D’Angelo was a singular singer who reached the heights of soul, funk and R&B
The multi-instrumentalist, who has died at 51, wrote, sang and produced songs of rare musicality and a hip-hop sensibility
In a nod to the divine messengers of his Pentecostal upbringing and the genius of Michelangelo, Michael Eugene Archer turned himself into D’Angelo in the 1990s. He was “the last pure African American artist left”, according to Questlove of hip-hop group The Roots, a close collaborator, speaking in 2014. Idealism became corrupted into perfectionism, a debilitating temptation, like others to which he was prone. But he brought out the best of himself in the three studio albums that he leaves behind following his death from cancer aged 51.
D’Angelo’s recordings were sporadic but they occupy the highest reaches of soul, funk and R&B music. His 1995 debut Brown Sugar kick-started the so-called “neo soul” movement, a back-to-the-source act of renewal in the long fade-out of the analogue era. His crowning achievement was Voodoo in 2000, which struck the sweet chord of artistic acclaim and platinum sales. Black Messiah emerged 14 long years later amid reports of addiction problems and creative block. It showed his powers were undimmed, transposing previous eras of Black American music and civil rights struggle to the 2010s.
Marvin Gaye turned up recurrently in his dreams. He idolised James Brown and claimed Voodoo was made to attract Prince’s attention for a link-up that, alas, never took place. Black Messiah’s messaging and groove evoked Sly and the Family Stone’s There’s a Riot Goin’ On. To D’Angelo, these forebears were “Yodas”, wise teachers from whom he learnt his craft. He established himself as their successor, unlike the inferior mimicry of the retro acts whose numbers proliferated around him.
Like Prince, he was a multi-instrumentalist who wrote, sang and produced his songs. Unlike his hero, this prodigiousness contributed to the vice of perfectionism. But the idealist in D’Angelo understood that music should be more than the sum of its painstakingly applied parts.
At a time when sounds were getting cleaner and more compressed, he brought a grainy sensibility to his recordings. His songs have a jazzy sense of spontaneity. They are able to embrace imperfection, as with the woozy rhythms running through Voodoo. His vocals went from high-tenor charm on Brown Sugar’s “Me and Those Dreamin’ Eyes of Mine” to the smoky patter of Voodoo’s “Devil’s Pie”. He combined a soul singer’s musicality with the verbal culture of hip-hop. “All rap is street soul,” he reckoned.
At his peak, D’Angelo held various opposing forces in equilibrium. He was an auteur who was open to working closely with others, such as J Dilla, the innovative rap beatmaker who shaped Voodoo’s wayward groove. He co-founded collective the Soulquarians and shared a significant professional and romantic relationship with singer Angie Stone.
He chafed at the sex symbol status that he gained after a smouldering shirtless appearance in the video for “Untitled (How Does It Feel)” in 2000. But there was a degree of idealism here too. His physique — which he rued losing after slipping into alcoholism in later life — was an MTV version of the perfect masculinity of a Michelangelo statue. Sex isn’t merely sex in his songs. “You need the comfort of my loving to bring out the best in you,” he sings in Black Messiah’s “Ain’t That Easy”, before turning the line around: “I need the comfort of your loving to bring out the best in me.”