Memory Is a Beautiful Lie: On Prince, the Midwest, and 1999

Being from the Midwest, Prince holds a special kind of weight.

It’s not just admiration. It’s proximity.

Growing up in the Quad Cities, we weren’t Minneapolis, but we were close enough to feel like distant relatives of the revolution. Close enough to claim some of the Minneapolis Sound as our own.

He was our alien. Our genius. Our mirrorball Messiah who somehow made it okay to be soft and sharp, Black and weird, holy and filthy—all in the same breath.

And, he came here.

 Prince and The Time came to Palmer Auditorium in Davenport, Iowa—not an arena, not a sold-out stadium tour stop, but a modest venue tucked into the quiet edges of the Midwest.

And still, it felt monumental.

It didn’t matter that we weren’t in Minneapolis.

That moment burned itself into the DNA of our town—our little corner of Iowa suddenly touched by something electric, something eternal.

Prince, in all his velvet and voltage, bringing The Time with him—funk royalty stepping onto our humble stage. That moment?

It burned itself into the DNA of our town, our little corner of nowhere suddenly touched by something eternal.

But for most people, Prince begins and ends with Purple Rain.

The movie. The myth. The leather and lace. The lake.

And don’t get me wrong—Purple Rain is iconic.

But for me, the album that carved itself into my ribs, which made me feel like I belonged to something larger than cornfields and strip malls, was 1999.

So when I saw 1999 on the list—the so-called 100 Greatest Albums—I felt something like pride.

That little inward nod.

Of course, it’s on there.

But then I listened again.

And it’s strange how time plays tricks on us.

I remember it being better.

I remember it feeling bigger.

I found myself hurting as the songs played—not because the album was bad, but because it wasn’t what I remembered.

The synths sounded thinner.

The hooks felt looped too long.

And my heart, God help me, broke a little.

Because this album was supposed to be immaculate.

It was the soundtrack of preteen confusion, teenage discovery, and those first awkward dances at basement parties and school gyms.

It was rebellion wrapped in lace, poetry bathed in funk.

And now?

Now, it felt like a memory I didn’t ask to revisit.

But then International Lover came on.

And there it was.

That swagger wrapped in silk, that ridiculous, beautiful blend of seduction and performance.

No one else could have done that song and made you believe every absurd, brilliant line.

It holds even now—after all these years, after all the losses and gains, after all the changes in the man, the music, and the world.

It reminded me that 1999 was never supposed to be perfect.

It was meant to be raw. Daring. Loud. Unapologetic.

Prince didn’t just make music.

He made permission.

Permission to feel too much, love too loudly and blur the lines between sacred and profane.

So maybe the heartbreak I felt listening to again wasn’t about the album.

Maybe it was about me.

About who I was when I first heard it.

About the places I can’t return to, the people who are no longer here, the dreams that bent but didn’t break.

Because that’s what 1999 is now—

It is not just a record but a memorial to a sound.

To a moment.

To a boy from the Midwest who believed that a god lived just a few hours north of him in a purple house filled with mirrors and drum machines.

That may be why it still deserves to be on the list.

Not because every song holds up.

But because the feeling does.

Memory is a beautiful lie.

But sometimes, the music brings it close enough to touch.

By Kyle Hayes

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