D'Angelo (born Michael Archer). February 11, 1974–October 14, 2025
“The divinity of (D’Angelo) was flawed and complicated but it was divine nonetheless. ”
October 14, 2025. 11:50am EST
I’m at work. Shit is hitting the fan. My longtime friend, Laura, calls me. Breathless.
“Hey? Are you alright?” she asks in a heightened, concerned tone.
“Why? What happened?”
Laura does a combined sigh/groan.
“You don’t know?!”
I knew what that meant. Someone famous that I adore and admire has died.
“Oh God. What?!” Encroaching deadlines and heaps of projects to complete meant I had zero time to even peek on social media.
“I don’t know anything,” I said. I prepped myself to hear the name of one of my favorite musical artists who is heading into his twilight years. Turned out to be a name I could not have prepared myself for.
Laura pauses.
“I’m so sorry to tell you this but D’Angelo has passed.”
This is the moment when time stops and the room starts spinning. I try not to yell into my iPhone as I head out of the office onto Hudson Street in Manhattan. I too loudly said to Laura as I bounded down the hallway of my office, “If you’re lying to me, I will board a plane to Chicago and kill you.”
Laura, staying calm and understanding of my not real(?) threat: “I wouldn’t lie to you about this.”
Minutes later, I hang up and text my sister who, except for today, is usually the person who plays the “grim reaper” role when celebrities I care about die.
Knowing how social media routinely “kills” living, breathing famous people (a few months back, Laura had inaccurately announced Celine Dion’s demise to me), I refused to believe it until a traditional news outlet confirmed the story. About 20 minutes after Laura’s call, I saw the story on Rolling Stone’s web site. “Oh no,” I murmured to myself. Then, it was OFFICIAL official.
The New York Times. Home page headline.
“D’Angelo, Acclaimed and Reclusive R&B Innovator, Dies at 51.”
I clicked the “gift article” box and immediately texted the link to my sister, with the message, simply: Confirmed. (broken heart emoji)
After that, it was me trying not cry, trying not to freak out, watching my phone blow up as nearly everyone who’s ever known me is texting or DMing me to see if I am okay. I am not okay. Duh.
But being at my day job and having to prepare for interviews with two major news outlets, losing my shit wasn’t an option. I held it together. I think the shock of the news helped with that. I’m still in shock as I write this, the day after D’Angelo’s family announced his death.
The divinity of Michael Eugene Archer was flawed and complicated but it was divine nonetheless. A voice both beautiful and sometimes guttural; so full of soul you can taste the chitterlings and fried okra when he sings. A multi-instrumentalist, producer and arranger (just like his primary musical influence, Prince) who created vibrant sonic landscapes that both haunted and excited his fans (read: me). Michael Archer was a singular talent, so much so that he shortened his name to one word alluding to another singular and divine artist, Michelangelo.
He was a poet. A preacher. A pessimist. A purient provacateur. A parent. A problem. D’Angelo went there with his all of his feelings, worries and desires; the music being a canvas he proudly displayed to all of us for a big chunk of his 51 years of mortality.
D’Angelo arrived at the mountaintop of the music industry at a young age and arguably too fast. But he was a wunderkind, so time and opportunity had no choice but to bend to his will. And seeing how short his life ended up being, I’m selfishly thankful that we were able to experience the three studio albums, the numerous live performances, the one-off collaborative singles, even the (in)famous music video for “Untitled (How Does It Feel?).” D’Angelo’s music was nourishment I and many others throughout the world craved, and we were fed gloriously.
Like anyone who loved D’Angelo (and I use the word “love” intentionally), I wish he was still with us. My heart hurts for his three children, especially his eldest and namesake, Michael—who suffered the unimaginable pain of losing both of his parents this year (Michael’s mother is singer/songwriter Angie Stone who was killed in an auto accident in March). However, knowing now that he succumbed to pancreatic cancer, I’m glad that D’Angelo is no longer in pain. His body and soul are at eternal rest.
Also, FUCK CANCER.
I wish I could have met you, D. If you did read my book, I hope you liked it. You blew my mind and changed my life with Voodoo. Thank you for entering my soul and refracting it back through your wondrous music.
Sleep well, Michael Archer. I love you.