D’Angelo 🎻
Not one but two.
7 January 2025
Dear Smythe,
At the hospital, just had my first infusion of a new medication for my colitis. It was only a 30-minute infusion but I have to wait an extra two hours so they can watch me for any side effects. Seems reasonable; I do feel woozy but nothing out of the realm of my version of normal. In any case, I have my headphones and my latest discovery—D’Angelo, who is, or was, an angel on earth. His music is simply…unbelievable. I’d known he died earlier this year—well, now that’s last year—but I’d never listened to him nor known much about him. Sarah Byrne has an Articulate Your Aristry workshop tonight, which I am obviously attending, and the artist of focus is D’Angelo. She sent out an email about him last week, linking an article and some of his music, and what can I say?
I am a woman in love.
He just. Feels. So. Good. I’m bobbing my head as I listen to him here in the infusion suite, I can’t help it, the beat is in me, my soul is stirring, moving, dancing, life is too short, thrum your body in the hospital, it’s a place that could use a bit more soul anyway.
How did I grow up listening to Pac and Biggie, Dr Dre and Eminem, Jay-Z, Kendrick, Coolio, 50 Cent, and never once listened to D’Angelo?! I’d like to think the universe was waiting for the time to be right. Let me tell you, he is oh-so right.
Anytime I see the name D’Angelo, I think of a different one, he goes by D, the character out of the Wire. The first time I watched the show at 19 I thought he was a bit of a wimp; I rewatched it a few years later and realized he’s one of the few people of integrity in Avon Barksdale’s gang. It doesn’t take him far, of course, I suppose sincerity isn’t too popular on the streets. I hear the name D’Angelo and a scene always plays in my head—one he’s not in, because Avon’s had him take the fall and go to prison. So D’s behind bars and Stringer Bell (Avon’s right-hand man and a real sociopath) comes by D’s baby momma’s house to check on her. She pulls out a new shirt D had bought, asks String if he wants to take it since D won’t be wearing it anytime soon. String holds the shirt, reminds her to visit D in prison more so he doesn’t crack, asks her if the money is good. “It’s good,” she replies. String glances at the shirt then tosses it on the couch. “I’m an XL,” he says, and he unzips Donette’s hand and pulls her onto him.
End scene. There is so much wrong about this but every time I watch it, I laugh until I’m crying.
The Wire is set in Baltimore, not too far from where I grew up, and I love seeing my home on screen for the world to see, even if it isn’t the most flattering portrayal. I always chuckle when the characters in the show refer to other gangsters in DC as though it’s on the other side of the road and not a 40-minute drive on the highway. That highway. When I lived in DC, I’d have those moments. You know the ones. The restless, searching urges. Sometimes in the middle of the night, I’d walk out of my beautiful apartment with the big windows and golden, original hardwood floors and get into my slick black Corolla—named Draper, after Don of course—and turn onto a highway and drive, I wouldn’t know to where, but the windows would be down, the wind flicking my hair all over the place, and the hip-hop would be playing so loud my eardrums would start to hurt (Dre or Pac or 50, but never D’Angelo), and I’d let my mind go. I still don’t think there’s any better place to be than in your own car on the open road.
Five more minutes in the hospital now, and then I’ll be taking a couple of unglamorous buses to get home. I won’t be getting in that car or going back to the apartment in DC. I don’t have either anymore. But I’ve still got the beats. And now I have D’Angelo, too.
Warmly,
Marguerite
