How you could strut around the stage, gyrating and thrusting against the constraints of those purple leather pants as if they had no say in the matter was almost as impressive as the show itself. To me you were Prince, not just part of a tribute band playing a small Vancouver club, but an engaging and talented artist with jarring olive eyes and a puffy shirt that would make Seinfeld reach a nasally new octave.
You leaned on my shoulder as we stood in a position befitting the poster of a buddy-cop movie while waiting for a photo to be taken after the show. Just moments before you’d made the crowd erupt in a final crescendo by humping the stage at the climax of your two-hour set. You bemoaned the fact that the club was only open until 1:30am and invited us to Portland the next night where “things don’t stop until 3:00am.” We thought about it, if only to see you push your crotch into the floor one more time.