Jazz is more than a genre. It’s an American invention that changed the sound of the world. It is freedom set to rhythm, personality shaped into melody, and history expressed through improvisation. Jazz has lived many lives and worn many faces—from the back-alley clubs of New Orleans to the big-city ballrooms of the Swing Era, from the smoky bebop sessions of 52nd Street to the electric thunder of fusion, and finally into the smooth, atmospheric, and hybridized forms we know today.

Telling the history of jazz is like telling the history of the American spirit itself. It is a story of struggle and triumph, sorrow and celebration, innovation and rebellion. It is the story of ordinary people who discovered extraordinary ways to express their humanity. And like jazz musicians themselves, this story moves, shifts, and constantly reinvents itself.

When Prince released Crystal Ball in early 1998, it was more than just another album — it was an event, an unveiling, a deep dive into the vault that had become legend among fans. After years of battles with Warner Bros., Prince was finally free to do whatever he wanted, and this massive four-disc project — three discs of unreleased material and one acoustic companion (The Truth) — was his declaration of independence.

For the first time, listeners were invited inside the vault. The result wasn’t neat or cohesive, but it was thrilling. Crystal Ball is the sound of pure abundance: decades of ideas, experiments, and detours spilling out in every direction. It’s uneven, messy, glorious — and unmistakably Prince.

When Prince released Emancipation on November 19, 1996, the world received more than just another record from one of music’s most prolific and daring artists. This sprawling, three-disc, 36-song album was a declaration, a manifesto, and a love letter all in one. Clocking in at exactly 60 minutes per disc—three hours in total—it was as much about personal liberation as it was about music. To understand Emancipation is to understand Prince at one of his most pivotal crossroads: free from his longtime label contract, newly married, and fully immersed in building a new creative universe.

To grasp the significance of Emancipation, you have to rewind to Prince’s infamous battle with Warner Bros. Records. By the mid-1990s, Prince had grown increasingly frustrated with the label’s control over his music and release schedule. He felt stifled, unable to put out the amount of material he was recording. In protest, he changed his name to an unpronounceable symbol—what fans came to call “the Love Symbol”—and appeared in public with the word “slave” written across his face.

The release of Emancipation marked his first project after finally breaking free from his Warner Bros. contract. The title itself said it all. For Prince, this was not simply an album—it was a personal declaration of independence. Free from restrictions, he could record and release exactly what he wanted, in the format he wanted, without compromise. And that freedom came with ambition: a triple-disc album, meticulously timed, packed with originals and covers, and dedicated to his new wife, Mayte Garcia.

Prince approached Emancipation with a sense of structure and symmetry that reflected his obsession with numbers and design. Each disc contained exactly 12 songs, each clocking in at precisely 60 minutes. This wasn’t by accident—it was deliberate, a reflection of Prince’s meticulous control and vision.

The three-disc format also echoed his desire to overwhelm boundaries. Few mainstream artists attempted such massive releases, and Prince leaned into the idea of excess as artistry. By packaging it as three distinct but connected volumes, he made the listening experience immersive and ritualistic. It wasn’t just an album—it was a journey.

Musically, Emancipation showcased Prince’s ability to fuse styles while also adapting to the mid-1990s soundscape. The album leaned heavily on R&B, pop, and funk, with noticeable use of drum machines and lush synths. Critics often described it as “slick” and “radio-friendly,” but beneath the polished production lay an emotional core that reflected Prince’s state of mind.

He was in love, and it showed. Much of the album was devoted to Mayte Garcia, whom he had married earlier that year. Songs like “Let’s Have a Baby,” “The Holy River,” and “Friend, Lover, Sister, Mother/Wife” were deeply personal and vulnerable, offering a rare glimpse into Prince’s private life. For a man often shrouded in mystique, this openness was striking.

But the album wasn’t just love songs. It touched on spirituality, social commentary, and celebration. Tracks like “Slave” and “Emale” pointed toward his struggles with freedom and gender politics, while “In This Bed I Scream” reached back to his earlier collaborators, including Wendy and Lisa, for reconciliation. Prince was always a musical chameleon, but here he was also autobiographical in a way that felt raw and unprecedented.

For the first time in his career, Prince included multiple covers on a studio album. His renditions of “Betcha by Golly Wow!” (The Stylistics), “La-La (Means I Love You)” (The Delfonics), and “One of Us” (Joan Osborne) surprised fans and critics alike.

By 1996, Prince’s battle with Warner Bros. had reached a boiling point. He had written “Slave” across his cheek, declared that “Prince” was dead, and was releasing music at a furious pace in an attempt to burn through his contract. Just months after The Gold Experience proved he could still create a masterpiece, he dropped Chaos and Disorder, a lean, 39-minute album that felt more like a middle finger than a grand artistic statement.

Prince himself dismissed the project, calling it “originally intended 4 private use only,” and refused to promote it. No tour, no music videos (save for the odd “Dinner with Delores” clip), and only a small push from Warner. Critics at the time wrote it off as a contractual throwaway. But listening closely, Chaos and Disorder has its own charm: a rough, guitar-driven, sarcastic collection that reveals Prince at his rawest.

By the mid-1990s, Prince was in open rebellion. He had changed his name to the unpronounceable Love Symbol, branded himself “The Artist Formerly Known as Prince,” and written “Slave” on his cheek to protest Warner Bros.’ control of his masters. In 1994, he released Come as the “last Prince album,” a dark and brooding project he all but disowned. But the very next year, he unveiled The Gold Experience, the first full album under the Symbol identity.

If Come was the funeral, The Gold Experience was the rebirth. Brimming with funk jams, soaring ballads, political anthems, and rock explosions, it proved that Prince was still operating at the height of his creative powers.

In August 1994, Prince released Come, an album shrouded in tension, ambiguity, and rebellion. By this time, Prince had entered open conflict with Warner Bros. Records, publicly declaring that his birth name was no longer his identity and adopting the unpronounceable Love Symbol instead. He shaved the word “Slave” into his face and staged the “death of Prince” in press images, going so far as to superimpose his portrait onto a tombstone for the album’s cover art. The inscription read:

Prince, 1958–1993. May he rest in peace.

For Prince, Come was not just another release — it was a funeral. He declared it the “last Prince album,” made to fulfill a contractual obligation, even as he poured his true creative energy into the parallel project The Gold Experience. Yet dismissing Come as a throwaway would be a mistake. Beneath the shadow of label politics lies a dark, moody, and daring collection that reflects Prince at a crossroads, balancing erotic obsessions with meditations on mortality.

By the early 1990s, Prince was in the midst of another reinvention. The 1980s had seen him rise from cult funk innovator to global superstar, with Purple Rain (1984) cementing his place in pop history and Sign o’ the Times (1987) proving his artistry was peerless. But by 1990, Prince faced a challenge: how to remain relevant in a shifting musical landscape dominated by hip-hop, New Jack Swing, and emerging pop trends.

His answer came in the form of Diamonds and Pearls (1991), the first studio album credited to Prince and the New Power Generation (NPG). It marked a fresh chapter, introducing a new band, a more polished sound, and a conscious embrace of contemporary R&B and hip-hop. Released on October 1, 1991, the record became one of Prince’s biggest commercial successes of the decade, spawning multiple hit singles and returning him to the top of the charts.

This review examines Diamonds and Pearls in its full context: the background that led to it, a track-by-track look at the songs, and a critical assessment of its place in Prince’s catalog.

By 1990, Prince had done it all — conquered arenas with Purple Rain (1984), delivered a socially conscious masterpiece in Sign o’ the Times (1987), and scored a blockbuster tie-in with Batman (1989). But he wasn’t done pushing boundaries. His next project, Graffiti Bridge, was both a film and an album — meant to serve as a spiritual sequel to Purple Rain.

Released on August 20, 1990, Music from Graffiti Bridge was a sprawling, 17-track set that mixed funk, pop, gospel, and social commentary. While the accompanying film flopped, the album itself is packed with gems — a mix of Prince’s brilliance and his occasional overreach.

This review takes a deep look at the album, song by song, and considers how it fits into Prince’s career and legacy.