Shop Owner Laughed When He Said “That’s My Piano” — He Didn’t Know Prince Had Been Looking for It D

The store owner pointed at the do not touch sign and smirked, “Nice try, buddy. That piano belonged to Prince.” He didn’t finish that sentence. West Hollywood, Vintage Sounds Music Shop. Thursday afternoon, March 2013, 2:15 p.m. The shop was a collector’s paradise. Jimmyi Hendris’s alleged guitar pick under glass.

A saxophone played by Col Train. Vintage amps. Memorabilia covering every wall. Richard, late 50s, former session musician turned dealer, sat behind the counter scrolling his phone. The door chimed. A man walked in. Oversized black hoodie hood up. Dark jeans, aviator sunglasses, purple bandana peeking out underneath.

He looked like any other LA musician browsing on a slow weekday. No bodyguards, no cameras, just a man and his curiosity. Richard barely glanced up. The man wandered quietly through the aisles, running his fingers along guitar necks, inspecting drumsticks. No rush, no agenda. Then he stopped back corner under a spotlight behind velvet ropes.

A 1970s Yamaha CP70 electric grand piano. Battered, worn, keys yellowed with age. The placard read. Sold $85,000. Previously owned by Prince Rogers Nelson, Purple Rain Tour, 1984 to 1985. Authenticated. The man stared at it, tilted his head, stepped closer. Richard noticed. Hey, don’t touch the rope. That’s a museum piece.

The man didn’t move, just looked at the piano, his voice barely a whisper. That’s not from the Purple Rain Tour. Richard walked over, arms crossed. Excuse me, that piano. It’s not from 84 to 85. Richard laughed. Actually laughed. Oh, you’re one of those guys. Look, buddy. I’ve got the paperwork.

previous owner bought it at a Paisley Park estate sale in 2010. There was no estate sale in 2010. Richard’s smile faded. What? Paisley Park never did estate sales. And that piano, the man leaned in. Studied a scratch on the side panel. That’s from 1993. Love symbol era. I recorded the most beautiful girl in the world on that.

Richard’s face went red. Okay, smartass. You a prince super fan or something? Going to tell me you know him personally? The man didn’t answer. He stepped over the velvet rope. Richard rushed forward. Whoa. Whoa. Get back. That’s an $85,000 instrument. It’s a $40,000 instrument. And the C sharp key sticks. Richard froze.

What? Middle octave. Csharp sticks when you play it soft. I broke it in 1994 during a session. Never fixed it. Richard’s expression shifted from anger to confusion. How the hell would you know that? The man slowly pulled down his hood, removed his sunglasses. Silence. Richard’s mouth opened. No sound came out. The man sat at the piano bench.

His fingers hovered over the keys. He looked at Richard. May I? Richard nodded. Couldn’t speak. Prince played. Not a song, just a single note. Middle C sharp. The key stuck for half a second before releasing. Click. The sound echoed through the silent shop. Prince smiled faintly. Told you. Richard stumbled backward into a guitar stand.

It clattered. He didn’t notice. Oh my god. Oh my god. You’re You’re actually Yep. But the paperwork said the previous owner swore it was from Purple Rain. The previous owner lied or got lied to. This piano left Paisley Park in 2002. I sold it to a session player in Minneapolis. Frank something.

He must have flipped it. Richard was shaking. I paid $60,000 for this. I was going to sell it for $85,000. If it’s not authenticated, it’s authenticated now. Prince gestured to the security camera in the corner. You just got me on tape confirming it. That’s better than any certificate. Richard stared at the camera, then at Prince, then at the piano.

I I don’t even know what to say. Prince turned back to the piano. Watch. He started playing for real this time. The most beautiful girl in the world. The original version. the one no one heard except engineers in studio A. The melody was haunting. His fingers danced over the broken Csharp like it was an old friend.

He made the floor part of the music. Three customers browsing in the front stopped. Walked toward the back, pulled out phones. By the time Prince finished, there were eight people in the store, all recording, all crying. Prince stood, adjusted his hoodie. You want to sell it? Richard, tears streaming. I I don’t even know what to do now.

If you want it back, I don’t, but I know someone who does. Prince pulled out his phone, made a call, put it on speaker. Maya, it’s me. Yeah, I found it. Richard listened confused. Tell the Minnesota School for the Arts I have their donation. The Yamaha? Yeah, the one we’ve been looking for.

Have them send a truck to He looked at Richard. Address. Richard stammered it out. Prince ended the call, turned to Richard. How much you want for it? I Sir, I don’t. You don’t have to. Richard, how much? I paid $60,000. Prince nodded, pulled out a checkbook, old school, wrote $75,000. Handed it to Richard.

That’s $15,000 over your cost for the trouble and for not calling the cops when I jumped your rope. Richard stared at the check. Signed, Prince Rogers Nelson. But why? Why are you buying it back just to donate it? Prince put his sunglasses back on. Because that piano taught kids in Minneapolis how to play.

In the ‘9s, I donated it to a community center in North Minneapolis. It got stolen during a break-in in 2001. I’ve been looking for it for 12 years. He tapped the CP key one more time. Click that sticky key. A 9-year-old kid named Marcus broke it. Playing chopsticks too hard. His mom couldn’t afford to fix it, so I didn’t fix it.

I told Marcus it gave the piano character. Richard was openly sobbing. Where’s Marcus now? He’s a music teacher in St. Paul and he’s going to lose his mind when I tell him his piano’s coming home. Prince walked toward the door, stopped, turned back. One more thing, Richard. Yes, that Hrix guitar pick in your display case. That’s fake, too.

What? Prince grinned. The first real smile he’d shown. Jimmy used Fender mediums. That’s a Dunlop extra heavy. Nice try, though. He left. The bell above the door chimed. Richard stood there holding a $75,000 check surrounded by eight strangers recording him with their phones. One customer whispered, “Dude, did Prince just roast your entire inventory?” Richard started laughing, then crying, then laughing again.

He looked at the piano, the worn keys, the yellowed ivory, the scratch on the side panel, and the C-sharp key that still stuck. He walked over, pressed it gently. Click. Richard smiled through his tears. Character. Minnesota School for the Arts, St. Paul. March 28th, 2013. The ceremony room was packed. students, teachers, local press, everyone there for the same reason.

The piano, it sat center stage, restored but not repaired. The scratch on the side panel still visible, the keys still yellowed, and the C sharp key, of course, still stuck. Marcus Williams, 31 years old, music teacher at St. Paul Central High School, stood at the back of the room. His hands were shaking.

He’d gotten the call 3 days ago. A woman named Maya from Paisley Park. Prince wants you at the ceremony. He said you’d understand why Marcus hadn’t understood. Not until he walked into the room and saw the piano. He’d know it anywhere. Even after 22 years, the ceremony director, Mrs. Chen, stepped to the microphone.

Today, we honor an incredible donation. This Yamaha CP70 was recovered after 12 years and generously purchased by Prince Rogers Nelson to return to Minnesota’s music education community. Applause filled the room and we have a special guest, Marcus Williams, one of the original students who learned on this very piano.

Marcus, would you come up? Marcus walked forward. His legs felt like water. He reached the piano, sat at the bench. Memories flooded back. 1991. The North Minneapolis Community Center. Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. Free lessons for kids whose families couldn’t afford private instruction. He’d been 9 years old. Small for his age. Quiet.

His mom worked two jobs. His dad had left three years earlier. Music was the only place Marcus felt like he belonged. And the teacher, a man who showed up once a month, always in purple, always patient, had taught him that broken things could still make beautiful sounds. Marcus pressed the Csharp key. Click.

The sound hit him like a wave. He started crying immediately. That’s it, he whispered. That’s the piano. I broke that key when I was nine. Mrs. Chen handed him an envelope. This came with the donation. Marcus opened it, hands trembling. Inside, a handwritten note on simple white paper, black ink.

That familiar, elegant handwriting he’d seen on album covers his whole life. Marcus, I told you the broken key gave it character. You proved me right. Keep teaching. Keep playing. The next generation needs you. P. Also in the envelope, a check. $10,000 made out to Marcus Williams Music Scholarship Fund.

Marcus couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe. Mrs. Chen leaned in, whispering. Prince established a scholarship in your name for your best student every year. He said you’d know how to choose. Marcus looked up at her, tears streaming. He remembered me. He remembered you. Marcus turned back to the piano, placed his fingers on the keys, and played Purple Rain.

Slow, gentle, every note deliberate. When he hit the Csharp, the key stuck for half a second. Click. Marcus smiled through his tears and kept playing. The room was silent except for the music and the sound of 200 people trying not to cry. 5 years later, April 21st, 2016, Marcus Williams stood in his classroom at St. Paul Central.

The news had broken that morning. Prince Rogers Nelson found dead at Paisley Park, age 57. His students had been crying all day. Marcus had held it together, barely. Now alone in his classroom after school, he finally let himself break. On his desk sat a framed photo from the 2013 ceremony. Marcus at the piano. Mrs.

Chen handing him the envelope. Next to it, the note still in its frame. The broken key gave it character. Marcus walked to the upright piano in the corner of his classroom. Not the Yamaha. That one stayed at the school for the arts. But this one was good enough. He sat, played C sharp. It didn’t stick.

This piano was perfect, but it didn’t have character. Marcus pulled out his phone, scrolled through his contacts, found the number Maya had given him in 2013. In case you ever need anything, he called. It rang four times. Hello, Maya’s voice, strained, exhausted. Maya, it’s Marcus Williams.

I I just wanted to say I’m sorry. I don’t have words for Marcus. Maya’s voice cracked. Thank you for calling, Prince. He talked about you, about that piano, about the scholarship. He said it was one of the best things he ever did. I need you to know something, Marcus said. Every year, every single year since 2013, I give that scholarship to a kid who reminds me of me. Quiet, poor, broken in some way.

And I tell them what Prince told me. What did he tell you? That broken things can still make beautiful sounds. That the flaw is part of the music. That you don’t fix what makes you different. You make it your strength. Maya was crying now. He would have loved hearing that. I have 47 students this year, Marcus continued.

23 of them are on the Marcus Williams scholarship. Kids from North Minneapolis. kids whose families can’t afford lessons. And I teach them on that Yamaha every Tuesday and Thursday, just like he taught me. He knew, Maya whispered. He knew you’d do that. How? Because you broke the key playing chopsticks too hard.

Prince said that meant you loved music more than you feared breaking things. He said, “That’s the only kind of person worth teaching.” Marcus closed his eyes. I never got to thank him. Not really. You did. Every time you teach a kid who can’t afford lessons, every time you play that sticky key and smile, every time you pass it on. That’s the thank you he wanted.

They sat in silence for a moment, just breathing. Marcus, Maya said finally. The funeral is private, family only, but afterward we’re having a memorial at Paisley Park for the people who mattered to him. You’re invited. I’ll be there. and Marcus, bring your students, all 47. Prince would want them there.

The call ended. Marcus sat at his classroom piano, pulled out a piece of paper, started writing. Dear students, next week we’re taking a field trip to Paisley Park. We’re going to honor the man who taught me that music isn’t about perfection. It’s about truth. I want each of you to prepare a piece. Any piece. Play it on the Yamaha.

the one with the sticky C sharp key. When you hit that key and it clicks, remember that’s not a mistake. That’s character. And character is what makes music worth playing. Mr. Williams. 3 weeks later, May 2016, Paisley Park. 47 students from St. Paul Central stood in studio A. The Yamaha CP70 sat center stage.

One by one, Marcus’ students played. A 13-year-old played Purple Rain. The C sharp stuck. She smiled. A 15-year-old played When Doves Cry. The key stuck. He nodded. A 9-year-old named Tyler played Chopsticks hard, just like Marcus 25 years earlier. The Csharp stuck. Tyler looked worried. Marcus knelt down.

You didn’t break it. You gave it more character. Tyler smiled. Kept playing. After Maya approached Marcus, “The piano is yours. Prince’s will. The Yamaha goes to Marcus. He’ll know what to do.” Marcus looked at it. Worn keys. Yellowed ivory. The scratch. I’m putting it in my classroom.

Every kid who sits here learns what Prince taught me. What’s that? That broken doesn’t mean useless. That character beats perfection. Marcus pressed the C sharp click. And some sounds are worth keeping exactly as they are. The Yamaha still sits in Marcus Williams’s classroom at St. Paul Central. The Csharp key still sticks.

He never fixed it. Every April 21st, Marcus plays Purple Rain for his students. When the key clicks, he tells them the story about a 9-year-old who broke a piano key. about a teacher in purple who said it gave the instrument character. About a man who spent 12 years finding a stolen piano to give back to kids who needed it.

Students always ask, “Is it real?” Marcus always answers, “Play the Csharp and find out. When they do, and the key sticks, they understand.” Character isn’t about being perfect. Character is about being real. Click.