As I stood in front of my parents and their friends, I could feel their eager gazes fixed on me. I noticed the brown bottles in their hands and the smiles on their faces. With my hand on my hip and my arm tucked against my chest, I struck a pose in my tutu. I was ready to shine.
That’s when I belted out:
“That’s when I saw her, ooh I hit a high note on the oh, I saw her
She walked in through the out door, out door
She wore a raspberry beret
The kind you find in a second-hand store
Raspberry beret
And if it was warm she wouldn’t wear much more
Raspberry beret
I think I loooove her.”
The room erupted with cheers and applause as I took a bow, awkwardly attempting what I thought was a curtsy.
“Now do the other one,” my dad encouraged me.
“Maybe you’re just like my mother
She’s never satisfied
Why do we scream at each other
This is what it sounds like
When doves cry.”
Some might find it questionable to encourage a 4-year-old to perform Prince songs at an adult gathering, especially with lyrics that were so suggestive and layered. But honestly, it was a blast! I can confidently say that because I was the one on stage, and what I remember from those moments is not shame, but rather a warm sense of belonging.
Most kids couldn’t sing Prince, but I could—and that made me feel special. I was part of something bigger. Adults listened to Prince, and in those shared laughs and music, we connected. My parents played Prince often enough that I absorbed his music, even at a young age.
I also found myself belting out Aerosmith tunes at parties, like “Love in an Elevator,” blissfully unaware of what the lyrics truly meant. It didn’t matter; I knew Aerosmith, and that connection stuck with me. Now, I have their vinyl and play Toys in the Attic for my kids.
The same was true for David Bowie. When he passed away, I took it upon myself to introduce my sons to his music. We explored tracks like “Starman” and “Space Oddity.” They might not have been instantly captivated, but they danced around and sang fragments of the lyrics, enough for my son to declare him his favorite musician.
I wanted to gift them a piece of culture, something profound and timeless. I did the same with The Beatles, especially through “Yellow Submarine.” My youngest son has a blast singing it, insisting no one else can sing it but him. My older sons even performed it at their ukulele recital—definitely a step up from the boozy parties of my past.
Spontaneous car sing-alongs are a common occurrence in our family. If you ask my 6-year-old, he’ll tell you The Beatles are his favorite band, particularly loving “Yellow Submarine” and “All Together Now.” I chuckle at his innocent take on lyrics like “Black, white, green, red/ Can I take my friend to bed?” He has no clue what it means, but it’s a beautiful gift.
They’re also discovering more Beatles songs, passionately debating the lyrics of “The Continuing Story of Bungalow Bill” and “Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da.” My oldest appreciates that I introduced him to The Beatles since they have such a massive following.
This is why it’s essential to share music with our children. Sure, it’s amusing to see a kid sing “Purple Rain,” but it’s about connecting them to something greater. When Prince passed, I felt a loss that was profound. At least my sons had heard his name and understood his significance, thanks to the music I shared with them. I play them what I love: The Talking Heads, Phish, The Who. Introduce your kids to Ani DiFranco and The Indigo Girls. Share Tom Waits and Tom Petty with them. This way, we connect them to a larger narrative, ushering them into a world of art and culture. That, I believe, embodies what Prince was all about.
Give your kids the gift of Purple Rain.
For more insights on parenting and culture, you can check out our other blog posts, like this one.