Mr. Hayes stepped up for that one.
During the Diamonds and Pearls Tour, I wasn’t onstage all that much, so Prince was always suggesting to Lori and Robia, “Wouldn’t it be cool if somebody did a stage dive at some point in here?” They were not super into that idea. I’d see them gingerly approach the edge of the stage, tentatively lower their bottoms toward the crowd, and then retreat. Toward the end of the tour, I think at least one of them did it, but not very enthusiastically.
When Act II rolled around, I was out there onstage with a lot more opportunities, rocking the world in a bikini and combat boots, and I started plotting how to get that Funk Night cash. It took me a while to top those guys, but I saw my big chance one night in Berlin. The band was on fire, the crowd was in a state of frenzy, the lights were blazing purple and white and blue. I took a deep breath, started running about twelve feet from the edge of the stage, and dove out over the crowd. Like that old saying: Leap and the net will appear.
For a moment, I flew like an eagle. I corkscrewed in midair so I was facing the ceiling, my arms over my head, my body parallel to the earth. And then I hit the floor like a bag of wet cement.
What up, Germans? Geez!
They looked down at me like, Was ist das? as cartoon stars circled my head. I was back onstage dancing within thirty seconds, the undisputed winner of Funk Night, but the next day, I was as stiff as the Tin Man, and for weeks, I had to cover the deep green and blue bruises with body makeup—along with all the other bruises I’d sustained during the most demanding, rewarding, infuriating, exhilarating days and nights of my life so far.
The next time I impulsively launched out over the crowd, the people below the stage caught me, lifted me up over their heads, and sailed me back onto the stage again. I was laughing, weightless, totally borne up by their love for what Prince had made of the New Power Generation. He’d created a symphony that was more than musical; it was visual and visceral and theatrical.
“You’re not a backup dancer,” he told me. “You’re part of the band. Your body is the instrument.”
By the end of the tour, I was stage diving like the black swan, and it became my thing for the next few years. I learned to look down first and gage the depth of the reliability pool. If the people down front looked stony or stupid or weak in the triceps, I waited for some burly types to push their way forward. Stage diving is not for sissies. I got pretty banged up sometimes, and one night in Paris, some guy ripped off my shirt. But that’s rock and roll. All in a day’s work, right?
Looking at moments from all this on YouTube or the old concert videos, people don’t always appreciate the hard physical labor that goes into performances like these. It looks so effortless. Underneath our clothes, our shin splints and bruises told the real story. I was always slathering body makeup from my toes to my collarbone. It left a sticky amber ring in the hotel bathtub after each show. I can’t imagine what housekeeping thought I was doing in there.
We didn’t talk about the pain we were in. Prince didn’t complain, and I didn’t see him taking anything other than vitamin B injections, which I refused at first but welcomed later on as the wear and tear of touring life set in. Later on in his life, when we were no longer together, I heard rumors that Prince had had hip replacement surgery. This wouldn’t surprise me at all. And I wouldn’t blame anyone for turning to some kind of pharmaceutical pain relief if they’ve given as much of their body and soul as he did every time he stepped onstage.
??eight
Have you ever been hypnotized?”
“Not that I know of.”
“You would know.”
“Not if there was a posthypnotic suggestion. Like, ‘You will not remember being hypnotized’ or something like that.”
“Truth. Good point.”
“Why do you ask?”
“I want to hypnotize you. Lay still. Listen to my voice.”
“I listen to your voice all day.”
“This’ll be different.”
“How?”
“You’ll be in a trance. You’ll travel through time to past lives. You’ll speak deep truth from the subconscious mind.”
“I don’t think that works on me.”
“Not if you keep messing around, girl. Lay still.”
“Okay, but—”
“Shhhhh… breathe in… breathe out… let go of the tension in your forehead… let go of the muscles in your legs… feel your mind become pure energy… feel your body fill with light…”
He stroked my face, speaking softly, whispering me into a deeply meditative state. He liked to call it “hypnosis,” and it was a kind of hypnotic spell, I think, but not like a Vegas act or clinical “stop smoking” type of hypnosis. The first time he tried it on me, I couldn’t stop giggling, but then I gave myself over to it, and I liked it. I closed my eyes and watched the natural kaleidoscope inside my eyelids.
“Tell me your name.”
“Mayte.”
“Princess Mayte?”