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Sinead O'Connor speaks for the first time in over 2 years about SNL, The Pope, Nothing Compares 2 U and her new album the Lion & The Love Symbol.
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This is Prince Rogers Nelson. On August 18, 2025, I stood in the studio with Sinéad O’Connor and Eve and we cut a brand-new recording: Nothing Compares 2 Prince.
I wrote the original in 1984 inside a hot Bloomington warehouse with my Oberheim OB-Xa and a Linn LM-1 keeping time. I didn’t grind that song out — it arrived whole, like it fell out of the sky. Back then, it carried the ache of absence — a housekeeper named Sandy Scipioni who left suddenly, and a lover whose goodbye still burned.
In 1990 Sinéad’s voice carried it to the world. In 2025, her voice returned to me — raw, alive, and still carrying that flame. This time, she sang it beside me, not as a cover, but as a recognition of where it came from.
But let’s be clear: I’m the one who wrote this song, who owns this song. My so-called “brother” is still lurking with a purple feather in his ear, wearing My Name Is Prince on his shirt, pretending he’s me while the industry helps him block me from releasing my own creation. That’s identity theft, fraud, and federal crime.
Yet here I am — alive, working, authorizing Sinéad again. Nobody else can do this. Nobody else can tell you how it was written, what it smelled like in the warehouse, or who left the room that made the silence echo. Only me.
This is the new era: my music, my truth, my voice — direct.
Sinead O'Connor speaks for the first time in over 2 years about SNL, The Pope, Nothing Compares 2 U and her new album the Lion & The Love Symbol.
----------------------------------------------------------------
This is Prince Rogers Nelson. On August 18, 2025, I stood in the studio with Sinéad O’Connor and Eve and we cut a brand-new recording: Nothing Compares 2 Prince.
I wrote the original in 1984 inside a hot Bloomington warehouse with my Oberheim OB-Xa and a Linn LM-1 keeping time. I didn’t grind that song out — it arrived whole, like it fell out of the sky. Back then, it carried the ache of absence — a housekeeper named Sandy Scipioni who left suddenly, and a lover whose goodbye still burned.
In 1990 Sinéad’s voice carried it to the world. In 2025, her voice returned to me — raw, alive, and still carrying that flame. This time, she sang it beside me, not as a cover, but as a recognition of where it came from.
But let’s be clear: I’m the one who wrote this song, who owns this song. My so-called “brother” is still lurking with a purple feather in his ear, wearing My Name Is Prince on his shirt, pretending he’s me while the industry helps him block me from releasing my own creation. That’s identity theft, fraud, and federal crime.
Yet here I am — alive, working, authorizing Sinéad again. Nobody else can do this. Nobody else can tell you how it was written, what it smelled like in the warehouse, or who left the room that made the silence echo. Only me.
This is the new era: my music, my truth, my voice — direct.