D'Angelo: Beyond Taste, the Evidence of Music

The world is mourning the loss of a giant.

An artist who, despite years of silence from the charts, left an indelible mark on music and culture. The sudden, unexpected passing of D’Angelo has triggered a wave of tributes, heartfelt videos, essays, and reflections flooding every corner of the digital sphere. Presidents, actors, fellow musicians, managers, session players, engineers, designers, journalists, all paying homage.

But it didn’t stop there. The fans came too: intergenerational, multiracial, cross-genre. Hip-hop heads, jazz purists, R&B lovers, rock veterans, all mourning a voice that had somehow reached them beyond the boundaries of style or era.

D’Angelo touched deeper and wider than algorithms or relevance metrics could ever have predicted. His passing revealed something profound, that authenticity still matters, even when it disappears from the charts.

There comes a point where music is no longer about taste or opinion, it becomes a matter of evidence. shaped by facts, data and history. 

That’s the level where true artists live.

For me, there are four pillars that inspired and shaped my path: Michael Jackson, Bob Marley, Fela Kuti, and D’Angelo.

These are artists of intention, creative paths with a purpose. Their work wasn’t just about music; it was about spirit navigating through capitalism, about truth confronting a profit-driven society. They were disruptors. Steve Jobs’s famous quote sums it up:

“Here’s to the crazy ones, the misfits, the rebels, the troublemakers, the round pegs in the square holes… the ones who see things differently, they’re not fond of rules… You can quote them, disagree with them, glorify or vilify them, but the only thing you can’t do is ignore them, because they change things… they push the human race forward. And while some may see them as the crazy ones, we see genius, because the ones who are crazy enough to think they can change the world, are the ones who do.”

Through their art, they broke the system open, forcing it to face itself. They didn’t create for approval; they created to awaken.

And that’s where my compass is set.

When people equate success with followers, visibility, or money, when they define artistry through algorithms and applause, I struggle. Because the evidence to the contrary is right there, in plain sight.

Artists like D’Angelo, Fela, and Marley never sought validation. They were the validation. They were the evidence. They proved that soul and consciousness can shake the world harder than any trend, marketing strategy, or boardroom plan ever could.

D’Angelo, in particular, embodies that struggle between art and industry.

He was never built for the machine. His lyrics, his silences, his choices, all stood against the logic of mass production. His career reads like a spiritual case study:

BROWN SUGAR

The rebirth of classic soul, a reminder that groove and depth still mattered. Written and performed by D’Angelo with the help of musical prodigy Raphael Saadiq of Tony! Toni! Toné!. After the huge, unexpected success of that album, while D’Angelo’s spirit was going through the organic process of reboot and reset, his manager and his label were becoming impatient. They mistook and stigmatized that process and called it writer’s block.

The artist who had sold millions of records and generated so much money was supposed to follow up immediately. He was expected to catch the momentum and simply recreate another body of work that would sell millions. They didn’t understand. His manager, Kedar Massenburg, didn’t understand either. The creative goals of the artist, the manager’s expectations, and the label’s business strategy were misaligned. Talking about lack of faith (sigh).

Then EMI Records, his original label, was absorbed by Virgin. Business politics were the last thing D’Angelo wanted to deal with while he was in the creative space. Then one evening, chilling with his partner Angie Stone, watching some James Brown and Parliament live concert videos, the raw, unfiltered funk triggered a creative breakthrough for D’Angelo. As he described in interviews, he experienced a click and knew exactly what he wanted to do next. His contract still being in effect despite the label transition, he was financially supported and went on to create his second opus.

The funk renaissance. The return to reclaim the pyramids. Fusing soul, blues, funk, gospel, and hip-hop into one cosmic rhythm, raw, real, unfiltered. The environment for this creation, you ask? Electric Lady Studios, Jimi Hendrix’s recording temple. Stevie Wonder’s Fender Rhodes. Questlove on drums. J Dilla on MPC. Pino Palladino on bass. Charlie Hunter on guitar. Artists such as Erykah Badu, Roy Hargrove, Common, Mos Def, and Q-Tip hanging out and creating in the same building, simultaneous recording sessions unfolding across rooms. That vision demanded a sacred space, a temple worthy of the sound he was crafting. 1996 through 2002 was the Soulquarians era.

Five major groundbreaking albums came out of this period: Like Water for Chocolate by Common, Mama’s Gun by Erykah Badu, Things Fall Apart by The Roots, Fantastic Vol. 2 by Slum Village, and the transcendent, epic masterpiece the world came to know as VOODOO.

The impact and story of this cult album are well documented, so we won’t repeat what’s already all over the internet. We’ll focus instead on the reaction the audience had, the commodification of the artist, the sexualization of D’Angelo, where even fans, especially female audiences, were unconsciously complicit, that led to burnout and the cancellation of the remainder of his massively successful world tour. 

“They just want to see my chest. They’re not present for the music. I’m going off to get high and fat now.”

BLACK MESSIAH

His third album came out unexpectedly after 14 years. It was protest. It arrived amidst a restless America and rising racial tension, a nation searching for its soul again. Necessity. Urgency.

The iconic U.S. show SNL had the privilege and exclusivity to host his first television performance. Gone were the cornrows, the Timbs, the glistening muscular chest. D’Angelo stood with a vintage black guitar. He was intentional, rocking a stylish long trench coat, a head bandana, a tilted pork-pie hat. He had things to say. A powerful, subtle visual, he and his band performed over a chalk outline of a body drawn on the stage floor. He was confronting a broken world with sound.

Here’s what most people miss about D’Angelo: his work wasn’t just about style or emotion, it was about architecture, lineage, and reclamation.

Musically, Black Messiah is sophisticated, intricate jazz; deep funk; metal-rock; contemporary R&B; classic soul. Lyrically, it is conscious, political, romantic, spiritual, godly, and above all, urgent.

In a boardroom, you have little to no chance of convincing a label that mixing so many genres, being overtly political, and expecting commercial success is a good idea. That’s a format more suited to a niche, independent label.

By that time, D’Angelo had been dropped by Virgin, which ran out of patience and money to fund his “shenanigans.” Without a home, D’Angelo called Angie Stone, who was riding high with two successful albums for Clive Davis. That call set in motion his eventual signing to RCA/Sony, where Black Messiah would be born.

So, in a nutshell, as global posthumous tributes rightly call him a revolutionary musical genius, as credible and authoritative voices name him among their favorite artists, it is crucial to acknowledge the fact that his three albums were released by three different labels over a span of 28 years (1996 - 2014). Situations like this, business mergers, being dropped, creative conflicts, have broken and interrupted many artists’ careers. A lot of important music, incredible talent, and immense contributions to culture will never be heard or experienced by the world.

This is why I sometimes withdraw from certain conversations. Because when I hear people talk about music only in terms of who’s hot, who’s trending, who’s getting paid, it genuinely offends me. Not out of pride, but because it’s like watching people stare at the surface of the ocean, blind to the depths beneath. Pointing at the moon, and people focus on the finger.

There’s a red thread connecting all these visionary artists, Fela, Marley, Jackson, D’Angelo and it also runs straight through African artists: Miriam Makeba, Hugh Masekela, Salif Keita. They carry the same spirit. The same refusal to compromise. The necessity to denounce, to be authentic, to dig into the foundation, linking with ancestry, refusing to conform, adapt, or follow the rules.

But the industry, bound by Western frameworks, boxed them in. Musicians are products. Black artists are commodities. African artists became exotic curiosities, “world-music” tokens, when, in truth, they were the blueprint.

And that’s why AFROGROOV exists. Not to chase hype. Not to follow formulas. To shift the needle of expectations, to redefine the purpose of success. Money is the by-product, not the purpose.

AFROGROOV exists to defend music with intention, to create a culture of listening, reflection, and resistance. To re-channel the proceeds to be invested in the well-being of society, not to fatten the pockets of shareholders.

The equity deal between creators, the industry, and the market is off, exploitative, predatory, and unjust by design. It works exactly as intended. Today’s music economy rewards speed, visibility, and conformity. Streaming platforms generated nearly $30 billion in 2024, with 70% from streaming, yet most artists receive less than 10% of that value after labels, platforms, and intermediaries take their share. The industry grows richer while creators grow poorer.

On tour, an artist makes around $8 in profit from a $100 concert ticket after all costs are recouped by managers, agents, venues and record companies. On streaming deals, artists on average receive less than 10% of streaming revenue after label/publisher splits.

Across Africa, the imbalance is even more striking. The continent contributes less than 1.5% of global music revenue, though its sound defines global trends. Most artists rely on performances, brand events, or side gigs to survive, while royalty systems remain opaque or externally controlled. African sound fuels global playlists, yet most creators struggle to trace a single cent back home. No aspect of who they are or what they do shall be disposable, disrespected, commodified, or reduced to a product to be used, dismissed, or exploited.

The same tension plays out in the nightlife economy. Venues often depend on alcohol sales and sponsorships, not artistic value. While some DJs are paid well, usually those with high visibility or large followings, the current culture rewards metrics over mastery. Authenticity, musical knowledge, and skill have become secondary to algorithmic popularity. This imbalance has given rise to a generation of “social media DJs,” dominating lineups not for what they play, but for how well they perform online.

In its current form, this relationship dilutes authenticity, commodifies culture and artistry, and contributes to a decline in both musical quality and the musical IQ of creators and listeners alike.

This corrosion of balance alienates artists and creatives, normalizing depression, addiction, and mental-health crises, including suicidal thoughts, across the creative sector. 

According to the Sweet Relief Musicians Fund (2024), 73% of independent musicians report stress or anxiety directly linked to their work.

It’s a machine that rewards output over essence, the complete opposite of D’Angelo’s path: slow, intentional, soulful, human.

The Soulquarians, that revolutionary collective of kindred spirits who reshaped the sound of modern Black music, have now lost three of their brothers: J Dilla, James Yancey (1974-2006); Roy Hargrove (1969-2018); and Michael Eugene Archer aka D'Angelo (1974-2025). Each gone far too soon. 

Their absence reminds us of a deeper wound, the disproportionate number of Black men succumbing to illness, heart disease, hypertension, diabetes, and depression. These are not just medical conditions; they are social conditions, born of pressure, fatigue, racism, and survival in systems that rarely nurture Black health or creative longevity. Black men, watch out. Take care. Have yourself health checked regularly.

Despite his personal struggles, D’Angelo’s timeless music reminds us, and firmly confirms, that music is sacred, and creators are precious.

It’s wild to reflects on the fact that D’Angelo is survived by some of his musical heroes and inspirations, Ron Isley, Stevie Wonder, George Clinton.

They saw him coming, carrying their spirits and musical legacy, reshaping it in his own image, impacting the world with it and now he’s gone, while they remain. Their musical nephew and son became an ancestor during their lifetime. A strange, poetic turn of fate, one generation watching the torchbearer fade too soon.

In our fast-paced, AI-driven, tech-obsessed era, it becomes our collective responsibility to stand firm, keep the soul alive, and hold high the torch of real artistry, not just for nostalgia’s sake, but for the survival of our cultural humanity.