Alright now, hold up. I had a whole other piece about my recent trip to the Grand Canyon planned for publication today, but some important culture shit went down, and attention must be paid. I’ll be back next week with my Canyon piece, but until then, enjoy this one and tell me your thoughts in the comments:
Stop! Stop everything, stop! Did you just feel that? Something momentous has happened to the atmospheric vibes of planet Earth. This is me, the GenX musician and sex-haver who believes in music of the erotic as power, talking to you now. I am, of course, referring to the tragic passing of D’Angelo, our High Priest of sex and music, and sexy music.
We’ll get to his musical talents, which were massive and rare, in a moment. But right now let’s just face some simple facts: there are men who want to do sex to you, and men who understand that sex is a shared experience that happens through you. D’Angelo was the latter, and every woman knew it. He embraced his Shamanic duty, and channelled portals of energy that you could flow into, that you could taste in your mouth and feel in your spine. Your puss had Big Feelings about all of this, too, and if you want to remember them, set aside a few hours tonight for his first two records, “Brown Sugar” and “Voodoo.”
But even as I write these words, I feel a wrenching pain in my heart. Sometimes surfers will disdain a wave that rushes right to them. D’Angelo was deeply uncomfortable with his status as a sex symbol, and it caused him a ton of anxiety and grief. He struggled with drug and alcohol addiction, and was in a dangerous car accident that could have killed him. More to the point, he didn’t just write sex anthems. His third and final studio record, “Black Messiah,” spoke to the generational trauma and struggle of Black people, and you can hear how deeply it affected him in every note.
That’s a ton of light and dark to keep in balance. Onstage and in photos, he sometimes looked as if he were half in the spirit world, tethered to invisible forces that alternately inspired and berated him. But when I clear away everything else, what I hear in D’Angelo’s voice is the Divine Feminine. As a singer he was sensitive, sensual, and fluid, characteristically leaning behind the beat, but always with powerful control and intention. True to his name, his layered vocals sounded like angels stacked inside each other, blood-warm and feathery. You can’t keep from floating up and up when he sings. He could play every instrument, but was generous and collaborative with other musicians, and became a skilled bandleader with an eye for talent. His commitment to his music was legendary, and even Prince had plans to work with him (another extraordinary being gone too soon).
What we mourn when an artist dies is the loss of all their great works to come. Music, especially, gets inside and stays with us, connecting our memories and our identity, and helping us recognize, and appreciate, the act of connection. Who are we without our heroes, our saints, our beloveds? It doesn’t matter. None of us are earthbound for very long. Float up, D’Angelo, and enjoy your natural habitat.