Wrestling is this magnificent soap opera that’s all catchphrases and stupid jokes and insults and backflips and literal fireworks. It forces you to pick favorites, where you just point at someone and say “I like that one” because they’re funny, they have a ridiculous entrance, or they’re into the same kind of music as you are. Music plays a big role in wrestling—many of the best in the WWE build their characters on the aesthetics of music. CM Punk invoked the politics of straight edge. Sasha Banks wears shutter shades and calls herself the Boss. Sami Zayn’s whole schtick is “a great wrestler who enjoys ska.” But all of these people are something else, too—well-rounded personas with passion, motivation, and mic skills. Music fanaticism is right at the surface, but it’s decidedly second fiddle to strong, nuanced storytelling.

Shinsuke Nakamura is a perfect example of this. He’s the champion of WWE’s NXT—the company’s “minor leagues,” where international and developing talent get the chance to show what they’ve got before getting a shot at the majors. If you don’t watch wrestling, all you need to know is that Nakamura is pretty evidently the G.O.A.T. He’s this slinky Japanese megastar with a side-shave, who oozes confidence while throwing elbows and knees in red leather pants. He’s called “the King of Strong Style,” and he’s insanely fun to watch. The guy takes pop cultural megastar influences—he’s cited Freddie Mercury and Michael Jackson as heroes—and funnels them into this enigmatic but goofy badass of a character. He’s the sort of dude who looks into the camera knowingly, like Jim Halpert or some shit, and then knees the other guy in the face. It’s amazing.

In this elaborate world of pyro and ladder matches and finishing moves, there are also half-formed, disposable characters—people who don’t get much time on the microphone, and when they do, their words are boilerplate: “I’m tired of hearing you talk. How about we fight right now?” Their entire character is a job description, a regional stereotype, or worse, a person who already exists in the real world. These people are, at times, infuriating to watch.

Case in point: On October 19, Nakamura was confronted by another wrestler who modeled himself after a music legend, but Patrick Clark’s character isn’t just inspired by Prince—his character is, pretty much, Prince. (And who can really *be *Prince besides Prince?) Clark walked out to faux-’80s synthesizer, his chest exposed through an open blouse. “NXT universe,” he began, “we are gathered here today to get to this thing called NXT TakeOver: Toronto.” As if the guy hadn’t telegraphed his role as Fake Wrestling Prince hard enough, he sealed the deal with a groan-worthy rework of the “Let’s Go Crazy” monologue. The crowd hated this, and their boos were loud enough to ensure that this character will probably return; in the wrestling business, any loud reaction—positive or negative—is usually met with “OK, this is working.” He called himself “your velveteen dream—the Patrick Clark experience,” and was swiftly knocked out.

In short, this guy decided to pay homage to a recently deceased icon by doing a bad impression. In the best case scenario, he eventually manages to make this funny. Worst case: He uses the memory of Prince to exacerbate a wrestling stereotype where androgynous or foppish characters are derided by audiences and positioned as the easily collapsible foil to bulky, hulking “hero” types.