“It’s for you.” In the bustling atmosphere of the American diner where I worked, those words were directed at me. An unusual occurrence, considering the phone in question was the diner’s, my workplace as a kitchen peon in my hometown. Princeton, New Jersey, was experiencing a peculiar labor shortage. In this highly educated, affluent town, finding individuals “un-overqualified” enough to flip burgers or serve tables was a challenge. Under normal circumstances, a kitchen worker taking phone calls might raise eyebrows, but the scarcity of manual labor ensured my job security, even as I picked up the receiver, unknowingly about to answer a call that would alter my life’s trajectory. I held the instrument to my ear, and it was her.
But perhaps I’m getting ahead of myself.
There had been a girl. For a long time, there had been a girl. It’s funny how these grand passions seem at the time, only to become faded memories. What felt like a monumental crush is now akin to a faded photograph tucked away in an album, stored in a box, in a closet, in the recesses of my mind. Yet, back then, it consumed my thoughts. Things hadn’t ended well between us as high school concluded. In fact, our parting was less than amicable, primarily because of a rather unkind and grumpy message I’d penned in her yearbook. The exact words escape me now, but the sentiment was something along the lines of, “I liked you, I’m pretty sure you liked me, but you led me on and never gave me a real chance because you’re fundamentally flawed as a person,” or some such juvenile drivel.
In truth, this was part of a regrettable pattern prevalent in Princeton’s social hierarchy. Wealthy, athletic conformists seemed to capture all the romantic attention, leaving sensitive, poetic misanthropes like myself by the wayside. My frustration with this particular girl was, in part, a reflection of my broader discontent with the artificial social structure of Princeton. A structure I knew to be contrived because whenever I stepped outside of it, my perceived persona shifted dramatically from an awkward oddity to someone considered rather cool. Summers spent in Philadelphia studying art (and forming a band called The Brave New Lesbians) and a week at a high school in Northport, Long Island, had proven to me that I wasn’t the problem; Princeton was the anomaly, a breeding ground for superficiality and pretense. This frustration fueled a recurring theme in my songwriting for years to come – the sentiment of “how could you want him when you know you could have me?” It was in this very spirit of frustration that I defaced our female protagonist’s yearbook with words best left unwritten for posterity.
So, when I answered the phone at my diner job that fateful day and she asked to meet later that evening, I was, as Roget might say, bemused, confused, puzzled, mystified, bewildered, perplexed, preoccupied, baffled, and lost in thought. Was this a sign she was finally reciprocating my feelings, or was I walking into an ambush? Even at the tender age of nineteen, I was well aware of the female capacity to harbor a cutting retort indefinitely, ready to deliver it with pristine freshness to the unsuspecting male.
My shift ended shortly after the call, and I found myself wandering down Nassau Street in Princeton, still lost in contemplation. It was then I bumped into Michael “Miket” Wilder. Miket (pronounced “Mike-it,” emphasis on the “Mike”) was the older brother of my friend Dave Wilder. Dave was already showing incredible promise as a bass player – a prodigy, even. He could master the latest slap bass lines from “Fat Boys” records within days and mentally transpose entire John Coltrane solos to bass clef, playing them at full speed. He was, and remains, exceptionally talented. We all looked up to Miket, his older brother. We emulated his mannerisms, his sayings, and generally considered him the epitome of cool. Running into Miket at this moment felt like a stroke of luck – precisely the person to advise me on navigating my perplexing situation with grace and composure.
After the usual greetings and exchanges, I confided in him. “Miket, this girl I like called me at work.”
He gave me a high five. “Well, go ahead with that, my brother,” he encouraged.
“Yeah,” I continued, “but I think she might be mad at me.”
“Well, you gotta go ahead with it.”
“You think so?” I asked, “I mean, I’ve liked her for a long time, and maybe she’s into me too.”
“Just go ahead now,” he reiterated.
“I should just go see what’s up, right?”
“Just go ahead now.”
“Alright,” I conceded. And with that, I went on my way.
I returned to my apartment above Farington’s Music, grabbed my guitar, and strummed a G chord. I took out a yellow legal pad and a Shaeffer fountain pen and wrote the words, “one, two princes kneel before you.”
Corny, I thought to myself.
But then Miket’s advice echoed in my mind, and I put pen to paper again and wrote: “just go ahead now.”
This simple phrase, born from a casual street-corner conversation, became the unlikely seed for the lyrics to “Two Princes” by Spin Doctors, a song that would unexpectedly climb the charts and become a defining anthem of the 90s. The whimsical lyrics and catchy melody, now instantly recognizable to millions, all stemmed from the anxieties of a nineteen-year-old, a mysterious phone call, and the sage advice from a cool older brother. The story behind the lyrics is as quirky and memorable as the song itself.
It’s a testament to how personal experiences, even awkward teenage encounters and seemingly trivial advice, can transform into something universally resonant. The lyrics to “Two Princes,” while seemingly lighthearted and fairytale-esque, are rooted in real-life emotions and a pivotal moment of decision. And that’s the story of how those now-famous lyrics, “Two Princes,” came to be.
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