The Not-Pop Jukebox

In considering love songs for my Valentine’s Day post I endeavored to think of something more than the usual sappy, crappy fare most people end up playing for someone on that, arguably the most commercialized of all holidays. Indeed, I tend to think of creepy or generally anti-love songs when I contemplate the songs I want to share with you all for the big V.

But lest you think I can’t appreciate an unusual love song that doesn’t involve death, dismemberment, or an ode to usual body parts I thought I’d share what was a pop song many moons ago. I think Prince has sunk into enough obscurity these days (due to his own efforts to completely alienate his fans) that 7 is eligible for posting here on The NPJ as no longer a pop song. It is, however, the new shortest post title.

And so I offer to you a song from a man so wrapped up in himself that he changed his name to a symbol you couldn’t even say and then made some funky, gunky music that was so good people were willing to play it (and to buy it) in droves even while they mocked him. The trick is that Prince can play and he can write a nasty groove when he’s not too busy trying to sound esoteric and in charge of his own destiny. Methinks he’s trying to compensate for something. And he likes numbers.