Untitled (How Does It Feel)

Here's a secret that anyone who knows me knows: my greatest fear is not heights, nor any creature, but the chance that I could die from pancreatic cancer.

My dad passed in 2013 from it at the age of 56. My grandmother met the same fate four years later in her early 80s. Both were heavy smokers, which exacerbates any genetic condition and invites in a bevy of risks. As does weight, environment, and the like. They both passed in a few weeks, catching it late and suffering immense pain in the end. I was by their side for their last days and got to talk to them as they went through it, which I hope to never have to witness with anyone I love again (or personally, for that matter).

Anyone passing is sad. When it's a notable name or someone I looked up to, it's something I take a pause (or a bit of time, depending on their importance to me) and consider their impact, ruminating on it through the day. When someone of note and of personal import passes of pancreatic cancer, it crosses the feeling of being an ardent fan with the experience of witnessing two people I loved more than words can say as they suffered until their last breath.

It's impossible to overstate the importance of D'Angelo to me as a music obsessive or to the world of music. He is somehow known around the world, in every party where (neo-) soul is played and where people know the lyrics to his hits and deep cuts on instinct alone, yet also supremely underrated. He had two masterful albums, disappeared for over a decade, and randomly came back with one of the best records in the last two decades alone. People still wanted his music, wished to see him live, and were happy with the new music they got. If that's all they got, that was it, and his body of work alone spoke for itself better than most musicians in the last ~65 years. The only other comparable career is Bill Withers, and no disrespect to Mr. Withers, but I know the lyrics to "Chicken Grease" better than the tracklist of Still Bill.

D'Angelo is also the person I saw on TV in the beginning of January 2000. Freshly back from a vacation in the Borscht Belt, I stayed up into the late hours to watch music video premieres on MTV (yes, still, in 2000) and caught the premiere of "Untitled (How Does It Feel)" which blew me away — the song, the still shot, the man baring his soul and beyond. By then, I was already an advanced intermediate student of '90s hip-hop, obsessed with Janet, Tribe, TLC, En Vogue, and the like. This was different. The beat was off (thanks to Questlove completely ripping J Dilla's signature timing), all other instruments came in when they wanted to, the bridge tore everything up to build it back up to D'Angelo hitting the highest of high notes, only for everything to abruptly stop. Having never heard anything like it, it blew my thirteen-year-old mind, and I needed more of it.

D'Angelo shouldn't be summed up by "Untitled." Doing so more or less drove him away from the industry for thirteen years. And while his body of work has no low points at all, this song was a turning point for me: where The Smashing Pumpkins and other like bands started to sound a lot less interesting than before, where sonic experimentation began to dwarf sonic conformity, and "four loud white guys with guitars" (as my dad put it) quickly became old hat. There is before "Untitled" and after in my life, where for the last 25 years, I sought after sounds I hadn't heard before by the most beautiful voices and inventive studio tinkerers. I obsessively chased a similar high for nearly three decades and only rarely got a comparable fix.

D'Angelo died today at 51 of pancreatic cancer. My dad died at 56. My grandmother died at 83. I've worried about meeting the same fate every day for the last 12 years of my life, and I likely will keep doing that for the rest of my life. Yet between the worries is and will continue to be a rewarding life lived, remembering and admiring those lost and what they leave behind well after they're gone.