Prince didn’t fit the mold. He melted it.

Pop? Rock? Funk? R&B? He played them all—often at the same time, often better than anyone else.

He was a one-man revolution with 27 instruments, three octaves, and zero interest in your categories.

This is the story of how Prince turned every stage into a throne and every song into a challenge.

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Minneapolis Made. Global by Force.

Born Prince Rogers Nelson, he wrote his first song at seven.

By 19, he was demanding full creative control of his debut album—and getting it.

By 24, he had dropped 1999. And by 26? Purple Rain.

In an era of synth-pop and soft rock, Prince went electric, erotic, and totally unpredictable.

He didn’t just sing. He seduced.

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Purple Rain Wasn’t an Album. It Was a Coronation.

Purple Rain was gospel in a guitar solo.

It was soul with a scorched amp.

It was a movie, a movement, and a masterpiece.

Prince turned heartbreak into fireworks and gave the world something it didn’t know it needed: vulnerability in velvet, thunder in lace.

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The Feed Wants Predictable. Prince Gave Us Pandemonium.

He wrote Nothing Compares 2 U—and gave it away. He dropped Sign o’ the Times—a double album of sonic detours.

When his label tried to limit him, he became a symbol. Literally.

Prince wasn’t a trend. He was the test.

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Live, He Was Unholy.

Guitar as weapon. Falsetto as sermon.

2004: Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. One solo—While My Guitar Gently Weeps—and suddenly Tom Petty and George Harrison’s kid faded into the smoke.

2007: Super Bowl. Rain falling. Purple lights blazing. He plays Purple Rain… in the rain.

You don’t stage that. You conjure it.

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Final Note: Long Live the Symbol

The Feed wants streams. Prince wanted freedom.

He fought for his music. For his name. For his right to be more than marketable.

He made sexy sacred and strange sublime.

Certified Prince-Core: Guitar solos that flirt. Lyrics that haunt. Outfits that would make Ziggy Stardust blush.