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Music

I Went to the Church of D'Angelo Last Night and Was Born Again

This was a miracle. This was a D’Angelo concert.

Photos by Noisey

I’ve been trying to pray in the church of D’Angelo most of my adult life. In March of 2013 I missed an intimate Brooklyn Bowl show because I took what I now consider, for this reason, the worst vacation of my life in Colorado. I love Colorado. Later that summer, I bought tickets to see D’Angelo play an outdoor concert just around the corner from that original show, only to have D cancel his appearance at the last minute. I had premonitions of the same thing happening the next summer, when Brooklyn’s Afropunk Fest, where D’Angelo was billed as a headliner, suddenly scrubbed his name from all flyers, banners, and promotional material the week of the show. D’Angelo did in fact perform at Afropunk, but it was none of his own material. Instead we were treated to a covers set. It simply wasn’t D’Angelo. Where was the groove? Where was the fucking pocket? Why was I not having an out of body experience? Maybe the rumors were true that D just wasn’t up to snuff anymore, that he’d been out of the game too long.

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Four months later, I found myself awake one late night at four in the morning because there was, finally, after 14 years, seemingly out of nowhere, a new D’Angelo album, and I was listening to it for the third time in a row. I was wrong to doubt him. How could I have let a few bad experiences shake my faith? That album, Black Messiah, was everything I’d been promised, the scripture I needed to guide me. When tickets to a one-off show at the Best Buy Theater in Times Square went on sale, I bought them without hesitation. By the end of the night—when D’Angelo’s backup singers were literally running across the stage as part of an extended jam of Voodoo cuts, and his band was playing tighter than ever even after more than two hours on stage—my unwavering belief in my at-times-reluctant messiah would be rewarded.

I was less assured about who to bring with me: I’m single, and while I’d love to share a profound musical experience with some wonderful, beautiful woman out there, this would have been far too intimate and personal for me to share with someone I’d only been on a few dates with. With almost anyone alive, it would be too soon. My closest friends knew how much it meant to me, but I got the feeling that they would be doing me a favor by attending. I eventually sold my ticket to a coworker. I wasn’t going to sully this religious experience with anyone who was incapable of experiencing it on the same level. This was a miracle. This was a D’Angelo concert.

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I’d seen D’Angelo at Afropunk, and I knew he was a different man than the one that embarked on the Voodoo tour over a decade ago, but this was someone else entirely. His presence was massive, not just physically occupying the stage with his diesel as fuck arms but fully engulfing the theater with an energy that demanded your attention. His love for the performance and for being onstage with his band The Vanguard was apparent. He was energized to levels of a bygone era made up of performance legends like Chuck Berry or James Brown. You couldn’t look away. There was nothing else to see.

The effect wasn’t immediate, even though D’Angelo was commanding from the start. Maybe, I considered, he was merely a great performer with an excellent band, at the end of the day mortal. Except then, during an extended riff on “One Mo’ Gin,” it happened:

“Does anybody ever get lonely sometimes?” D’Angelo crooned, talking to the crowd. Yes, D’Angelo, all the time. But that doesn’t matter now. All feelings have been eclipsed by this musical revelation. I’m here, you’re here, nothing else matters. We’re here together. The band is untouchable. They respond so crisply at the drop of your arm. Your voice sounds like honey, like some divine nectar. Let us pray.

Church may seem like a tired analogy, but there are no other experiences that compare. Last night was church. I was transported. I was cleansed. I was reborn with the mashup of Voodoo classics that closed the show. They weren’t the same old tunes I’ve tirelessly played while rolling blunts or evangelizing to friends on the cultural significance of the second coming of D’Angelo but an absolutely punishing onslaught of funkier-than-James-Brown-himself renditions, backed up by one of the most devastatingly powerful rhythm sections I’ve ever seen. Bassist Pino Palladino and drummer Chris Dave’s combined forces were almost too much for D’Angelo himself to handle. But not quite. He was the conductor, each drop of his arm met with a taut, immediate response. He was smiling from ear to ear as he watched his backing band level the crowd with what was, inarguably, one of the tightest performances anyone in that room had ever experienced, including D’Angelo. He absolutely loved it. He loved being there, and we loved that he loved it.

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The highlight of this mashup was “Left and Right,” with Sharkey’s percussive guitar licks and Pino’s thick, round, full bass tone setting the mood for everyone in the room. The mood was fucking hot, the crowd was fucking turned on, and D was in his element as he playfully slipped his tongue between his fingers after reminding every girl in the room that he’d smack their ass, pull their hair, and even kiss them way down there (Think he won’t?). How had we gotten here? I think “Chicken Grease”? I couldn't be sure because I was too lost in the funk. It was a singularity, a pure moment of musical energy. All I know was that I loved what was happening in front of me.

Then, it was the end of the show. We knew it, D knew it, The Vanguard knew it. But D'Angelo refused to leave the stage. He couldn’t stop running back to the mic, raising his hands to, once more, prompt his band launching into a torrent of horn blasts. It was entirely in D's control, the room alternating from total silence to chaos with a wave of his hand. D didn’t want to leave the stage. When he did, it was with that uninterrupted smile, a simple peace sign, and an abrupt turn to walk away.

When the show was over and the house lights came on, no one in that room could make eye contact with one another. D’Angelo had shown us the error of our ways, made us ashamed for ever doubting him, for ever wondering if maybe he had spent a moment of his time postponing shows and canceling appearances not still totally enraptured by music. I can only imagine the people who weren’t immediately stunned into leaving in silence had it hit them later, when they arrived home, walked past their roommates and their two neglected cats, and, upon arriving to the privacy and safety of their bedrooms, promptly collapsed in tears under the weight of the pleasure D’Angelo had offered them. Last night, everyone in that room had no choice but to leave a believer.

Pat Shahabian wants to go back, back to the way it was.