#74: Prince – Controversy (1981)

Throughout the next however many months I’ll be counting down my 100 favorite albums, because why not. I’m up to number seventy-four.

“Am I straight or gay?”
– Prince, “Controversy”

From my earliest memory, I was heterosexual. But it was not until I started sleepaway camp at nine years old that I realized just how heterosexual I was. As straight as a stick of spaghetti before it’s cooked.

Most of the activities we did at sleepaway camp struck me as weird, as they were all-boy activities. I had to play softball with the boys, soccer with the boys, volleyball with the boys, eat with the boys, sleep with the boys.

While the other boys my age were happy to be with other boys, I enjoyed the company of girls. I loved girls. Girls were easier to get along with, they were more interesting to talk to, and they did not place undue emphasis on my ability to throw a ball.

The only place where you would see the boys and girls together was in the camp shows. After viewing the summer’s first production, I knew I had to pursue the theater. Performing awakened something in me. I get to put on a costume and pretend I’m someone I’m not. My giving Oscar-worthy performances in my day-to-day life started there and then! Plus acting in shows was the best way to meet girls, and I loved girls. I might even have a better shot at hooking up with one of the girls if I were someone other than who I was.

When I was twelve, one of my few male friends, Frances, invited me to sleep over at his house. After we put on our pajamas, we got into our sleeping bags on Frances’ floor. Frances said “Let’s play a game. Let’s pretend we’re both locked up in jail, and I’m a homo.” I thought a homo was the same thing as a hobo. I remember Frances pulling my mouth to his and kissing me. With his tongue. Clearly he knew a bit more about Boxcar Willie than I. Then he took my hand and thrust it down the front of his pajama bottoms. I went along with all of this – I was into theater and acting, and I enjoyed games that involved role-playing. I threw myself into my character.

I slept over Frances’ house every chance I got over the next couple of years, just so I could further my skills. We would pretend we were doctor and patient, or husband and wife. I was convinced that all of these games would make me a much better actor. I was sure that similar games were played by some of Hollywood’s biggest stars.

Every year at camp, we put on a musical. Something about the stage, the costumes, and those songs called out to me like a siren to a sailor who’d never seen the ocean but was certain he belonged there. “Glenn,” they whispered, “come here. Sports aren’t for someone like you – someone intelligent, sensitive, and so interested in the opposite sex that you’re too intimidated to ask them out.” The theater beckoned with promises of spotlights and standing ovations, a world where my inability to throw a ball is forgotten once the audience sees my Fosse walk, hears my vibrato, and is awestruck by my mastery of the dramatic pause. Check me out, boys – this is what being a man is. I impress the boys, but more importantly, I impress the girls, which is what I wanted to do. Definitely. Without a doubt. Fosse walks and all. Nothing impresses a girl more than a perfectly-executed Fosse walk. What girl wouldn’t swoon over a guy who could belt out “Aquarius” or “Beauty School Dropout” or “I Feel Pretty” while accomplishing a flawless pivot turn? All that time spent rehearsing with the female cast members was sure to spark some romance. Any day now.

Through the next nine summers at camp, my love for girls increased, as did my love for musical theater. One summer at camp, I met Steven Rabinowitz, who also loved musical theater, and was as actively heterosexual as I was. Steven had a girlfriend back home. One day during our rest hour after lunch, Steven told me what he and his girlfriend did when they made out, which was more than just kissing and touching each other. My response was something like “Ewww. Gross,” which compelled Steven to lead me to the back of the bunk, pull me into the closet, and show me how wrong I was. He proved his case. Over the course of the summer, Steven showed me several more things that hopefully, one day, I could convince a girl to do to me. None of the other boys in our bunk knew what we were doing during out “rest” hour, which was good – they wouldn’t understand, as they were not into girls as Steven and I were.

Just before my last summer at sleepaway camp, while shopping with my mom for camp clothes, we stumbled upon a rack of bathing suits made by a company called Speedo. I grabbed a pair to try on, unaware of the transformative effect it would have on my sexuality.

It took me an eternity to emerge from the dressing room, convinced I hadn’t pulled them up all the way. Turns out, I had – they were just designed to save on excess fabric. The Speedo made me feel, oh, I don’t know – sexy, I guess. No, more than sexy. Invincible, the way a superhero feels when donning their cape, though in reverse.

The Speedos were flattering to my legs, and elsewhere. While I was mortified at the thought of my mother seeing me in this state of undress, I couldn’t wait for all the girls at camp to feast their eyes on my confidence. In my mind, I was a teenage Adonis, ready to strut my stuff and leave a trail of swooning females in my wake.

It turns out the only person at camp who noticed me in my Speedos was Mitch, a college student who worked in the drama department and who wore Speedos during afternoon swim time. Man, if I look even half as good in my Speedos as Mitch does in his I’ll be drowning in girls.

“If you ever need someone to talk to, you can come to me. I understand,” Mitch said to me with a wink.

“Um, okay.” What on earth was that about? Am I now part of a secret society of guys who wear Speedos?

I was such a horny heterosexual teenager. My bedroom was plastered with posters of the girls I loved. Diana Ross, Bette Midler, Joan Collins, Joan Rivers, Olivia Newton-John, Donna Summer, Miss Piggy. Girls, girls, girls. Olivia was my favorite. I had a MAJOR crush on her. I was in her fan club. I even invited her to my bar mitzvah. On her invitation I wrote “They named a country after you called Bolivia. The ‘b’ is for beautiful.”

She didn’t come.

Shortly after, Olivia married Matt Lattanzi, a muscular dancer eleven years younger than she. By chance at the newsstand I noticed that Matt was mentioned in Playgirl, a women’s magazine. It was an article about up-and-coming actors. There was a photo of him leaning against a tree in jeans, no shirt. Nice looking guy. Good for you, Olivia. Good for you! Out of my devotion to my favorite female singer, I had to buy a copy of this issue. Sure, since I had the magazine, I did browse through it a handful of times. There were some interesting articles that gave me insight into how females think (“Mate Swapping: It’s Not For Everyone – But Is It For You?”). Also, I thought the guys were nice-looking, objectively speaking – I can see why girls would like this magazine.

One day I asked Mitch, the drama counselor who noticed my bathing suit, to go into town and buy me a porno magazine (he was of age, I was not). And not Playboy or one of those magazines that just showed women lying around naked. I wanted to see the real hardcore stuff. I wanted to see men and women together, the way nature intended, with the men showing the women what they’ve got and what it’s for. I knew that other guys may not want to see men in their porn, but not me. I was not intimidated by their presence. I was comfortable with my heterosexuality, and had no problem seeing guys naked and aroused.

At a family circle thrown by my parents toward the end of my high school years, a relative asked me where I planned on going to college. When I told him Brandeis, he said “There are a lot of gays there.” “Oh, whatever,” was my reply. “What will you major in?” “Theater.” Though he did not say another word, I knew what his look meant. “You’re a gay.” I knew I wasn’t. I had never messed around with other boys, except for France and Steven, but they didn’t count. I knew that I absolutely, definitely was not a gay.

But what if I was? There were many times in gym class when I would find myself staring at Michael Gray’s incredibly well-chiseled body – such a muscular chest, and big arms, and washboard abs.

As if to provide an answer to my questioning, I came across an article in People magazine about how many skinny boys think they are homosexual because they look at non-skinny boys’ bodies. What a relief! I’m not gay – I’m skinny! That explains why I would look at Michael Gray’s body in the locker room and think about him the rest of the day, even when I went to bed at night. I found myself daydreaming about running my hands across his chest and biceps, which I now knew was a purely heterosexual impulse. However, out of concern for my safety, I could not tell him that, as there was a good chance he did not read People magazine.

In twelfth grade I heard my friend Laura and her friend Jackie raving about a book called Buns, which consisted entirely of photographs of men’s butts. I couldn’t understand how an entire book with photos of men’s butts could hold one’s attention; however, I decided that if that is what girls are interested in, I owe it to myself to check out this book. I went to the Barnes & Noble in the Paramus Park Mall, and found the book in the Photography section. I browsed through it, but I wasn’t able to give the book a fair assessment. After all, I was in a store in a popular mall, where anyone might notice me. Seeing me looking through a book called Buns, they might not realize I’m just being skinny. I knew I had to study each page in more detail, so I decided to buy the book. I also bought another Photography book called Up Front, which had close-ups of men’s crotches. If the cashier asked, I would tell her I’m into photography. Over the course of the next year I spent over $500 on books on photography.

Though I continued my interest in portrait photography, developing an aesthetic criteria regarding lighting and angles and how to best showcase a man’s assets, music remained my main passion. It was in 1981 that I began my weekly tradition of maintaining a list of my favorite current songs. During my freshman year of college, on November 14, 1981 to be exact, “Controversy” by Prince entered Glenn’s Ten, landing between Diana Ross’s “Why Do Fools Fall in Love” and Olivia Newton-John’s “Physical,” with The J. Geils Band’s “Centerfold” holding the #1 spot that week. Beautiful women Diana and Livvy and a song about a centerfold – the only way I could be straighter would be if I spent more time at the gym and had a girlfriend.

I was aware of Prince before then. I knew his 1980 hit song “I Wanna Be Your Lover.” I knew that he tried to crossbreed his cat and dog and that his favorite food was Bubble Yum bubblegum, according to what VJ, my friend and 33.3% of my high school’s Black population, read in Right On magazine. Starting in the fall of 1980, each time I visited the Harmony Hut in the Paramus Park Mall, I considered buying Prince’s then-new album Dirty Mind. Despite never hearing any song from it (“I Wanna Be Your Lover” was on his prior album), the album’s striking cover photo—featuring Prince wearing only a jacket, a kerchief, and black bikini underwear—always caught my attention. I appreciated the masterful use of minimalist composition and provocative imagery, employing high-contrast lighting to accentuate the artist’s silhouette and physique and the cut of his undergarment. I didn’t end up buying the album until a year later, after the release of Controversy. If I were to run into someone I know at the mall while holding a book of photographs called Man Bulges and an album called Dirty Mind with a bikini-clad male singer on the cover and NO HIT SONGS they would totally get the wrong impression. Heck, I would get the wrong impression if I didn’t know myself better.

The song “Controversy” opens with Prince singing “I just can’t believe all the things people say / Am I black or white, am I straight or gay?” “Am I straight or gay?” He’s asking us? I’m puzzled. How could someone not know if they are straight or gay? In regards to myself, the answer was crystal clear, but I hadn’t yet realized the process of self-discovery that others might face.

I snagged the 45 first, then the album. The LP version of “Controversy” stretched on for an extra three and a half minutes. When it comes to dance tracks, I like ’em long. I’ve always preferred a 12-inch to a 7-inch. Feel free to call that foreshadowing.

Prince captivated me, though I couldn’t quite put my finger on why. Maybe it was because I avoided drawing attention to myself, yet here was this man, boldly rocking eyeliner and high heels, defying gender norms without a care for what anyone thought. I’d never seen someone challenge societal expectations so openly and confidently.

(For my younger readers, this was pre-Boy George. Who’s Boy George, you ask? He was the flamboyant androgynous lead singer of Culture Club. What’s Culture Club? A massively successful pop group. Look, there are plenty of books you can read about this. What’s a book? A book is a bunch of paper containing tons of words, glued together so…you know what? Just Google it! Now where was I? Oh, yes.)

Was shy, awkward me in awe of Prince’s unapologetic self-expression? As someone who always felt “different,” did I find inspiration in his celebration of uniqueness? Perhaps Prince showed that it was possible to be true to oneself and still be accepted – a revelation for a college student rejected for not being interested in sports, abstaining from the alcohol and the marijuana, and preferring pop and dance music over much so-called classic rock.

While his presentation intrigued me, it was the music that drew me in. On the album version of the song “Controversy,” Prince recites “People call me rude / I wish we all were nude / I wish there was no black and white / I wish there were no rules.” Was there an anarchist living inside me who was drawn to the idea of “no rules?” Did these lyrics awaken a deep, unacknowledged desire to be free from societal expectations and labels? Did the boldness of these words make me feel both uncomfortable (due to internalized norms) and excited (for reasons I couldn’t explain)? Did I feel liberated hearing someone express these thoughts openly? Did I admire Prince’s boldness and freedom of expression, hoping to one day feel as comfortable in my own skin? Did the lyrics instill hope for a world where everyone could be fully accepted?

Then there’s “Do Me, Baby.” Why did I find this song so… hot? Prince seducing a woman with such directness – did I wish I could be like him? On further listens I noticed that Prince never specifies the partner’s gender. And yet I still found it alluring. Not even my future wife Olivia N-J suggesting we get physical had that effect on me. I concluded that it was his falsetto. Made him sound like a girl. That must be it.

The song “Sexuality” preached a message of sexual liberation as a path to freedom and enlightenment, railing against “a bunch of double drags who teach their kids that love is bad.” Embrace your sexuality without shame or restriction, Prince advised. That was easy enough for some of us, but what of those in society who were maligned for who they love, the homosexuals, for instance? I’m with Prince – let the homosexuals love who they love. That has nothing to do with me, of course. Live and let live, right?

The album ends with the song “Jack U Off,” a provocative meditation on carnal desire, exploring the primal aspects of human connection, pleasure, and the physical manifestation of libidinal energy – ah, screw that. It’s Prince offering to jack u off, specifying the u is a woman. U r so confusing to me, Prince.

Sandwiched between the revolutionary Dirty Mind and the widely successful 1999, Controversy is the crucial link that transformed Prince from a brash newcomer into a musical legend. It signifies a notable progression in his creativity, fusing rock, funk, disco, soul, and pop, and anticipating the boundary-pushing sound that would define his career. This album marks when Prince began to expand his lyrical horizons beyond love and sex, delving into broader themes such as politics (“Ronnie Talk To Russia”) and morality and society’s lack thereof (“Annie Christian”). It should be more celebrated than it usually is. It’s a crucial part of Prince’s legacy and deserves reconsideration and honor.

The answer to many of my questions came later in the ’80s, when after some, ahem, “experimentation” with both genders (except women) and indulging my interest in photography via magazines with names like Blueboy, Honcho and Inches, I had an epiphany: turns out one can be skinny AND gay. Apparently, People magazine wasn’t the oracle of sexual identity I’d thought it was. My subscription to Inches proved far more enlightening. I wish I had come to that realization sooner. If only there were some clues.

On the last weekend in June 1992 I was manning a booth at New York City’s Gay Pride Festival. Coincidentally, working at the neighboring booth was someone I hadn’t seen or spoken with in 15 years – Steven Rabinowitz. In the ensuing years he also must have been listening to Prince albums such as Controversy and reading psychological journals like Inches. I didn’t say hello, though I privately reminisced about our time at summer camp and how to this day, no girl has done to me what Steven Rabinowitz did to me when we were both in the closet.