The place was a pop party; the subject was Prince

By GINA VIVINETTO Times Pop Music Critic

© St. Petersburg Times, published December 17, 1999

I got the call. I was plenty surprised. I figured I would spend this Y2K New Year's like all the rest: at my desk, with the Underwood in front of me, a shot of whiskey and a pack of Luckys, tapping out some hack piece for two dimes.

Instead, I picked up the phone to hear a familiar voice. A dame, from long ago.

"Jack. Jack," she says. I heard the desperation. But then, Gina always was a panicky broad.

"Jack, I need your help. I'm in an awful jam." Gina was hosting a big hoity toity affair for New Year's. Invited all her fluffy rock star friends. Problem was, one, the guest of honor, a guy called Prince, turned up missing. It was getting late, after 10. This Prince fella promised to ring in 2000. Prince was gonna sing some song Gina said I oughtta know.

I calmed her down. Got my hat, reached for my .38, checked the barrel. These rock star types -- you never know. I checked my tie. My suit was crumpled. You could tell I slept in it. It had been a while since my last shave. But, if memory served, that's the way Gina liked me.

10:30 p.m. Gina greets me with a drink. I refuse. "Darling," she says, "Thanks for coming. Unfortunately, all I can tell you is that everyone here has a motive."

I ask why. "Well, for one thing," Gina says, "everyone's really sick of that song."

I ask her to hum the tune. Gina sashays, sings: Two thousand zero zero, party over, oops, out of time, puts her hands by her eyes and head, acting out the lyrics. She looks like a damn fool. I stop her.

"Show me around," I say. "Tell me who's who. And, let me say again, Doll, how a class act like you shouldn't be gallivanting with these types."

"You know me, Jack," Gina says. "I always liked danger."

10:45 p.m. I'm introduced to a guy called Cobain. "Kurt," he says, offering his hand. His skin is cold, clammy. He's with a dame called Courtney. I don't like the looks of them. I make small talk about music, the weather in Seattle. Then, I dig in, "Say, happen to know Prince?"

The dame explains this Prince character once changed his name to a symbol. She draws it for me on a cocktail napkin. Nobody calls him Prince anymore, she says. Nobody knows what to call him. Then, Cobain gets all upset. Says he feels interrogated. I give him a look. He's a whiny sort, too slight to hurt a fly. But I hear this Prince fella is tiny, too.

"Look, Mister," Cobain says, "I don't need any more trouble."

10:50 p.m. Cole Porter is the first one I recognize. Finally, a guy with class. I give Ol' Cole a nod as he plays the piano. Then I catch a glimpse of Duke Ellington. He sidles up beside Porter. The two do a medley. I'm enjoying myself, wishing for a gimlet, but there's work to do.

I pick at platters on the buffet table. I meet another couple, even battier than the last. He's John. She's Yoko. It's clear who wears the pants. Yoko hands me a card that says, "Breathe." Tells me to start 2000 positively. John and Yoko introduce me to a contemporary composer called Cage. Another nut. I ask him about Prince. He laughs, jokes that he pleads the fifth. Then, Cage remains silent for exactly four minutes and thirty-three seconds. Yoko and John bust a gut, laughing. "Get it?" Yoko asks. I don't. Yoko says that's 4'33", John Cage's most famous composition. A work of silence.

That's when I start to get a hunch.

11 p.m. I ask Gina what name she calls Prince when she needs to talk to him. Gina says she doesn't say any name; she just waves at him. I ask how she'd introduce him tonight, if he turns up. Gina scrunches up her nose. "Good question," she says.

"Did you have an R.S.V.P. on the invites?" I ask.

Yes, she says, of course.

11:15 p.m. Some pimply faced British kid named Vicious has sidled up to Elvis Presley and Frank Sinatra. The kid's name is Sid. He's shifty. I've done a little background on this one. Sid has been in trouble before. No small stuff, a homicide. Girlfriend in New York.

Vicious is saying his version of My Way is better than both Sinatra's and Presley's combined.

Sinatra puts on the tough. "The King and I," he says, "can sing circles around your pimply, punk a-." Old Blue Eyes has downed a few, but he's still sharp. "And if that twerp Prince doesn't show up," Sinatra says, "I'm singing that damn fool song."

Presley looks groggy. He's got some kind of Kung Fu get-up on. He's chatting with Aretha Franklin about Southern food.

I find Gina by the bar, stirring a martini. "Pretty swanky party," I say.

"Oh, darling," Gina says, "Get me out of this awful spot. I'll be the laughing stock of Tampa Bay if Prince doesn't show up."

"That's just it," I say. "Maybe Prince won't show up." Then, I give her a look. "But someone else might."

11:25 p.m. Stevie Wonder notices I'm uptight. He says everything will be all right, I shouldn't worry about a thing. Next I talk to Jerry Lee Lewis, the Killer. He says he has been minding his own business all night, didn't even notice Prince was missing. Lewis sits at the piano with Porter and Ellington. Until Little Richard scoots them all off the bench.

11:30 p.m. Miles Davis won't talk to me. He's in a mood.

11:45 p.m. I chat with the Velvet Underground, but all I get is a lot of white noise. Brian Wilson, as usual, isn't making sense. I overhear Johnny Cash talking about an incident in Reno.

11:58 p.m. I ask Gina again about the R.S.V.P. Has she had any funny phone calls? Gina's eyes get wide. "How did you know? Someone kept calling and saying nothing," she says. "He'd say hello. I'd ask who it was. Then nothing. Silence." Then Gina grabs my arm, like dames do. "Jack, it was terrifying. One call after another. I kept asking who's there and ....

"Doll," I say."I got a hunch this Prince fella has been calling you all day. I think he has been trying to R.S.V.P that he'd be late tonight.

Then there was a lot of commotion at the door. I ran to the window, pulled the curtain aside and saw a big purple jalopy. A tiny little guy with a guitar was walking to the door.

In seconds he was onstage. Then, the music started, all synthesizers and disco drums. Why, that Prince fella looked no bigger than his guitar. But, boy, can the kid play. Then he starts doing all those crazy hand signals by his eyes, singing, Two thousand zero zero zero. Just in the nick of time.

Gina grabs my arm. "Oh, Jack." she says. "How can I thank you?"

I shrug, all sentimental. "That's what old friends are for, doll."

Gina nuzzles close to my ear, singing, Should auld acquaintance be forgot.

"You know," I say, pulling her close. "I always did like the sound of that."