Prince: Making Music History Part One

In Part 1 of this two-part series, we explore one of the most pivotal chapters in Prince's career—the battle for artistic freedom that forever changed the music industry. After the massive success of Diamonds and Pearls, tensions between Prince and Warner Bros. reached a breaking point as his relentless creativity clashed with the label's traditional release strategy. We dive into the origins of the legendary Vault, the meaning behind the word "SLAVE" written across Prince's face, his shocking decision to abandon the name "Prince" in favor of the iconic Love Symbol, and the complex stories behind The Hits/The B-Sides and Come. This episode examines how Prince transformed a contract dispute into a powerful statement about artistic ownership, setting the stage for one of the most unforgettable acts of rebellion in music history. Join us next week as we continue the story and uncover what happened next in Prince's fight for creative independence.

Transcript

SPEAKER_01 0:04

The first time Ava Steer heard Prince was the day he passed. At 12 years old, she sat in her room listening to Purple Rain, and something in her changed. Now, years later, that moment lives on through the Violet Vault, a podcast exploring Prince's legacy, his music, and the world he created. Join Ava Seer as she opens the vault. One story, one era, one purple mystery at a time.

SPEAKER_00 0:24

Hello and welcome back to the Violet Vault. My name is Ava Seer, and you are listening to episode 17 of our Purple Journey. So far, we've discussed a few different evolutions in Prince's history up until this point. From his early days as a one-man show in the recording booth at just 18 years old to becoming a global superstar, performing on stages across the globe and appearing on the silver screen as well. And at this point, Prince has already released 14 studio albums, along with an array of other albums produced for various protege bands. However, that prolific work ethic, constant album releases, and dwindling commercial success will begin to stir the pot between Prince and his record label, Warner Bros. By the early 1990s, Prince and Warner Bros. had reached a breaking point. Ironically, the thing that had made Prince so extraordinary, his relentless creativity, had actually become the source of the conflict. Unlike most artists who spent a year or two crafting a single album, Prince was creating music almost faster than anyone could keep up with. Stories from musicians who worked at Paisley Park often described him recording through the night, finishing one song before sunrise, and beginning another before breakfast. And engineers have recalled arriving at the studio only to discover that Prince had already completed several tracks while they were asleep. Music simply just poured out of him constantly. And by this point in his career, he wasn't just writing for himself either. He was producing records for artists like The Time, Sheila E, Vanity Six, Ablonia Six, Jill Jones, Mavis Staples, and a dozen other collaborators. At any given moment, Prince could just be juggling multiple albums simultaneously. And it wasn't unusual for him to finish an entire record before Warner Bros. had even released the previous one. For Prince, this wasn't unusual. It was simply how he worked. But for Warner Bros. it presented a problem. The label believed albums needed more time to breathe. They wanted to release a record every couple of years, promote several singles to a radio, send Prince out on tour, and maximize sales before beginning the next cycle. But Prince couldn't understand why finished music should be sitting on a shelf waiting for the marketing department to decide the right release date. And to him, inspiration had a shelf life. If he wrote a song today, he wanted people hearing it today. He once said, I don't see why I should wait to release music I already have. It was a philosophical difference that would eventually become one of the biggest artist versus label disputes in music history. And ironically, the disagreement began one of Prince's strongest commercial comebacks. Released in October 1991, Diamonds and Pearls had been a huge success. It introduced fans to Prince's new backing band, The New Power Generation, produced hit after hit, including Get Off, Cream, and the title track Diamonds and Pearls. And the album sold more than 6 million copies worldwide, reached number three on the Billboard 200, and reminded audiences that Prince could still dominate music well into the 90s. And Warner Bros was thrilled. From the label's perspective, they had their superstar back. In 1992, Warner rewarded Prince what with what was reportedly one of the most lucrative recording contracts in music history. The deal was said to be worth around a hundred million dollars, which is a staggering amount at the time, and included advances, promotional support, and continued backing for Paisley Park Records. And on paper, it looked like a dream contract. But there was one major catch. Prince was still expected to deliver a set number of albums under the agreement, and Warner Bros retained control over when those albums would actually be released. At first, that may have not seemed like a major issue, but for someone who was creating music at Prince's pace, it quickly became unbearable. Within months, completed albums were beginning to pile up inside Paisley Park. Some were nearly finished, and others were completely mastered and ready to be pressed. Prince wanted fans to hear them immediately, and Warner Bros. wanted to slow things down. And their reasoning wasn't entirely unreasonable. The label worried that releasing too much Prince music would flood the market and hurt sales. They believed each album needed its own promotional campaign and enough time for audiences to fully absorb it. And from a business standpoint, their strategy made sense. But from Prince's perspective, however, the label was preventing people from hearing his art. And he later described it as a feeling like his music had been locked in a vault. And today, the vault has become something almost mythical among Prince fans, a collection of hundreds, perhaps even thousands, of unreleased recordings discovered after his death. But even in the early 1990s, that vault already existed. Prince hated seeing finished music sitting there. He believed songs were living things. They were meant to be heard and not stored away because of release schedules and quarterly sales projections. As the months passed, the relationship between Prince and Warner Bros became increasingly strained. Meetings grew more contentious, albums were delayed, frustrations mounted, and eventually Prince decided he could no longer fight the label behind closed doors. If Warner Bros wanted to make this a public business relationship, he would make his frustrations public too. And one of the first signs that fans noticed came in 1993. Prince began appearing in concerts, interviews, and public appearances with the word slave written across his face in bold black letters. The image was impossible to ignore. Critics argued that the comparison was offensive, while others questioned why one of the wealthiest musicians in the world would choose such provocative language. Prince later explained that he wasn't comparing his personal experience to the horrors of slavery. Instead, he was making a statement about ownership. He believed that once artists signed recording contracts, they often lost control at the very things they created, the music and the release schedules, and sometimes even their own identity. Prince famously said that if you don't own your masters, then your masters own you. And for him, writing Slave on his face wasn't about generating headlines. It was about forcing people to ask who truly owns artists' work. And soon he would make an even bigger statement. One that would leave the music industry completely speechless. He was about to give up that name the world had known for nearly two decades. Not because he wanted a fresh start, but because he believed the name Prince no longer belonged entirely to him. When Prince began writing the word slave across his face, many people assumed it was a protest against Warner Bros. But in reality, it was only one part of a much bigger statement. Prince wasn't just frustrated with the record label. He was questioning the entire relationship between artists and the companies that distributed their work. And in 1993, he made perhaps the boldest statement yet. He walked away from his own name. And on June 7, 1993, Prince celebrated his 35th birthday. But instead of announcing a new album, a new tour, or another creative project, he made an announcement that shocked the music world. Prince Rogers Nelson, the name that had become synonymous with innovation, controversy, and musical genius, would no longer be using the name Prince. Instead, he would be identified by a symbol. A symbol that combined the traditional male and female signs along with unique shapes and curves that Prince said that represented a balance of masculine and feminine energy. It was not a random design. Prince had always been fascinated by symbolism, spirituality, and the idea of transformation. Throughout his career, he had constantly reinvented himself, whether it was his rebellious sexuality of Dirty Mind, the psychedelic optimism of around the world in the day, or the spiritual exploration of Sunday Times. The symbol represented another evolution. But there was also a very practical reason behind the decision. The name Prince had become complicated. When Prince signed his first recording contract with Warner Bros. as a teenager, the company gained certain rights associated with the recordings and branding. And over time, the name became more than just an identity. It was a product, a logo, a marketing tool, a brand owned and controlled in ways that Prince increasingly disliked. And by changing his name to something that could not be spoken, Prince was making a statement. And Warner Bros. could market the name Prince, but they couldn't own who he was. The decision was both artistic and strategic. It was also incredibly confusing. Radio hosts struggled to introduce his songs, newspapers did not know what to call him, and television presenters had to awkwardly explain that they were interviewing the artist formerly known as Prince. That phrase became so common that it almost became his new name. Prince, however, was not doing this as a publicity stunt. He was actually serious, and he wanted people to understand that something fundamental had changed. The person the world knew as Prince was gone and a new chapter had begun. And around the same time, Warner Bros was preparing to release a project that represented everything Prince was trying to move away from, his past. And in September of 1993, the label released The Hits and the B-Sides. On paper, it was a celebration of Prince's incredible career, and for fans, it truly was a remarkable collection. The three disc set brought together some of the biggest songs from the previous 15 years. There was classics such as When Dove's Cry in 1999, Kiss, Purple Rain, Raspberry Beret, Little Red Corvette. It essentially was a greatest hits collection for an artist who had already built one of the most impressive catalogs in modern music. But the real gift for longtime fans was the third disc, The B-Sides. For years, Prince had hidden some of his most creative and experimental work on the flip side of singles. Songs that casual listeners might have missed became legendary among dedicated fans. And Jacks like 17 Days, She's Always in My Hair, How Come You Don't Call Me Anymore finally received wider exposure. And for many listeners, this collection was an introduction to an entirely different side of Prince, which was the songwriter who was just as brilliant outside of his biggest radio hits. Commercially, the album performed well. It reached number 19 on the Billboard 200, earned platinum certifications, and sold millions of copies around the world. But for Prince, the timing was complicated. Warner Bros was celebrating his history at the exact moment he was trying to separate himself from it. The label was looking backward, but Prince was already looking ahead. He didn't want another collection of old songs. He wanted people to hear the new music he had been creating. And that frustration would soon become obvious with his next studio album. In August of 1994, Warner Bros released Come. The album itself was unusual from the beginning. Even the cover told a story. On the front was a photograph of Prince standing in front of a cemetery. Above him with the words Prince 1958 to 1993. It looked like an obituary, and in many ways, that's exactly what Prince intended. The message was clear. The version of Prince that Warner Bros had built, the purple suits, the superstar image, and the global phenomenon, was dead. And the artist had been born. Musically, cum reflected that darker, more complicated moment. This wasn't the colorful optimism of Diamonds and Pearls. This was a colder, more mysterious record. The production was stripped down and the songs were heavier. The atmosphere was more experimental, and tracks like the title song, which stretched beyond 11 minutes, explored hypnotic rhythms and sensual grooves rather than chasing traditional radio success. And the album also included songs that showed Prince's willingness to challenge expectations. Luce brought a raw funk energy, Let It Go combined melancholy with an infectious groove. Pheromone created a dark electronic atmosphere that felt closer to a nightclub at 3 a.m. than a traditional pop record. And many fans consider Cum as one of Prince's most unrated albums because it captures such a specific moment in his life. You can hear the frustration and the rebellion, and you can hear someone trying to break free. And there's also an interesting story behind the album's creation. Much of Cum was not actually new material. Prince had been recording constantly, and many of these songs had existed in various forms for years before their official release. And some had even been performed live. But for Prince, the album represented material that he was willing to give to Warner Bros. as part of their agreement. And it wasn't necessarily the grand artistic statement he wanted to make. It was another step forward toward freedom. And that attitude even influenced the way he promoted the record. During interviews, Prince was careful not to present Cum as the beginning of a new era. The old era was over, and the contract was almost over, and the countdown had begun. Commercially, Cum performed respectively. It reached number 15 on the Billboard 200 and became his first album to reach number one in the UK. But in the United States, it didn't receive the same level of attention as his earlier work. Part of the reason was because the relationship between Prince and Warner Bros. had become so strained that neither side seemed interested in fully investing in the album. The label was frustrated and Prince was frustrated, and the audience was caught in the middle. But while Cum represented Prince fulfilling his obligations, another album represented what Prince truly wanted people to hear. And we'll continue this story in next week's episode. If you enjoyed today's journey, be sure to like and follow the Violet Vault not only on your podcast platforms, but also on Instagram and Facebook. Thank you so much again for listening. I'm your host, Ava Steer. Peace and Be Wild.

SPEAKER_01 13:22

The Violet Vault is hosted by Avis Deer, celebrating the sound, style, and spirit of subscribe wherever you find your podcasts, and follow the Violet Vault on Instagram and Facebook for new episodes and bonus stories.