\n<\/p>\n
Micheal Eugene Archer, the singer and musician better known as D\u2019Angelo, had no use for \u201cneo soul,\u201d the label critics used to describe the type of music he helped personify in the 1990s and 2000s. \u201cI never claimed I do neo soul,\u201d he said in 2014<\/a>. \u201cI make Black music.\u201d<\/p>\n D\u2019Angelo, who died of pancreatic cancer on Tuesday at the age of 51, certainly did. His music helped define what it meant to be Black at a time when that meaning was in flux, an age where some African American intellectuals feared<\/a> that their community\u2019s most popular cultural export, rap, was overly coarse and primitive. Over three incomparable albums\u2014Brown Sugar<\/em> (1995), Voodoo<\/em> (2000), and Black Messiah<\/em> (2014)\u2014 D\u2019Angelo made art that was unquestionably Black in its embrace of gospel\u2019s history, as well as its experimentation and radicalism.<\/p>\n From the Bill Clinton<\/strong> impeachment scandal to Woodstock \u201999<\/a>, the late 1990s left many Americans worried that culture was going down the drain\u2014but the neo-soul moment now stands out as a vibrant and meaningful counterexample. Made by bohemians with a social conscience and remarkable skill, their music wasn\u2019t just enjoyable, it was ambitious. D\u2019Angelo worked with, inspired, and paved the way for a mind-boggling list of musicians, from Questlove<\/strong> and The Roots DJ Premiere, Raphael Siddiq, Erykah Badu, Maxwell, Lauryn Hill<\/strong>, and Angie Stone\u2014his former partner and the mother of his son, who died earlier this year in a tragic car crash. In hindsight, it\u2019s pleasantly surprising that they all enjoyed so much critical and commercial success during their creative peaks.<\/p>\n If soul music is made for falling in love, D\u2019Angelo made music for people who were trying to live together, however uneasily. Voodoo<\/em> was one of the only things that could soothe a restive Black family gathering in the early 2000s, getting the hateration and holleration to stop for at least 79 minutes as older generations gave Millennials a lesson about good music. Despite the \u201cexplicit\u201d sticker prominently displayed on the CD jewel case\u2014and profane guest appearances from Redman<\/strong> and Method Man<\/strong>\u2014even respectable members of the Greatest Generation could find something to love in that album, thanks to D\u2019Angelo\u2019s knowledgeable interpretations of the blues.<\/p>\n For someone whose best-known contribution to the cultural conversation is a video in which he appears to be (but actually isn\u2019t<\/a>) entirely naked<\/a>, D\u2019Angelo\u2019s music was also surprisingly churchy. He was raised in a devoutly Pentecostal family in Richmond, Virginia, and during his teen years, he played the organ at the church where his father preached. His music is full of the vamping and intensifying one expects to hear during a particularly pleasurable hour at a Black church, and the call-and-response motif common in the spirituals that grew out of work songs. His transcendent hit \u201cUntitled (How Does It Feel)\u201d\u2014the song illustrated by that classic music video\u2014feels more like a hymn than a pop song, even if it is clearly sung in praise of the body.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n