Buffalo Music: Elegant, eloquent, funky as hell, D’Angelo’s music changed the game forever.

By Jeff Miers

Loving musical artists over long periods of time – and, let’s face it, aging, right along with them – makes loss inevitable. In 9 out of 10 cases, we don’t really know these artists, even if we’ve met them in an impromptu fashion, or engaged in one of those awkward meet and greet, photo-op, VIP experiences. So why does it feel so personal when these artists we love but don’t really know leave us? Why does it hurt? And where do you end up storing that hurt?

These questions are on my mind more often than I’d like, of late. And they’ve really been in the forefront of my brain-box for the past two days, when, like so many others, I’ve been trying to make sense of the death of D’Angelo, who passed on Tuesday at 51, after a lengthy struggle with pancreatic cancer.

Expletive-filled texts to friends upon hearing the news ended with a variation of ‘Why? This just doesn’t make sense. This is wrong.’ As if there’s some divine sense of jurisprudence and justice in the universe, contrary to all available evidence.

And, yeah, I felt gutted, and therefore weak, so I did indulge in the flimsy trope, ‘And yet (fill in the name of some horrible person who has offered nothing positive to humanity) continues to live on into ripe old age, while our heroes are gone.’

Which is basically asking the pointless and ageless question, ‘Why do good people suffer and die young, while total scumbags live on?’

It’s not a good look, I know.

I didn’t want to be the one to break the news to my son, particularly via text, but it ended up happening that way. And feeling his hurt and sadness made the loss even more palpable.

In our house, the music of D’Angelo – and by extension, the music of his collaborators Questlove, Pino Palladino, Roy Hargrove, Erykah Badu, J-Dilla, Bilal, Keyon Herold, James Poyser, Isaiah Sharkey, the Soulquarian family, et al — was sacred.

In that music, I heard so much of what I loved about the past, wrapped up in beautiful new clothes. But my son heard the future. A future that turned out to be his own.

That’s heavy. Any parent can feel that. There’ something powerful about music passing through us and then being passed on.

For me, much of D’Angelo’s genius was located in his blend of elegance and sensuality. He was classy as hell, even while crafting some of the filthiest, funkiest grooves ever recorded.

He was a virtuoso musician and singer, and yet there was a simplicity at the heart of the music that transcends notions of just what “complexity” is.

If there’s music that grooves harder than the sounds we hear on D’Angelo’s three albums, I’ve never heard it. And yes, that includes the work of James Brown, Sly Stone, Stevie Wonder, Marvin Gaye, and Prince, all of whom left an indelible mark on D’Angelo.

Wesley Morris, writing in The New York Times the day after the great man’s passing, nailed it, in my view.

“D’Angelo… was a gentleman,” Morris writes.

“Rarely, as a singer, did he raise his voice. Rarely was that necessary. Many great singers aim for the stratosphere. His vocals pooled around you. He multiplied himself and blanketed you with his devastating stank. You never had to doubt whether he was there for you; on these recordings he’s everywhere.”

So D’Angelo isn’t really gone. As Morris says, “He’s everywhere.” I find comfort in this.

Rest in peace, man. You were a giant. You’ll always be a giant.

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