June 13, 1988 12:00 PM


On a typical day, it would seem, Prince gets up, looks long and passionately in the mirror and sits down to write 10 or 12 songs. Then he has breakfast. His prolificacy is a marvel. After the release of his powerhouse double album, Sign ‘o’ the Times (not just one of 1987’s best records, but one of the decade’s), he recorded The Black Album last winter. Then at the last minute, no doubt with moral support from Warner Bros., his parent label, he scrapped that reportedly graphic-bordering-on-pornographic project (now available only in pirated versions) and set to work on Lovesexy. Minnesota’s little soul-music genius may be prodigiously productive, but perfect he ain’t. In the past he’s put out some uneven albums, like Around the World in a Day and, to a lesser extent, Parade. But until Lovesexy, he’s never spent an entire album in the Dumpster. Even the ridiculous pinup picture of Prince on the cover is better than the music within. There’s too much autoerotic noodling going on, like the scattered Alphabet St. and the fey Glam Slam. There is virtually no evidence of Prince’s patented fine-boned funk. The only keeper in the bunch is the ominous ballad Anna Stesia. Pass on this turkey. There will no doubt be another, better Prince record coming right behind it. Maybe before lunchtime tomorrow. (Paisley Park)

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