I didn’t arrive in West Yorkshire with the hairstyle I had fantasized about. I have a reasonably close relationship with my hairdresser, but bringing in a photo of a French footballer for my last appointment was already quite a leap. The idea of myself casually asking for the faintest of blonde highlights and then quickly clarifying that I had been inspired by fashionable European men didn’t seem genuine, and I ultimately decided that I wouldn’t risk the possibility of someone thinking I was a closet homophobe.

After a long journey from the western United States I arrived at my hotel in downtown Leeds mid-day, exhausted but willing to exert myself if it meant absorbing everything I could in the first 1/2 of my 2 1/2 day stay. What I had pledged would be a short nap ended up being a 12 hour slumber, and I spent my first waking hours in this exotic locale flipping between the interchangeable early morning news programs not unlike the ones I’ve seen in the states.

I ate my breakfast in the hotel’s restaurant buffet at a table by myself, albeit surrounded by other solitary men, then set out to find the city’s famous football stadium. After 90 minutes I was wandering the outskirts of the city, a land of luxury car dealerships and Burger Kings, my isolation the result of a dead cell phone and a horrible sense of direction. My feet spent, I resigned myself to cracking the local bus system and somehow found my way back to the hotel.

Later that day I walked to the nearby mall in pursuit of a fashionable purple shirt, but couldn’t find anything satisfactory and left empty-handed. Within a block I encountered a shop for piercings and tattoos. Momentarily channeling the audacity from the hero of this story, I walked towards the shop with the intent of adorning my left ear with a purple hoop earring, only to make eye contact with the attractive employee behind the store window just steps from the entrance. I re-directed my paces, found the UK’s version of a convenience store and stocked up on wine, vodka and various nuts, using the self check-out of course. I spent the night wallowing in self-pity while also resenting the sheer potential of my social anxiety. I realized it had the ability to paralyze me at the drop of a hat.

I set the bar low on my final day, the day of the concert. “Go to the renowned Moroccan restaurant that you had read about. Get it take-out. Leave.” I couldn’t do it. The crowds around the establishment were too frenetic, the beads of sweat on the workers too prominent. I bought more wine on the way back to the hotel.

In the hours before the concert I regretted everything about the trip. I felt like a dunce to have gone alone, knowing my own emotional limitations. I began to doubt whether Prince would even show up. Why would someone of his stature come to perform for a crowd in this far-off part of the country? Why would he perform for a crowd that included *me*?

After drinking a sizeable amount of wine(at least my lips were purple) I set out for the local arena in the pissing rain. My heart fluttered at the sight of a 40-something woman in knee-high purple and white striped socks. Inside the arena I awkwardly double-fisted two pints of over-priced beer in a dark corner of the lobby. I then panicked, realizing that such an amount of liquid would have to depart my body in some manner. It did, ultimately, via perspiration.

He didn’t do “Private Joy”. Or “Head”. In fact he didn’t do anything from “Dirty Mind”. He didn’t do “Erotic City” or “Do Me, Baby”, and the rumours of him doing some Led Zeppelin covers considering the location were ultimately unfounded. It didn’t matter, not even a lick.

He did 55 minutes. Left. Returned. Did 50 minutes. Left. Returned. Did another 35. He came out alone on keys and did “How Come U Don’t Call Me Anymore”. His new version of “Kiss” was so spine-tinglingly funky that in the weeks following I found myself blasting the original radio version but closing my eyes and recalling the version he had done that night. When he did “Nothing Compares 2 U” I made a point of looking around the surrounding audience to see if any 30-40 somethings were drenched in emotion in the way I assumed they would be.

The last part of my trip was spent camped out overnight in the Sea-Tac international terminal for 6 hours, interrupted only by a wandering industrial vacuum and, bewilderingly and insultingly, Allen Stone reminding me to not leave my bag unattended.

None of the downfalls of this trip ever come up in conversation with anyone I know. The money I spent? I would have spent triple if I knew in advance what an empathetic individual Prince is. He knows who he is and yet he still feels compelled to give back. He performs because he knows he’s arguably earth’s greatest living musician, but also recognizes just how satisfying it can be to personally touch so many people in such a short amount of time.

He’ll always play, until he dies. He can’t *not*. But for now, we should be grateful that when he does perform, he’s doing it for us.