Prince
Live at the Aladdin Las Vegas (NPG/Hip-O)

The first time I saw Prince was about a million years ago at the Stone on Broadway. A guy in doctor drag played with the band, and Prince wore some kind of underwear and leg warmers, I think. He was great then, and his shows have gotten better every time I've seen him since, which is maybe 10 times. If you don't know what you've been missing, you should want to know, and here's your chance. Don't let the fact that I haven't seen too many concert DVDs undercut the singularity of my declaration of love for Live at the Aladdin Las Vegas – this is still one of the best I've ever seen.

Prince's band – anchored by bassist Rhonda Smith and drummer Joe Blackwell, the funkiest, heaviest rhythm section on Earth – is simply amazing. It includes Sheila E on percussion, Maceo Parker and Eric Leeds on saxophones, Renata Neto on keyboards, and Greg Boyer on trombone. And when they get going – which is pretty much from the jump – it's as serious as funk can be.

What passes for a funk show these days is usually a weak imitation – the real deal started to disappear once samplers and hip-hop made the scene. Live at the Aladdin can stand with anything you'll find anywhere, ever. Early on, during "1+1+1=3" – check out the 15 or 20 people from the audience who get up onstage and get down – the band gets a groove going that threatens to blow the fucking roof off the place.

Prince sings "Got a Broken Heart Again" in a falsetto that rivals anything Eddie Kendricks (the gold standard) ever sang, and a melancholy saxophone solo by Parker, who checks in from somewhere in the nose-bleed seats, is perfect. Prince appears behind an electric piano – while over his shoulder Sheila E plays congas and timbales – and says, "Las Vegas, you're in for it now!" and the band cuts loose with "Pass the Peas." Smith lays down a fabulous bass groove that shows she lives in the very exclusive Larry Graham world, which is where all bass players should want to be. Next Prince announces, "WNPG, color-blind, it's about time," and with that launches into "Whole Lotta Love" with a crushing bottom, a '60s-style light show, and a solo that stakes his claim as a serious guitarist.

Prince can dance his ass off, the band is airtight, and he's still got a trunkful of small peculiarities – weird, opaque ritual gestures with no external points of reference that make you think maybe he's wired differently or something. That makes it easier to forgive the overbearing presence of Nikka Costa, the spliced-in promo photos, and calls to the audience to hold their cell phones in the air.

I just ignore that stuff as much as I can. There's too much great music to let it get in the way. (J.H. Tompkins)

'One Night with Blue Note' DVD
(Blue Note)

Coltrane on the telephone. Duke Ellington chewing pasta. Admit it, voyeurism and jazz go a long way together. Watching musicians watch TV, for instance, appeals to many jazz fans because observing musicians' lives can lend insight into their music – and vice versa. Thus, Triumph of the Underdog (1997) captures Mingus after hours, and Let's Get Lost (1988) presents Chet Baker at the height of success and depths of depression.

Introducing a spectacular DVD called One Night with Blue Note. The two-hour documentary features no backstage footage or interviews of the sort mentioned above, so don't expect a nose-pick or a middle finger from Miles Davis. The film does engage 27 musicians onstage during the famous Town Hall concert in New York City Feb. 22, 1985. The date is worth remembering because it marked the relaunch of Blue Note Records. (The label had tanked after four decades and remained dormant from 1980 to 1985, the year Bruce Lundvall jump-started it, accepting the baton from then-owners Alfred Lion and Frank Wolff.)

The footage isn't just immaculate – it's a portal into jazz culture, opening with Herbie Hancock's peppery rendition of his own funky groover "Cantaloupe Island," which gave the label a special sugar high. It was the '80s, so that explains Joe Henderson's tweed jacket and thick glasses. The camera work is brilliant, moving in and out on McCoy Tyner, Jimmy Smith, Lou Donaldson, and others (there are two white musicians and no women – if you're counting); shots of Art Blakey's pinstripe suit and Jackie McLean's meaty hands are especially vivid.

Best moments: Johnny Griffin hunkering down and producing a gray, thundering, farty sound on the tenor sax that makes Freddie Hubbard's face morph in a spasm. "What the funk's going on here?!" is one thought Hubbard's probably having. Another epic instance takes place when Cecil Taylor stubs his powerful hands against the keyboard with such staggering velocity and unflinching emotion that it's surprising he doesn't elbow the camera onto the ground as a result.

This DVD is adventurous. One part documentary, one part record-label promotional material, it's a complete keeper. (Daniel King)