Marta leaned back. “And yet. You forgot Dirty Mind .”

She walked to the back room, then called over her shoulder: “But for the blog? Put Sign o’ the Times . You’ll get fewer death threats.”

“ Dirty Mind , 1980. He’s 22 years old, wearing a trench coat and bikini briefs on the cover. It’s only 30 minutes long. It’s about incest, oral sex, and killing your rival. Recorded on a four-track in his basement. No Dirty Mind , no Sign o’ the Times . That’s the real best ever. Because it’s the one where he had nothing to lose.”

The rain was hammering against the windows of The Velvet Ditch, a record store so cramped that the jazz section doubled as a fire hazard. Leo, a 22-year-old who’d discovered Prince six months too late (three years after the man had left the planet), was having a crisis.

The rain kept falling. The purple vinyl spun. And somewhere, Prince laughed.

Marta nodded slowly. “The bridge. The bridge from ‘I wanna be your lover’ to ‘I wanna be your dictator.’ Dirty synth bass, apocalyptic lyrics about nuclear war, and yet you cannot stop dancing. A valid choice. But you put it at three because it’s still Prince figuring out how to be a band. He hasn’t killed the Revolution yet. Go on.”

Marta stood up and patted his shoulder. “Kid, there are 39 studio albums. Plus the vault. The ‘best ever’ Prince album is the one you’re listening to at 2 a.m. when you realize he’s not coming back. For me? It’s The Rainbow Children . Because it’s a mess. And he never cared if you agreed.”

Leo erased Purple Rain from the top spot. Typed Sign o’ the Times . Then, just for himself, he slid Dirty Mind onto the counter and paid with crumpled bills.

“It’s a double album!” Leo said, gaining confidence. “It’s schizophrenia on vinyl. One track is a funky jam about a girl named Starfish and Coffee, the next is a whispered newscast about AIDS and crack. He plays every instrument on half the songs. He broke up the Revolution just to prove he didn’t need them. It’s not an album—it’s a weather report from the end of the 80s.”

Marta, the store’s 50-something owner, didn’t look up from her magazine. “You’re making a ‘Best Ever’ list. First mistake.”

“It’s for your ego,” she replied. She set down her coffee. “Fine. Let’s settle this like Minneapolis does. You pick the top three. I’ll tell you why you’re wrong.”