Disgraceland is a production of Double Elvis.
This is the story about a murder.
It's the story of a band member with a gun shoved in his face, a bodyguard selling his boss's story for drug money. It's the story of an earthquake, a cop stuck with a dirty AIDS infected needle, of a beating with a baseball bat. It's the story of a revolution and a Sign of the Times. It is, of course, a story about Prince, a man who might be the greatest pop musician of all time, a man who made great music, some of the greatest music ever made. Unlike that music, I played a few at the top of
the show that wasn't great music. That was a preset loop from my melotron called Brown Mark's Lament MK one. I played you that loop because I can't afford the rights to live in on a Prayer by bon Jovi. And why would I play you that specific slice of slippery when wet Cheese? Could I afford it? Because that was the number one song in America on February eighteenth, nineteen eighty seven, And that was the day that Prince released the song Sign of the Times, his first single
in four years. Without his legendary band The Revolution, a song from an album about death, rebirth, change, crime and strife from one of the greatest to ever do it. On this episode, Bodyguards, drug habits, guns, gangs, and oh yeah, an ejaculating guitar and I mentioned the ejaculating guitar and of course Prince, I'm Jake Brennan and this is disgrace slant. As Prince stood up in the audience to accept the first of three American Music Awards in Los Angeles.
His bodyguard, Charles.
Huntsbury aka Big Chick, stood up with Big Chick came as advertised six foot eight, three hundred or maybe four hundred something pounds, depending on who you asked. There's a big white dude in a big white Sanda beard wearing
a big old black wife beater. He was not just a protector, but he was an ally, the kind of guy who, when he walked into an establishment alongside a black member of Prince's band, would immediately clock the racist shit heads inside say without hesitation, this is my friend and if you little pussies have a problem with him,
then you have a problem with me. Big Chick was Prince's big shadow and Prince, all five foot two of them, though a little taller tonight on account of those heels he was wearing, cut a path to the stage with purpose, where representatives of the previous generation the Beach Boys, handed him his award. He strolled to the mic and said, simply, said very much.
No one else brought.
Their bodyguard with them to the American Music Awards that night, But there was no one else like Prince, not that night, not any night. But on January twenty eighth, nineteen eighty five, the evening of the American Music Awards, no one could do what Prince could do, which specifically was beat Michael Jackson in his unbeatable album Thriller in the Favorite Pop Album category. Right now, Prince was no longer in the ascendant. At twenty six years old, Prince was at the mountaintop.
The album for which he won those awards, Purple Rain, was also the soundtrack to the movie of the same name, released the year prior, a number one movie that generated two number one singles, When Doves Cry and Let's Go Crazy. But the most impressive statistic was that now, in January of nineteen eighty five, the album Slash soundtrack Purple Rain had just ended its twenty four week streak at number one on the Billboard Album Chart. Twenty four weeks, that's
six months. If you don't want to do the math, and you're not alone. Prince didn't want to do the math either. Prince just wanted to do things the way he.
Wanted them done.
Doing it his way was how he made his first album For You back in nineteen seventy eight, while he was still just a teenager. He produced it, arranged it, and performed everything entirely by himself. Doing it his way was how he made his third album, Dirty Mind, at nineteen eighty. That record's raw, funk and brazen lyrical content was so game changing that the Village Voice rock critic Robert chris Gau wrote, and I quote, Mick Jagger can
just fold up his penis and go home. And his way was also the only way when it came to training his band, The Revolution. The rehearsals went on for hours with no interruptions. And you better learn to play that bass with one hand so that if you get hungry, you can make a sandwich with the other hand and not miss a beat. You want bathroom breaks, go ask Bruce Springsteen if he's hiring and speaking to Bruce.
Let's get back to.
The evening of January twenty eighth, nineteen eighty five, because on this night, immediately following the awards ceremony, the Boss and every other major artist in the room are headed over to A and M Studios in Hollywood. There they'll record a charity single to benefit famine in Ethiopia called We Are the World but not Prince corneass supergroup charity songs follow that under things Prince does not want to do. What do you mean Prince isn't coming? Quincy Jones was pissed.
The iconic arranger and producer had assembled a who's who of talent for this song, Michael Lionel, Cindy Huey, Bobby, Billy, Tina, both Kennies. But if he didn't have Prince, the man of the hour, the man who dominated popular culture for the last six months, and what did he really have? Prince's manager, Bob Cavallo could sense Q's patience wearing thin, so we threw him a bone. Prince says he'll come play guitar on that track. Quincy Jones was now straight up offended.
I don't need him to play guitar, Bob.
We've got fucking guitars, and Bob Cavallo panicked. He lied and told Quincy that the real reason Prince couldn't make.
It it was because he was sick.
And then he hung up and called his client Prince and made it very clear that because of that lie, it was imperative that Prince lail for the evening. Prince heard this kind of thing his whole life. Do this, don't do that. As a kid, his father forbade him from playing his family piano, and because his father, an accomplished jazz musician, saw himself as the talent in the family, and the one with the talent was the one who get to play. And of course Prince was not just
as good as his father, but far better. He had that pure God given ability from an early age. But I firmly believe that it was this gatekeeping that drove Prince, first as an unknown and then as an award winning icon, to prove not just to his dad but to the whole world that he could play better than anyone on any instrument. And by the time of Purple Rain, that talent, that fame, and that power it was a potent combination that any twenty six year old would find hard to handle.
As Wendy melvoy and the Revolution's other guitarist, said, Prince at this time was quote almost like a kid with too much candy unquote. And Prince was and sharing his candy, not with Quincy Jones or Kenny Rogers or Kenny Loggins or Kenny whoever the fuck. So not only was Prince not participating in We Are the World, he was going to ignore the advice of his manager go hit the town and party like it was well, you know. First off was Carlos and Charlie's, a Mexican joint on the
Sunset step Prince and the Revolution. That's Wendy Melvoyne, along with keyboardists Lisa Coleman and Matt doctor Fink, bassist Mark Brown aka Brown Mark, and drummer Bobby z. They had the run of the place and after some food, they all transitioned upstairs to l Pravado, which, yes, movie Ben was a private club where the band could be treated
like the VIP rock star as they were. But Wendy and the rest of the Revolution weren't feeling the VIP vibe, especially while their peers were collaborating on a collective good deed. Prince told him the chill to the victor, go the spoils. Besides, who is gonna find out. It was late when they left the club and Prince, flanked by his shadow of Big Chick and his other bodyguard, Wally Safford, slipped into
a car outside on the strip. As they did so, the other rear passenger door flung open and a man with a camera jumped inside and began snapping photos.
Prince was startled. He threw up his.
Hands in front of his face and then just blurted out, get the film, get the film.
And the photographer quickly bailed. Pauling ass on foot down.
Sunset bodyguard Wally Safford gave Chase and the sight of this very capable man, a man who learned his trade from the Nation of Islam and had paid his dues protecting hot shot bands from the Commodore's to Parliament, funking delic set more paparazzi running out of the shadows. Wally didn't care about the rest of him. He just wanted that fucker who had taken the photos of Prince in the car. Wally closed in, and the photographer stopped, turned around and took a swing at Wally's head with his
long lens camera. Wally's memories of hanging around Muhammad Ali as a kid came flooding back. He ducked, then rose and drilled a shutterbug right in his eye, knocking them into some bushes. The next morning, just as manager Bob Cavallo had predicted, and just how Wendy and the others had feared, the story was all over the papers. Wally Safford was arrested. Prince was disgraced, exposed as a selfish outlier who is now being hit along with his bodyguards,
with a fifteen million dollar lawsuit. Big Chick freaked out. This was more than the usual crowd control bullshit he normally dealt with. He worried the next time it would be worse, the next time someone would really get hurt. His next move shocked Prince as much as that paparazzo who jumped into his car. Big Chick quit, but he wasn't out of Prince's.
Life just yet.
Big Chick had an equally big cocaine problem, and in order to pay for that problem, he sold a scandalous story about his one time boss to the National Inquirer for a quick buck, and the resulting article would play a huge part in how the general public's perception of Prince began to shift. But you can't really blame Big Chick. The wheels were already in motion as early as the night of January twenty eighth, nineteen eighty five, the night of the American Music Awards and of We Are the World.
The Prince may have reached the mountaintop, but that meant that there was nowhere to go but down. And so as a photographer nursed his wounds, as the La Times ran the kind of headline that Bob Cavallo could have written himself, and as the lawyers started to come for Princess Wallet, all of it so clearly pointed to the
next phase of Prince's career, the backlash. Four years earlier, in nineteen eighty one, nineteen year old Mark Brown, just out of high school, had yet to flip his name around to create the stage name Brown Mark.
He had also yet to.
Be drafted by Prince for a role in the Revolution, but being a Minneapolis kid playing bass in a band on the city scene, of course, Mark already knew about Prince. Everybody in the Twin Cities knew about Prince. He was the local prodigy, the one they called the kid, a sonic wizard who was putting their Midwestern town on the musical map. Prince was the success story that all other Minneapolis funk and R and B bands measured against when
they dreamed of scoring their own big break. At the moment, however, Mark wasn't thinking about big breaks or about Prince. He was thinking about the gun aimed at his head, a gun that had been pulled on him by his own bandmate. Mark was used to this sort of thing, the threat of violence that was always bubbling under the surface, especially in the north side of town, where a local disc jockey DJ Kyle Ray have been shot dead the year prior.
But to have your own bandmate pull a gun on you and threaten to pull the trigger all over creative differences that was fucked up Mark with the guy would in the argument over how to play the song or whatever bug was up his ass. Besides, the gun was all for show, the tool of an insecure musician who is likely overcompensating. Mark knew then and there that it was time for a change. Change was good, it was healthy, change was survival. And when change literally came calling, Mark answered.
The phone rang not at Mark's house, but in the rehearsal space where he and his group Fantasy were in the middle of a band practice. It was none other
than Prince calling for Mark. No shit, Prince asked Mark if he would come audition for his band tomorrow night, and this required careful exit strategy to avoid another gun to the face when Mark broke the news to the rest of his band, and when it came to showing up a Prince's place to audition, that also required another kind of strategy, this one even more delicate than the last, because everybody in Minneapolis knew about Prince, and I'm not
just talking about the kid's musical talent. They'd all heard the gossip. The Prince was a freaky motherfucker, as freaky as they came. Just look at the cover of his latest record, Dirty Mine Dudes, wearing a trench coat and black briefs and rocking that mustache, singing songs about oral
sex and incest. In that falsetto rumor had it, there was one particularly shocking and taboo initiation right the Prince made all of his auditionees perform, or so one of Mark's friends told him, and that friend further told him that Prince's house where the audition was to be held, was not a house, but instead a compound right by
armored tanks and German shepherds. As Mark would discover firsthand, the craziest part of Prince's house was the automatic driveway gate opener that split the black chain link fence in two. And there were no tanks, no dogs, and no sexual favors required. Prince was Prince, which is to say, he was just cool as shit, and yes, Mark Brown aka Brown Mark,
passed the audition. A few years later, in nineteen eighty five, Mark was doing the thing live in the Dream, an integral part of the Purple Rain Tour, which was, let's be honest, more than a tour, it was a daily grind which consisted of the following. You pull into a new city, set up the equipment, and soundcheck for hours. The sound check is like its own show, and often
it doesn't end until that night's audience starts to arrive. Next, you grabbed dinner, but you don't get to savor it because you got to rush back to the.
Venue where sometimes over one hundred thousand.
Pe people are waiting to see you perform. The show is two hours long, give or taken. It's huge, as huge as the loads. The Prince's custom made guitar shoots over the crowd one hundred feet into the air, all that white ivory, liquid, soap, ejaculate and I'm not even fucking kidding here. This is the thing that happened. Prince had a guitar that he could make come in a jack u castor he called it.
Look it up.
But after you know, the load is blown and all that, the night's not over, because next you have to play yet another full set, this time at an after party at a club somewhere in town, and that takes you into the wee hours of the morning, and some nights you get lucky. Some nights Prince wants to record new music instead, which he does in the mobile recording truck that is part of the touring caravan er, maybe at a local studio, you know, don't forget.
On many days you also have to fit into that a tenerary.
Another show, a full two hour set in the afternoon, perform for sick children because contrary to do is freaky reputation, Contrary to all that negative press he received over the We Are the World bullshit, Prince was as charitable as they came. But he didn't do it for the publicity, not like the rest of them mugging for the camera in that video that was playing every day on MTV.
They were the ones who made a brighter day. Prince was out here doing the work, real work for real people who needed it, while Quincy Jones's crew was mugging for the cameras and patting themselves on the backs.
It didn't matter.
Many were now approaching Prince with the same kind of skepticism that Brown Mark once had, because stirring the pot was that new National Inquirer article courtesy of the tell all payday earned by Prince's former shadow Big Chick, who took the three thousand dollars check you receive for spilling his supposed guts and promptly snorted it.
Up his nose.
The headline of that article read, the real Prince He's trapped in a bizarre, secret world of terror. They said, Prince lived in an armed fortress, not with a girlfriend or a wife, but with a food food taster who ensured that every meal was safe for the Purple Ones consumption.
They said the Prince had.
Walled wall portraits of Marilyn Monroe, that he talked to them as if they were real. They said about his erotic song Darling Nikki, you know the one that US Senator Al Gore's wife, Tipper Dean pornographic and wanted censored thanks to the financial backing of the Beach Boys Mike Love The one and the same we resent to Prince with an American Music Award in nineteen eighty five, that little weasel. But I digress, they said the National Inquirer.
They said that if you played the weird backwards section of Darling Nicky in reverse, you'd hear a creepy satanic message. Prince, of course, didn't publicly reply to all of this, just as he didn't publicly share that he performed shows on the regular for kids in need. Instead, he let the mystery play out, mystery being the thing that sells. Copies of The Inquirer are sure, but mystery sells records too, like.
Around the world in the day.
The follow up to Purple Rain, released just weeks after that record breaking tour ended. It too, went right to number one on the album chart, even as Prince's reputation was taking hits on all fronts. Unlike Purple Rain, Around the World in a Day, only held the top spot for three weeks. So Prince tried a new tactic that fall. He granted Rolling Stone and interview to show that he wasn't what everyone had made him out to be, and also to show that truth could be stranger than fiction, like,
for instance, the backwards section of Darling Nikki. That wasn't some subversive satanic message. In fact, you play that part in reverse and you hear a message about God. That right there, that was fantasy versus reality, and reality at that moment and all of its beautiful and ugly forms was playing out in real time on the streets of Prince's beloved Minneapolis.
We'll be right back after this. We're We're, We're.
John Scruggs, the self appointed leader of the Black gangster Disciple Nation aka the Disciples, told Sandra White to bring her twenty two revolver to tonight's meeting. It was October thirteenth, nineteen eighty five, just after midnight. Sandra White did as she was told, as any loyal disciple would do. When John Scruggs spoke, If Scruggs said jump, you asked how high. So White showed up with the gun and then listened carefully as Scruggs laid out the plan to her and.
The rest of the group.
Three weeks earlier, their street gang had robbed a gun store in their hometown of Minneapolis. The crime was almost perfect, but the cops managed to get their hands on sixteen year old disciple well, Christine Krites, and Scruggs was concerned that she had turned snitch. That's why Christine Kritz had to go. Sandra White and the others would make that happen. They were to take her out tonight with Sandra White's gun. John Scruggs laid it all out, follow Christine Krit's home
and shoot her dead. This was their mission. Sandra White, Mary Braxton, and Grayland Williams did as John Scruggs told them, and they followed sixteen year old Christine Kritz back to her place, stopping just shy at her front door at the tennis courts near Martin Luther King Junior Park in South Minneapolis. There, Graylen Williams took hold as a twenty two He thought again of John Scruggs's orders, follow her home and shoot her dead.
This was their.
Mission, as grayln Williams did so. Sandra White and Mary Bruxton lit a joint and try to look nonchalant, and they didn't even notice the moment when Williams pulled the gun to Christine Kritz's head and pulled the trigger. Nine months later, in the summer of nineteen eighty six, Prince was reading all about the murder of Christine Kritz in the arrest of the Disciples gang and the impending trial on the pages of the Minneapolis Star Tribune. Kids killing Kids.
Prince thought, man, what the hell was going on? The crime rate in his hometown was reaching a fever pitch, but it was obviously just a small part of a larger narrative happening everywhere. He turned the page to read about ballistic nuclear missiles locked cocked and ready to fly, US bombs and Libya aids, drugs and famine. Another page, the ongoing investigation into the Challenger space shuttle explosion. Another page, an earthquake out West in nineteen eighty six. The fault
lines weren't just out in southern California. They lay beneath the ranks of the Revolution, many of whom were beginning to feel iced out by the new members Prince was bringing on board, including Susannah Melvoyn, Wendy's twin sister, who was also princess fiance at the time. Those shaky fault lines were also undermining Prince's unwavering desire to change. Creatively speaking, he knew this, just like Brown Mark knew it as a musician on the come up with a gun in his face.
Change was survival.
Just look at Miles Davis. You change your clothes, you change your sound. Do you think Miles gave two shits about what Columbia Records thought about bitches Brew. Change is why Prince refused to repeat the playbook for Purple Rain, moving on to psychedelia, funk and pop for Around the World in the Day in the underrated Parade. But by doing so it cost him first with R and B fans, who accused Prince of turning his back on black music,
and then it cost his bottom line too. Neither album sold nearly as well as Purple Rain and the movie, for which Parade also doubled as a soundtrack. Under the cherry moon was a box office bomb. And now that commercial failure was putting unexpected pressure on his construction of Paisley Park, his sixty five thousand square foot complex twenty minutes outside Minneapolis, which included three private recording studios. It was nearing completion, a complex into which Prince had sunk
ten million dollars. Financial pain, box office poison, the disgrumpled members of his own band. None of it could stop Prince from finding energy in change. But there was another form of energy right now, a dark energy wrestling with the light, the energy of total existential dread, staring him dead in the face. Every time he opened a newspaper
or turned on the TV. Prince tapped into them, both the light and the dark, and he used them to power his next move, which was happening behind closed doors in the one place where Prince felt capable of real transformation, the recording studio. So hold up to understand this, I have to make sure you understand exactly how Prince worked in the recording studio and how his process differed from his peers. First of all, and I don't mean to
get into another Prince versus Michael Jackson thing here. But as legendary producer Jimmy Jam observed, when Prince went into the studio, he would leave at the end of the day with a classic song like nineteen ninety nine fully written and recorded.
Now, when Michael.
Went into the studio, he would leave at the end of the day having spent the entire session obsessing over the volume of the handclaps on the track. I'm not saying there's anything right or wrong about either method here, I'm just illustrating the difference. As Jimmy Jam's example demonstrates, Prince's genius was largely rooted in inspiration. But and this is the second thing, Prince's genius was also the result of impatient You know why Prince used real drums on
some songs and a drum machine on others. The call was made based solely on whichever one is. Engineer Susan Rogers got set up.
First, if the.
Drum machine was plugged in and ready to rock, the drums were made by a machine, he simply could not wait for a drummer to get his or her shit together. And Third, when inspiration struck at any time of the day or night, he called Susan again, his engineer who would meet him in the studio to get to work. It was like a constant flowsting. And there's one particular kound of a day in the studio when Prince recorded four songs simultaneously without saying anything to anyone, without having
anything written down. He had susan roll tape, and then he sat behind the drums and recorded the drum track for one song, and the tape kept rolling, and he proceeded to record the drum track for the next song, and so forth, and then he went back and put down the bass for the first song, and then the
next song, and he get the idea. He started at four pm, and nine and a half hours later, at one thirty am, he had four brand new who completed songs with all the instruments, all the vocals, the whole nine. And these are the first four songs on the Parade album. If you want to go take another listen now that
you know how they were made. By September of nineteen eighty six, six months after the release of Parade, the new songs he was recording were really piling up, and there were so many that he planned for his next release to be a triple album. Bruce Springsteen's new five record live box set set the precedent as far as
Prince was concerned. But Springsteen was just coming off of the incredibly successful Born in the USA, A triple album from a guy like Prince whose last two records had underperformed.
That was the kind of thing that gave.
The executives at Warner Brothers heartburn. But Prince was unfazed. He kept his head down and his vision tunneled. Warner Brothers, like his father, could go ahead and try and tell him what he could and couldn't do, and ditto for his fans, clamoring for another purple rain, for a return to his dirty mind, roots to anything that wasn't what he'd been doing. He used it all. He used the pain of whatever was going on between him and Susannah.
He knew the relationship was ending, just as the revolution was ending. But there was another revolution happening right here in the studio where Prince was alone save for his
loyal engineers, Susan Rogers. He told Susan rolled tape, and he laid down a pattern on the mL one drum machine, and then to the Fairlight digital workstation for a bubbling synth sound and a bluesy bassline, and he kept building more tracks, more instrumentation, but then he abruptly stripped most of them away, until the song was reduced to just the drums, the fairlight, and his guitar, most likely his
iconic Honer MadCat Telemodel. And he mixed the music down onto a cassette, popped it into the tape deck of his Ford Thunderbird, hit the gas, and wrote around town. Listening to the mix while writing lyrics. In his head, Prince thought again about the Disciples gang. He thought about bombs and missiles, of health crisis and society on the brink, and the collective pain of a world that needed healing. He was calling this one the sign of the times.
He knew he was onto something.
New, something that could match the power of Purple Rain, even if it sounded completely different, So much so that he did something he didn't normally do. He played the song for Lenny Waronker, then president of Warners, the father figure, the Gatekeeper, and Lenny listened. Four minutes and fifty six seconds later, when the song ended, Lenny was speechless. It totally freaked me out, he later said, When I heard the record I thought, oh my god, he's gone to
another just another zone. It was just unbelievable. On March thirty first, nineteen eighty seven, a police officer in Baltimore was placed on medical leave after being stuck with a hypodermic needle hidden in the pocket of the purp. He just arrested a purp who had tested positive for the AIDS virus. Over in Chicago, elementary school students fearfully passed
through an infamous playground on their way to class. We're just months earlier, a kid was attacked by a local street gang, beaten so badly with a baseball bat that he lost an eye. In New Jersey, twenty one men went on trial for running drugs, gambling, and other illegal activities out of the Hole in the Wall luncheonette in Newark,
allegedly as part of the Luksey organized crime family. Meanwhile, nightly news broadcasts from coast to coast continued to report on the fallout from President Reagan's recent admission that the United States government had been trading arms with Iran in
return for hostages. On that same day, March thirty first, nineteen eighty seven, Prince released sign of the Times, his ninth studio album, which led off with the title track that Warner Brothers president Lenny Warniker had described as unbelievable, and that song, which had been released as a single a month prior, was as timely as anything Prince had
ever released. It was as potent in eighty seven as Marvin Gaye's What's Going On was in seventy one or Stevie Wonders Living for the City was in seventy three, and as a number one single on the R and B chart. It was also sweet revenge against those who kept calling him out for crossing.
Over into the pop world.
Sign of the Times. The album was not a triple album, as was originally intended under its working titles Dream Factory and Crystal Ball, but instead a double album, the first of Prince's career, and like many of the greatest double albums in history, The Rolling Stones Exile on Main Street the Clash is London Calling. Sign of the Times is an eclectic set of songs that tackled not just the hot button issues of the day, but sex, god, love.
And everything in between.
Over at the Village Voice, home of the Dean of rock critics Robert Chriscau, who just seven years earlier had told Mick Jagger to check his dick into a nursing home. Sign of the Times became the biggest winner in the history of the paper's influential year end Passant Job Writer's poll. It beat out Springsteen's.
Tunnel of Love for the number one.
Spot by an even wider margin than Michael Jackson's Thriller had beat RIM's Murmur in nineteen eighty three. But although Michael was nominated for his album Bad alongside Prince for Album of the Year at the thirtieth Grammy Awards a year later in March of nineteen eighty eight, neither artist won that trophy went to U two for their blockbuster
album The Joshua Tree. Prince again was unfazed. It didn't matter that Sign of the Times didn't win a bunch of awards the way that Purple Rain once had, Nor did it matter that it didn't sell as well as Purple Rain.
Hell didn't sell as well as.
Parade or around the World Day either, But it once and for all established Prince as a megawak craftsman an artist, in addition to his existing status as a megawalk performer. Baby, he was a star, but he was a star in his own way, not how anyone else wanted him to be. And back at the American Music Awards in nineteen eighty five, on the night of the recording of We Are the World, the night that one of his bodyguards was arrested in
another quit. While accepting the award for Favorite Pop Album, Prince told a screaming crowd in that deep bedroom voice of his quote, for all of us, life is death without adventure. Adventure only comes to those who are willing to be daring and take chances unquote, venture, change, impatience, inspiration. Anything less than all that would be a disgrace. I'm Jake Brennan, and this is disgraceland, all right. Thanks for
keeping it purple with me in this week's episode. Just a reminder to Apple podcast listeners, make sure you get those auto downloads turned on. This week's question of the week is which artists best nailed their moment? Was it Prince with Sign of the Times? Was it Stevie was Living for the City? Was it Marvin Gaye with What's going On?
Was it someone else? Public Enemy?
Lauren Hill lots to choose from hit me up and let me know six one seven nine O six six six three eight. We'll get into it in the after Party. Leave me a voicemail, send me a text. You might hear yourself on that bonus episode of the after Party coming.
Up right after this episode.
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Leave a review for the show on Apple Podcasts or Spotify and.
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He's a bad, bad man.