That Time I Met Prince
And over 30 more gratuitous celebrity name drops
I met two of my creative heroes this week, Guy Garvey and Mark Potter. They’re two fifths of the band Elbow. They played in Chicago on Monday night, and I was there. It was epic. Elbow is my favorite band that’s not the Beatles.
I’m on the road for most of October, and I’m taking copies of Chinatown Troubadour to drop along the way.
Back to the show for a sec. My friend, Josh, attended Elbow with me. He also happens to be my excellent PR manager (thank you, Joshua). As we waited for the band to take the stage, he told me about spotting Bono in the balcony a few years ago.
In the wake of meeting Guy and Mark that afternoon, we started swapping celebrity-sighting stories. So I told Josh the following doozy about Prince. When it was over, he shouted at me, “Why don’t you put that in one of your books?!”
So here I go. And who knows? Maybe this will appear in print one day.
To start, a note of self-awareness: I realize that telling stories about meeting celebrities runs the risk of absolute douche-baggery, even when prompted. The fact is: most people I’ve met don’t care about other people’s celeb sightings. It’s largely why I haven’t shared stories like this here, except the one about meeting Kurt Vonnegut…almost.
What is it about celebrities, anyway? We love our famous heroes, but they don’t even know us. For the most part, I do think people like hearing they are appreciated and admired. And it’s okay to want to tell them that.
But it can be more complicated. Some people are up for a conversation, others just are happy to smile at you and walk away. And the respectful thing as a fan is to be cool with anything.
Anyway, who am I talking to here? You know this already because you are a balanced and fine human being. You must be. You read my newsletter.
In writing up this story, I revisited an era of my life that I don’t think about often. And I’ll admit: it was really fun to reminisce.
I pulled out some old pictures and went back to things I’d written then to remind myself how it felt to be driven in my 20s in Hollywood. It was an exciting time. But in many ways, it made me appreciate the present even more. Isn’t that, hopefully, the best part of the past?
That’s enough preamble. Here we go.
It’s late 2006. I am living in Los Angeles, and my rock band is trying to be full-time musicians.
To pay the bills, I have taken a series of jobs that have nothing to do with my skillset. Occasionally, I get temporary work in the industry (short stints doing odd, unglamorous, and forgettable jobs for teams at Disney, HBO, New Line, etc.), but nothing worth recounting in detail. Think anything from warehouse work, to data processing, to seasonal retail associate.
After chipping away, I get my first serious job. It’s for a boutique production company, specializing in high-end live events. Absolutely A-list clientele. And while the role isn’t on the creative side of the house, I am finally in the industry in a big way.
My first event is the Versace family’s induction into the Walk of Style on Rodeo Drive. I am assigned to work the production on the lawn at City Hall in Beverly Hills.
An upscale event tent with a black-carpet floor is constructed for the occasion. The entertainment for the evening? Elton John and Guns ‘n’ Roses. The entire guest list is created by Donatella Versace herself, and it’s an insanely small affair for entertainment of that scale.
Looking back, this evening gave me a slew of stories I would tell in bars for years to come. From short anecdotes about being struck by Christina Ricci’s charm and almost knocking Paris Hilton over, to trying to convince Mischa Barton not to leave early.
Then, there was the winding saga of fulfilling Elton’s and Axl’s riders… and the difficult interactions with the latter’s manager (a story for another day).
But the encounter with Prince remains the crown jewel anecdote from the evening. It puts me in the exclusive club of humans walking the earth who actually had a moment of private face time with the man.
Here’s how it happens. My role for the evening is to shadow our founder/CEO/executive producer. His name is Craig, he is incredibly smart and ridiculously kind. And he is a huge advocate for me. I learn so much from him over the next couple of years.
“Dress up,” he says. “Everywhere I go, you go.”
A friend on the production staff overhears him. “Get ready,” she says to me, alluding to Craig’s energy level. “You’re gonna be all over the place. Hope you have comfortable shoes.”
And Craig continues, “I’m not going to wear a walkie. You’re going to be my ears at the event.”
So I dust off the only suit I own. I wear a black button-up shirt underneath the suit coat, but no tie. I’m thinking it’s Hollywood, this is a cool look.
When I arrive at the event, Craig, clad in a suit that probably costs more than my Ford Focus, looks me up and down.
“Nice. No tie?”
“I don’t love ties,” I say.
“Alright,” he says after a pause. “It’s a good night for no ties.”
In a subtle, yet powerful demonstration of his leadership ability, Craig removes his own tie, folds it neatly, and stuffs it inside his suit coat pocket.
I put in my earpiece and off we go. The event tent is home to multiple full bars, elevated seating on the sides, a front-and-center VIP lounge area packed with high-end furniture. And the stage: small but gorgeous and spectacularly lit.
And we’re all over it. The pace is exhausting, and the party has barely started. We’re hustling between the caterer, the bars, the florist, the sound guy, the red carpet. Then, we meet the mayor of Beverly Hills. Craig mingles.
And at his side, I shake the hands when he introduces me. I stay in the shadows behind him when he doesn’t. The room is full of clients, friends, and stars. Everyone knows him. And all the while, I’m listening to the chatter of the production team.
Craig wants to know when big names arrive, so I listen for voices in my ear say, “Jennifer Lopez and Marc Anthony just pulled up,” or “Naomi Campbell is asking where Quincy Jones is,” or “Drew Barrymore is on the red carpet.”
As the party starts to fill out, Craig and I run backstage. We stand in the wings near the end of Elton’s piano.
“Wait out here,” he says as he pulls at a curtain. “It’s a small green room, and I don’t want to crowd anyone. I’m going to go in real quick and say hi to Sharon Stone and Rupert Everett. Pop your head in if there’s an emergency.”
“Sure thing,” I say. Rupert is the night’s emcee, and Sharon has been tapped to auction off a Lamborghini for charity during the festivities. Bidding starts at one million dollars.
Almost as soon as Craig disappears, it happens.
My earbud chirps. “Prince doesn’t want to walk the step and repeat,” some production staffer says.
“Why not?” Someone else asks.
“Just doesn’t wanna do the red carpet thing.”
“Is there another way in?” I hear a third person ask on the radio.
“I don’t know,” the first person says. “But his car is here, and they’re saying, ‘no paparazzi.’”
A few seconds of silence follow. I almost make the decision to run in and get Craig, because this is the exact thing that he wants to know about. But before I do, the voice comes back.
“Okay. We sent him around back.”
“Where?” Someone asks.
“The parking lot at the side of City Hall. The back of the tent. Is anyone near door B right now? Someone should meet him.”
I looked around. There was a door opposite the green room curtain. It was labelled with a giant “B.”
I am there. And I am alone.
“I got it,” I say into the walkie as casually as I can. But my heart rate leaps 10 beats per minute.
I don’t have time to get Craig. The moment the words leave my mouth, the door opens, purple fog explodes into the area, the opening organ chords of “Let’s Go Crazy” play, and Prince floats in.
Fine, maybe there’s no purple fog. And I only heard “Let’s Go Crazy” in my head. And Prince doesn’t float. He walks. But he seems to know exactly where he is going, even if it’s about to be obvious that he does not.
He looks at me as if I’m the exact person he’s come to see. And while it’s nighttime and also mostly dark back stage, he doesn’t remove his sunglasses.
“I’m ready to be shown to my seat,” he says.
While I never thought I’d be in this moment, I am ready for it. I know the seating chart cold. All our a-listers will be in the VIP area center stage. Except Prince.
Prince’s people have been very clear about what they want: A table for Prince on an elevated section of the room. Near the front. Off to the side.
“Absolutely, sir,” I answered. “Follow me.”
My earpiece starts exploding. “Does someone have him!? Does someone have him?!”
I raise the microphone hidden in my sleeve and answer quietly, “Yes,” as I reach for the volume button on the walkie talkie on my belt. I shut down the ear piece. I think, when talking to Prince, try not to let anything distract you.
I part the curtains just a crack at the front of the house and step aside so Prince can see the audience.
“There,” I say as I point. “I’m going to open this curtain all the way, and I’ll lead you down this aisle. We’ll walk up those stairs. And that first table right there is yours.”
“That one right there?” He asks.
“Yes.”
“No,” he says.
I freeze. “No?”
“No, I won’t be sitting there,” Prince says.
“Okay,” I stammer. “Well, your manager was very specific about where you wanted to sit. They followed up several times.”
“Look,” Prince says, serious as a heart attack. “I know you’re doing your job. And you’re doing good. You’re following instructions. Great. But I’m telling you. I’m not gonna sit there.”
He glances through the curtain again, right at the heart of the VIP area. “I’m going to sit there,” he says as he points.
I follow the angle of this finger. He’s pointing at Donatella Versace, who is sitting front and center.
“Right there?” I ask.
“Yes. Right next to Donatella.”
I look again. There isn’t a seat open next to Donatella. Elton John is sitting on her left, and Penelope Cruz is on her right.
“Okay,” I say slowly.
Questions spark to life in my mind over the course of a millisecond. How is this going to work? Do I ask someone to get up? How do I keep Prince happy?
But as quickly as those questions appear, they vanish. I realize, I won’t have to do anything. This is Prince. When he approaches, they will stand.
“Okay, follow me,” I say.
I open the curtain and walk through. Prince follows me to the velvet VIP ropes. I unhook one of the stanchions.
“Excuse me,” I say to Ashton Kutcher. He doesn’t hear me. I put my hand on his shoulder. “Excuse me, Ashton,” I say again.
He turns and looks, at first wondering who I am. Then, he sees the man behind me. His eyes turn the size of ping pong balls.
“Yeah, ‘course,” he says as he pulls Demi Moore to his side and steps out of our way.
I also step aside and gesture towards Donatella. “There you go,” I say to Prince.
He smiles for the first time and walks into the throng.
“Thanks man,” I say to Ashton as I reattach the velvet rope. I walk backstage and arrive at the green room curtain. I look back at the VIP area, and there he is. Prince seated next to Donatella Versace as if he’d been there all night.
I flip my walkie back on in time to hear a friend of mine congratulate me. They saw me from the other side of the room as I brought Prince in.
Craig bursts out of the green room. “What did I miss?” He asks.
That was the first night in a string of productions I worked for Craig until I moved away a few years later. We stayed in touch with an email here and there after I left, and sadly, Craig passed away in 2015.
There are hundreds of Getty pictures from the evening, and I can not tell you how badly I wanted to find myself in the background of one of them. Alas, no luck. And less than five of those pictures are of Prince.
There were plenty of other people in the room that night. Eva Longoria, Jada Pinkett Smith, Amber Valletta, Mary J. Blige, Jennifer Hudson, Juliette Lewis, Kelly Preston, Courtney Love with Frances Bean Cobain, Keisha Whitaker, Lady Victoria Hervey, Tyra Banks, Eric McCormack, and Sebastian Bach. Even Buzz Aldrin was there.
A few things I took away from the night about some other celebs:
Kanye West wasn’t the cultural figure he is now, and he was nice when I talked to him.
Axl Rose was also very kind when we shared a drink.
Cindy Crawford was a great sport when hearing that my mom is also from Dekalb, Illinois.
Brooke Shields was also nice, but looked kinda bored with me, which is the effect I’ve had on many girls since high school.
I’ve seen Elton play piano in stadiums, and he brought the same dedication, swagger, and energy level to a tiny room. He stunned the A-list crowd into silence.
And lastly, Prince is a rare breed of celebrity. He’s the kind that made all the other celebrities offer him their seat.
You sure have some interesting stories, and really enjoy reading them!
What a cool story!