# Morris Day Confirms the Truth About The Time and Prince’s Control

In the early 1980s, Minneapolis became the epicenter of a musical empire, with Prince at its helm. More than a musician, Prince crafted entire worlds, and The Time was his brainchild—a funky, charismatic band led by Morris Day’s larger-than-life persona.

To fans, they were untouchable, with sharp suits and infectious grooves, but behind the scenes, Prince pulled every string. He wrote the songs, played the instruments, and produced under aliases, leaving the band, especially Day, feeling like mere pawns in his grand design. This dynamic of control versus freedom defined The Time’s legacy and ultimately led to their unraveling.

On stage, The Time was a force, often outshining Prince himself with Day’s showmanship and the band’s charisma. This unintended rivalry fueled tensions, evident in *Purple Rain*, where Day played Prince’s flashy foil—a role mirroring real backstage struggles.

Prince had created his own competition, and the band’s success became a double-edged sword. While they captivated crowds, they remained trapped in his shadow, lacking creative autonomy.

Cracks emerged in the mid-80s when Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis, key members, sought independence. While still in The Time, they produced “Just Be Good to Me” for the S.O.S. Band, a career-defining track.

A snowstorm delayed their return for a gig, and Prince, furious at their absence and side project, fired them. Ironically, this expulsion launched Jam and Lewis into legendary status as producers, shaping pop and R&B with Janet Jackson and others, proving they were more than Prince’s sidemen.

With Jam and Lewis gone, the spotlight intensified on Day, but offstage, his life spiraled. Late arrivals, arguments, and drug issues plagued him, with stories like stumbling barefoot through a Minnesota snowstorm to Prince’s house for money highlighting his struggles. Financial woes added to the strain; despite packed arenas, band members felt underpaid, forever tethered to Prince’s control through contracts and decisions.

The band’s appearance in *Purple Rain* showcased their magnetic appeal, yet internal strife—infighting and Day’s addiction—threatened collapse. Day later revealed in interviews and his memoir that Prince dictated everything, reducing him to a performer of pre-recorded tracks. Even iconic moments, like a food fight with Prince, felt like disrespect to Day, underscoring an unequal rivalry.

Reunions in 1990 for *Graffiti Bridge* and later as The Original 7 in 2011 briefly revived the magic, but egos and money disputes derailed them. Prince’s 2016 death was a complex loss for Day, mixing grief with unresolved resentment over control.

A 2022 bombshell revealed the Prince estate barred Day from using “Morris Day and The Time,” stripping his identity after 40 years. Despite fan outrage, legal rights from 1982 favored the estate. The Time’s tragedy persists—style and hits couldn’t secure freedom, leaving them tethered to Prince’s legacy, even beyond his life.