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Bootsy Collins CRASHED Prince’s Dinner Party — What Happened Next Was LEGENDARY

by Bien Tap Vien•

Bootsy Collins CRASHED Prince’s Dinner Party — What Happened Next Was LEGENDARY

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November 7th, 2009, 7:34 p.m., Paisley Park, Chanhassen, Minnesota. Prince’s legendary estate and recording compound. That evening, Prince was hosting an intimate dinner for 20 carefully selected guests, musicians, producers, and close friends. Black tie, classical music, five-course meal prepared by a Michelin-starred chef.

Everything perfect, everything controlled, everything about to be completely destroyed because at 8:47 p.m., the front gate intercom buzzed and the voice on the other end said four words that made Prince’s security team panic. “Bootsy Collins is here.” But Prince didn’t know that yet. In fact, he had no idea what was about to happen.

The dinner party had been planned for 3 weeks. Prince rarely entertained at Paisley Park. His home was sacred, private, but tonight was special. A celebration for the completion of a collaborative album he’d been producing with several artists in the room. The guest list was exclusive. Sheila E, long-time collaborator, percussionist, Larry Graham, bass legend, Prince’s mentor, Questlove, The Roots drummer, Wendy and Lisa, Revolution bandmates, Maya, Prince’s assistant, plus 15 others, all musicians, all accomplished,

all dressed in formal black tie attire. The dining room at Paisley Park had been transformed. Crystal chandeliers, white tablecloths, silver cutlery, candles everywhere, a string quartet playing softly in the corner. Prince sat at the head of the table wearing a A tailored black tuxedo with a purple bow tie.

He looked like royalty because at Paisley Park, he was. The first course had just been served. Seared scallops with microgreens. Conversation was flowing. Larry Graham was telling a story about James Brown. Sheila E was laughing. Questlove was taking mental notes for a future podcast. Prince smiled satisfied. Everything was going exactly as planned.

Then at 8:47 p.m., the intercom in the dining room crackled. Security guard, nervous voice. Uh, Prince? We have a situation at the front gate. Prince picked up the handset near his seat. What kind of situation? There’s There’s a van here. Says they’re expected. But they’re not on the guest list. Who is it? A pause.

Bootsy Collins and his band. The entire table went silent. Prince blinked. Bootsy? Yes, sir. He says you invited him last month. Says he’s got a surprise for you. Prince set down his fork. Tried to remember. Last month, Los Angeles, late night jam session at a friend’s studio. Bootsy had been there. They’d talked about what? Prince couldn’t remember.

He’d been exhausted. Maybe he said something about dinner? Larry Graham, grinning. Did you invite Bootsy to a black tie dinner? Prince. I might have mentioned something. I don’t remember. Questlove laughing. Oh, this is about to get good. Prince, into the intercom. Let him in. Security.

Uh, sir, you should know he’s dressed unusually. It’s Bootsy. He’s always dressed unusually. Ah, sir, this is beyond unusual. Prince sighed. Just let him in. 3 minutes later, the dining room doors burst open. What walked through those doors was not a man, it was a spectacle. Bootsy Collins, 58 years old, funk legend, bass player for Parliament, Funkadelic, and James Brown, entered wearing a silver sequined jumpsuit, skin-tight, reflective, visible from space, star-shaped sunglasses, solid gold frames, platform boots, 6 inches tall, glittering purple, a cape. Yes, a cape.

Floor-length, rainbow-colored, lined with LED lights that were blinking, his signature star-shaped bass guitar strapped across his chest. Behind him, the rubber band, Bootsy’s seven-piece funk ensemble, all dressed in matching silver jumpsuits, Afro wigs in bright colors, pink, green, yellow, and platform boots.

They were carrying instruments, bass, drums, a portable kit, keyboards, a Moog synthesizer on a rolling stand, three horn players, trumpet, sax, trombone. The string quartet in the corner stopped playing mid-note. Complete silence. 20 people in formal black-tie attire stared at seven people dressed like they’d just landed from planet funk.

Bootsy, arms wide, booming voice, “Prince, baby, we’re here to funkify this joint.” Prince sat frozen at the head of the table. His expression unreadable. Was he angry, amused, horrified? Nobody could tell. Sheila E was covering her mouth, trying not to laugh. Larry Graham was shaking his head, grinning.

Questlove had his phone out, filming. Bootsy strutted into the room, his platform boots making loud clunk clunk sounds on the marble floor. He walked directly to Prince, leaned down, and gave him a massive hug. The cape draped over Prince like a sparkly curtain. “You invited me, baby. You said, ‘Bootsy, come to dinner.

‘ So, here I am.” Prince, quietly. “I said dinner, not a stage invasion.” Bootsy, laughing. “Same thing. You know me, Prince. I don’t do boring dinners. I bring the funk.” He turned to the table, arms spread. “Who’s ready to party?” The guests exchanged nervous glances. Bootsy didn’t wait for an answer. He snapped his fingers.

His band, the Rubber Band, sprang into action like a well-oiled machine. The drummer set up his kit in the corner. The string quartet scattered. The keyboard player plugged his Moog into a wall outlet. The horn section assembled near the fireplace. Within 90 seconds, Paisley Park’s formal dining room had been converted into a funk concert venue.

The guests sat in stunned silence, still holding their forks. Scallops getting cold on their plates. Prince, standing now, trying to regain control. “Bootsy, we’re in the middle of dinner. We have a chef, a schedule, uh Bootsy, putting his star-shaped sunglasses on Prince’s face. “Baby, schedules are for squares.

Tonight, we groove.” He turned to his band. “Hit it.” The Rubber Band launched into a full force funk assault. Bootsy’s bassline, deep, throbbing, impossible to ignore. The drums, syncopated, driving, making the chandeliers shake. The horns, blaring, joyful, overwhelming. The Moog, spacey, psychedelic, filling every corner of the room. It was loud.

It was chaotic. It was glorious. For the first 30 seconds, the dinner guests just sat there, frozen. Then Sheila E stood up, walked to the drum kit, grabbed a pair of sticks, started playing over Bootsy’s drummer, call and response percussion battle. The room erupted. Larry Graham stood, grabbed Bootsy’s bass.

Bootsy handed it to him mid-song, and started slapping out a bassline. Questlove jumped up, grabbed a tambourine from somewhere, and joined the percussion section. Wendy and Lisa ran to a piano in the corner and started adding gospel-style chords. Within 3 minutes, the formal black-tie dinner had transformed into a full-blown jam session.

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