for this episode can be found on the show notes page at disgracelandpod.com.

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