At some point, somewhere around the fifteenth page of set-lists from the O2 residency, you realise Matt Thorne isn’t writing a biography about Prince so much as trying to live and breathe deep inside the Purple One's unwieldy discography.
Originally published in 2012 and then expanded in a 2024 edition that adds almost a hundred pages on the final years and posthumous releases, Prince is as close as anyone has come to a total map of the terrain. It’s compelling and – to put it mildly – exhaustive: more than 550 pages in the original run, 650-ish now, built from seven years of research, trawls through bootlegs and fan lore, and interviews with ex-Revolution members such as Wendy & Lisa and other long-time collaborators.
Crucially, Thorne’s subject is less “Prince Rogers Nelson, the man” than Prince’s work. Make no mistake about it, this is a biography of the music. Thorne sets himself the slightly insane task of dealing with every song – released, unreleased, given away, hidden in the Vault – across 35+ years. Albums, B-sides, side projects, protégé records, live one-offs: all are scrutinised for clues to the evolving project. If you’ve ever found yourself wondering whether anyone has really listened closely to, say, The Rainbow Children or the third Madhouse record, here is your answer.
The method is broadly chronological but happily digressive. Chapters are organised around phases – the creation of the Minneapolis sound, the Purple Rain breakthrough, the Sign “O” the Times sprawl, the Glam Slam / NPG era, the Jehovah’s Witness years – but within those, Thorne zigzags between studio stories, song-by-song breakdowns and close readings of key live shows. His fandom is obvious: he went to 19 of the 21 O2 shows in 2007 and almost all the aftershows, and devotes nearly 30 pages to reviewing them, down to the last curveball cover and sax solo.
That kind of completist zeal is both the book’s superpower and its potential pitfall. The Guardian memorably called it a “geeks’ guide” whose footnote-packed thoroughness can be “exhausting,” and there are moments where you may feel you’ve inadvertently enrolled on a semester-long module in Paisley Park Studies. The later years in particular – internet experiments, Hit n Run releases, one-off tours – get almost as much forensic attention as the imperial 80s, which some readers will love and others may find a touch unbalanced.
But if you’re even mildly Prince-obsessed, the sheer density of it becomes weirdly addictive. Thorne isn’t just cataloguing; he’s arguing. He’s refreshingly willing to call out weak tracks or half-baked concepts, and to push back against fan orthodoxy when a maligned record (Batman, Come, Chaos and Disorder) deserves rescuing from the bin. Conversely, he’s clear-eyed about the decline in quality control once Prince broke with Warner and began flooding the market with albums, websites, club-only CDs and download-only curios. The completism gives him the right to say, credibly, “No, you really don’t need all of this.”
Where the book is strongest is in tracing patterns across the catalogue: lyrical fixations (apocalypse, religious conversion, sex as sacrament), musical tics, recurring character types, the way the same melodic fragment resurfaces years later in a different context. He’s very good on the tension between Prince’s need for absolute control – over publishing, image, band, technology – and his equally strong need for collaborative spark. The revolving door of protégés and band members becomes a running theme: muses, lovers, foils, sometimes all three at once, each briefly given centre stage then folded back into the purple mythos.
The interviews with insiders are judiciously used. Wendy & Lisa, members of the Revolution, studio players and business associates all contribute fragments that help explain how the records got made: who really wrote what, how certain arrangements came together, how the Vault filled up with 60-piece orchestral sessions no one ever heard. Thorne is candid about the limits of access – Prince himself did not participate, and some witnesses remain cagey – but he still manages to shed light on working practices that have often been obscured by myth.
What you don’t get, much, is psychological excavation. In the end, as one reviewer wrote, “the endlessly talented and frustrating man himself remains as unknowable as ever.” Thorne sketches the key biographical beats – troubled childhood, early hustling, fraught romantic life, religious turn, business battles – but rarely lingers on them. If your ideal Prince book is the full warts-and-all personal life, this isn’t it. He’s more comfortable asking what a track means in the context of the catalogue than what a decision meant in the context of Prince’s inner world.
So, what have you come here for? There’s an argument that Prince, who fiercely guarded his privacy and constantly tried to redirect attention back to the work, is best approached through his songs. Indeed, Thorne seems to take that as a working principle. So you come away with a vivid sense of an artistic trajectory – the unbelievable run from Dirty Mind through Lovesexy; the long, messy war with the industry; the late-period experiments with distribution and faith – even if the core personality at the centre of it all remains partly in shadow.
The newly expanded 2024 edition subtly shifts the balance. Those extra pages on 2012–2016 and the posthumous releases take in Art Official Age, the Hit n Run albums, the Piano & a Microphone shows and the chaotic way the estate has handled the Vault. It makes the book feel more like a complete arc rather than a study that stops just as its subject enters his final, stripped-back phase.
Is it definitive? In terms of the music, probably yes – or as close as anyone is likely to get without a key to the Vault and several extra lifetimes. It can be a grind in places, as even sympathetic reviewers admit, but it’s also one of those rare critical studies that can send you scrambling back to the records with fresh ears. A throwaway B-side, a half-remembered live jam, an unloved late-period album: in Thorne’s telling, all of them have a place in the larger design.
In the end, this isn’t the book that explains Prince once and for all. It’s the book that takes his recorded output seriously enough to meet it on its own, obsessive terms. For a figure who spent a career insisting that everything you really needed to know was “in the music,” that feels like a strangely appropriate kind of respect – and a very compelling way to get lost in the purple maze all over again. And really, that is what it is, a maze, filled with this extraordinary volume of music, well before he could use AI to make this quicker for him, as many will doubtless try to do before too long.