Purple Reign, Glasgow

There are gigs, and then there are nights that seem to bend reality around them.

Long before the Artist Formerly Known As Prince stepped onto a Glasgow stage, the city was already buzzing with rumour, speculation and the kind of anticipation usually reserved for major sporting finals or royal visits. This wasn’t just another tour date. This was Prince. A performer whose reputation had transcended music and entered mythology.

For me, the evening began unusually.

At the time, I was Brand Manager for Wet Wet Wet, working closely with the band’s management team. Elliot Davies, Wet Wet Wet’s manager, was among those involved in organising the event, which unexpectedly placed me close to the heart of the operation. My role was to create the marketing assets supporting the show, helping shape the public face of an occasion that would soon capture the attention of music fans across Scotland.

But there was another layer to the story.

Alongside my design career, I was also a performing songwriter signed to Warner Bros. Music. Music wasn’t simply something I marketed or admired; it was something I lived.

And Prince?

Prince wasn’t merely another artist on the soundtrack of my life. He was one of my musical heroes.

So, on one extraordinary evening, three worlds collided.

The designer in me was fascinated by how a cultural event of this scale was assembled.

The brand manager in me was watching months of planning come to life.

And the songwriter in me was about to find himself standing a few feet away from one of the greatest musical talents of his generation.

Before the crowds arrived, I found myself walking through the venue with an all-access pass around my neck. Empty corridors. Silent dressing rooms. Crew members moving with purpose. Equipment waiting patiently for darkness to fall.

There was an unmistakable sense of calm.

Not the absence of activity, but the focused composure that exists before something significant happens.

Beyond the walls,  fans were making their way towards the venue, unaware that just a few metres away the machinery of a legendary performance was quietly preparing itself.

In time, the lights went down.

The reaction from the crowd wasn’t applause.

It was detonation.

A roar surged through the building, rolling from the back of the hall to the front like a physical force.

And then there he was.

Small in stature perhaps, but somehow larger than the room itself.

Prince didn’t simply command the stage; he seemed to reshape it. Every movement carried intent. Every guitar line landed with precision. Every glance, pause and gesture drew a response from an audience hanging on his every note.

From a front-row position, the experience became almost surreal.

The distance between artist and audience disappeared entirely. In the musicians’ faces, you could see effortless confidence with which Prince navigated between funk, rock, soul and pure showmanship. Songs that had lived for years on records suddenly possessed a different weight and energy. Familiar melodies became something visceral.

What struck me most wasn’t the spectacle, impressive though it was.

It was the connection.

People weren’t merely watching a performance; they were participating in it. Every chorus became communal. Every guitar solo felt like a conversation between stage and crowd. Prince had that rare ability to make an enormous audience feel strangely intimate, as though every person present had somehow been invited into the same room.

I remember, more than once, catching myself and thinking:

“I can’t believe I’m actually here.”

Not because I was attending a concert.

But because I had somehow found myself standing at the intersection of everything I loved.

I was helping manage the brand of one of Britain’s biggest bands. I was writing and performing music under a Warner Bros. deal. I had been trusted to create the promotional campaign for an artist I deeply admired. And now I was standing front row, watching that artist deliver a performance that exceeded every expectation.

Most creative projects eventually become files in an archive.

Some become portfolio pieces.

A very small number become memories that stay with you forever.

This was one of them.

Years later, I can still remember the anticipation backstage, the roar when the lights went out, and the feeling that I was witnessing something far bigger than a concert.

Some projects end with a signed-off proof.

Some end with a standing ovation.

This one ended with Prince.

“After much searching we were able to unearth the only remaining footage from the infamous night itself.”

It’s believed that club owner Donald MacLeod actually took the footage himself.