Instead of working the phones and the email, I took the night off from the world of baseball. My best friend and I headed off to the Prince concert. Twenty years after seeing the "Purple Rain" Tour, I was ready to see one of the musical geniuses of our time put on a show.

Opening with his intro from his recent Rock And Roll Hall of Fame induction by the sultry Alicia Keys, Prince popped up into the middle of his stage. While it may have been advertised as 'in the round', the stage was actually a cross – appropriate for Prince's male version of Madonna vs whore. He ran around the stage in his usual four inch heels looking almost unchanged from twenty years ago.

It's amazing – in 1984, I remember actual debates about who the top musician was, Prince or Michael Jackson. Twenty years later, Michael Jackson doesn't look like the same species and he's more a punchline than an artist. Prince went away for a while, toiling in his own purple underground for the better part of a decade, coming out rejuvenated and rocking.

Prince was resplendent in a white suit and red hat. The suit was one of those only Prince could wear – white, thick chalkstripes and a cross over sash that buttoned in the back. All he lacked was … oh no, there's the pocket square that became a prop as he danced in every direction of the compass.

Called the "Musicology" tour, he highlighted one line from the titular song – pausing three times in some sort of live, only-a-band-so-tight showoff rewind. "Don't you remember when music used to mean something?" He'd return to the theme later saying "there's no lip syncing tonight. I don't sing unless the microphone is on."

The band was incredible. He wasn't going from a set list and seldom paused between songs. For the first hour, he rushed through his immense catalog like a nine-year old that forgot his Ritalin. The songs seldom played through and almost never sounded like what you remembered. The medley-fashion worked somehow, giving the audience just enough of what they wanted, then moving on.

There was no banter between songs, mostly because there was no between songs. The band took breaks during drum solos or one of Candy Dulfer's sax wailings. Finally, the show shifted gears as Prince sat alone in the center of the stage with a purple Gibson acoustic. Everyone expected we'd hear "Little Red Corvette," but no one expected it to take on a bluesy love song gone wrong tone. He followed up with a pure Chicago blues piece I didn't recognize, claiming even the legacy of Robert Johnson and Muddy Waters for his own.

There didn't seem to be a style he wouldn't go for. Rock, blues, funk, soul, bedroom pleadings, it all worked and he owned every one. He asked the audience to sing and dance with him only to walk away, saying "you can't handle me." They couldn't and they knew it, loving him the more for telling the truth.

He flat out owned the crowd and knew it. I've never seen a more confident performer. He took a song so obscure that his own keyboardist didn't know it – "The Question of U" from Graffiti Bridge – and turned it into a fifteen minute jam that took in Alicia Keys' "Fallin'" and references to a half-dozen other Prince songs. He remade "Sign O The Times" into something hard, "Delirious" into a playful acoustic romp, and seared "Purple Rain" to close the show.

There were no missteps, no bad songs, never a drop in energy. If Prince holds true to his word that he's playing these songs for the last time, he's sucking every drop of marrow from them before leaving them behind. On the day where Barry Bonds tied his godfather, Prince hit a home run of his own. Just like Bonds, Prince knows there's no one in his class.

If you didn't see the Rock And Roll Hall of Fame inductions, you actually missed something. Usually, it's a tired nostalgia fest saved only by the all-star jam session. Prince opened the show with a greatest hits medley, but tore the roof off the joint when he stepped onto the stage with Tom Petty, Jeff Lynne, Steve Winwood, and Dhani Harrison for "While My Guitar Gently Weeps." His closing solo was six minutes of Prince saying "you can't touch me."

Jeff Lynne stopped playing while Dhani Harrison just laughed, knowing that he was ten feet away from one of the most blistering, show-off, fuck-you guitar solos in history. A left-handed run of hammer-ons and a deep tremolo slam just punctuated that he could take over even one of the best songs from The Beatles.

He did the same thing for nearly three hours Monday in Indy. He owned the stage, he owned the songs, and he owned the crowd. As Alicia said, "there may be many kings, but there's only one Prince."