There’s a nervous bride, a woman sweating through childbirth, women working, women mothering, women making a difference. A gorgeous black woman (played by Nona Gaye) is elected president of the United States. A fabulous redhead slays onstage and then drags off a carefully styled wig to show her actual close-cropped hair. At the end, we see education pioneer Marva Collins, a teacher who used her retirement savings to start a small school for low-income black children labeled “learning disabled” by the Chicago public school system. Set against this song, it’s undeniable: every one of them—every one of you—is perfectly and uniquely stunning.
… this kind of beauty has got no reason 2 ever be shy
… this kind of beauty is the kind that comes from inside
It was a pivotal moment in his career, because he was able to release the single as an independent artist on his own new NPG label in a distribution partnership with Edel in Europe. (Yeah, that Edel. Too dramatic, right?) The single was an international hit, his first UK number one hit—the only one during his lifetime—and number three on Billboard’s Hot 100 in the United States. With this one song, he was able to prove that he had the answer to the big question everyone kept asking when he talked about living outside a label: What about distribution? The song was remixed for the Gold Experience album, released by NPG with Warner Bros., but the handwriting was on the wall. With the successful release of the single, he had proven that it was possible and important for an artist to take ownership of his or her work, creatively and commercially, and he was already reaching out to artists like Chaka Khan to jump ship and follow him.
“The Most Beautiful Girl in the World” was the first recording officially credited to instead of Prince, and this threw people for a loop. In 1999, he told Larry King, “I had searched deep within my heart and spirit, and I wanted to make a change and move to a new plateau in my life, and one of the ways I did this was to change my name. It sort of divorced me from the past and all the hang-ups that go along with it.”
Suddenly people didn’t know how to refer to him in the media. They came up with the Artist Formerly Known as Prince, which he didn’t love because, to him, it felt like a cheat. Some people tried to shorten that to TAFKAP, and he particularly hated that because it was a double cheat. It’s interesting to see how people wrap their heads around it—or not—and how their handling of it reflects how they feel about artists in general. I mean, is that allowed? Do we get to play with entity and identity that way?
But I think that’s exactly what he intended. I think he wanted to take it from your mouth and place it in your mind or take it from your mind and place it in your heart. Instead of verbalizing a word inside your head, maybe he wanted you to feel something that was uniquely him, to breathe in both artist and art and be with that for just a split second. So I would ask you to bear with me and do that here so I can honor his wishes. Up to this moment, he was Prince; from 1993 to 2000—legally, professionally, creatively, and spiritually—he was .
Prince’s decision to have his name legally changed to was a much bigger deal for the rest of the world than it was for us. As our relationship evolved over the years, the man I knew was always separate in my heart and mind from the stage persona, so I’d never addressed him as “Prince” anyway. He once told Oprah, “I’d drop my tea if I heard ‘Prince’ coming from the kitchen.” People kept asking me, “But what do you call him?” and the truth is, I didn’t call him anything. Every once in a while, I’d call him “hon” or “honey,” which made him laugh for some reason, or I’d call out, “Hey!” which also amused him because his stepdad’s name was Hayward.
Most of the time, if I was still and looked at him for more than a second or two, he’d turn to look at me. Perhaps that connection is how the unpronounceable is pronounced: it’s a look, a touch, a stillness. And it went both ways, even after we were no longer together. One night after our divorce, I was at the Sayers Club in LA, and I felt him there standing behind me. I turned to look for him, but I didn’t see him. I did notice, though, that the guitar pedals were set up exactly the way he liked them. Someone told me later that he’d come in to jam with the band that night, but when he saw me sitting there, he didn’t feel like playing.
His given name was Prince, so he didn’t mind when his longtime friends and family called him that, but Prince—the recording artist owned by Warner Bros.—was someone else entirely. And the Artist Formerly Known as Prince was something the media invented because that was the easiest way to talk about him. He didn’t want it to be easy for them. He wanted to make people think about their own identity and about the people they idolize and the concept of being and doing “whatever peanut butters your jelly.” He wanted people to know he had changed.
“In the Bible,” he said, “what happens when a person changes? God changes their name. Abram became Abraham. Sarai became Sarah. Jacob wrestled with the angel of the Lord and became Israel.”