[2] Prince & The Revolution, ‘Kiss’

“Kiss?” said Junior. “Like kissing? Like this?”

She went to kiss her own school portrait before me, but no surprise there – her bloodline breeds narcissists. Anyway, then there was some preposterous dancing. That’s hereditary too.

I think we’ve talked about ‘Kiss’ here before, about how the Purple Priapus could be impish and cheeky while being filthy as hell; how the arrangement could echo with space while being full to bursting with funky flourishes, impossible groove and eternal sunshine; how Tom Jones is an orange car alarm. ‘Kiss’ just sounds so easy.

Act your age, not your shoe size:

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Prince & The Revolution, ‘Kiss’

There are riches to be had here. Dad dusts off the comedy falsetto, Mum provides kisses at the appropriate points in the song, and Junior refuses to sit on her mother’s lap because she just can’t, she just can’t, she just can’t control her feet. Prince gives us a record of impossible groove and eternal sunshine.

Junior smiles throughout the perfectly pint-sized track. It’s her introduction to Prince, untainted by exposure to the dross that he’s spent most of the last 15 years churning out to an underwhelmed world. Where did it all go wrong for the purple doyen of bad-assed Funkadelia? Batman, that’s where.

Many people out there love the Tom Jones version of ‘Kiss’. Stop it. I don’t care if it’s through the protective gloves of ironic detachment. Stop it. What could possibly be good about the wire-wool-headed Welsh plasterer smothering this gem with his soulless bellow? Now the orange car alarm has gone and got himself a knighthood. What on earth for? Oversized knicker-fielding? All those ’60s Number Ones he had were rubbish too, unless you’re a pissed-up student rugby player.

Right. Stay tuned for another entry later this afternoon. It’s interactive.