Due to a prior commitment, I arrive at the Superdome for the first day of the Essence Music Festival around 10 p.m., just in time for the close of Trey Songz’ set. He shouts out the ladies, then closes with the club anthem “Bottoms Up.” This climaxes with him ripping off his wife-beater to general gasps and screams. I find this odd, as Trey Songz isn’t exactly, well, D’Angelo circa 1999 in the physique department. Nonetheless, the crowd’s on their feet. A snarling guitar solo ends the song and the set. Pretty abruptly, really.
The Main Stage’s emcee, Nephew Tommy, promptly appears and welcomes Ronald McDonald to the stage. Yep, the burger clown. Ronald McDonald speaks. It always feels weird when a clown talks, but this occasion is made stranger with the introduction of Kid ‘n’ Play and their House Party co-star Tisha Campbell. The group recalls childhood memories of the McDonald’s jingle “da da da da daaaa,” then exits, leaving Nephew Tommy and the DJ to continue the intermission entertainment.
If you haven’t been here since the re-branding, a striking component of the newly named Mercedes-Benz Superdome is the automaker’s logo that takes up the crown of the roof. Like, right where that hole was.
D’Angelo arrives with a nine-piece band and initial problems with vocal mics. He dons a guitar, also hard to distinguish at first, and begins to sort things out, jabbing with his voice, finding his feet with the band—which is stellar. On “Devil’s Pie,” he sheds the guitar and you feel that the star will re-shine now. On the screen, Vanessa Williams seems entranced in the third row.
Of course, his physical appearance is ever noteworthy, entangled with our memory of him. In a recent feature in GQ, the curse of that body is much discussed as a factor in his disappearance. Tonight, he wears a sort of biker outfit that I can respect for its lack of reference—he dresses on his own terms now. But the body seems unsuited for disrobing and his face remains handsome, but more paunchy, his wolf eyes wary. This is the return of an artist, not an object.
The artist left us nearly a decade ago, his body of work a marriage of ’90s hip hop/R&B and a serious obsession with Marvin Gaye. Sultry, moody, and longish by the format’s standards, his songs on Voodoo layered vocals and horns into a musing, scatting head bop. Tonight, he does extended versions of “Chicken Grease” and “Shit, Damn, Motherfucker,” perfectly good tracks for getting close, or meditative car rides. If anyone asks if D’Angelo is back, the answer is yes. He and the band manifest sound just fine picking up where he left off.
His era, however, is gone. A contemporary prince like Trey Songz produces adrenaline-laced club music. D’Angelo was never that and certainly won’t transform into one now, not after all he’s been through. Even on “Lady,” a great romance song that’s well-received by this arena of couples and single ladies, there’s no dramatic arc, because D’Angelo’s sound is built for long nights, not one-night climaxes. Whether his audience still wants the sound without the build is yet to be seen.
Near the end, the band disappears and D’Angelo sits at a keyboard. We know what’s coming. He plays the first notes of “Untitled (How Does It Feel?)” and elicits squeals from the so-far languid crowd. Then he dashes from the bench and stands center stage, staring mischievously at us. We know that shirt isn’t coming off. He holds the pose just a moment, then returns to the organ and gives us a mere 90 seconds of his career peak. The band returns for two more songs. Something sad about this set.
I walk up to the McDonald’s Superlounge and catch part of Marsha Ambrosius’ set, which includes a medley of covers, the DJ pivoting on a dime between “Poison,” “It Takes Two,” and “N—-s in Paris.” People love it.
Returning to the floor of the Dome, I find a man in a nutcracker outfit introducing Charlie Wilson. Then the dancers bounce onto stage and Wilson hits it hard. Nearly 60 years old, the former Gap Band leader is a master showman, precise and sweaty. His suit is sharp and his band moves in step with him. If he has one, Justin Timberlake should add to his resume: “Writer, ‘Beautiful,’ covered by Charlie Wilson, 2012.” The contrast with D’Angelo is as stark as Songz/D’Angelo. This is how stars age well—maintaining the look, keeping up the catalog, surrounding oneself with constant snaps of energy and hiding one’s eyes behind dark glasses. It strikes me that, even if he never doffed his shirt, D’Angelo was way too naked up there.
