Life Told Through Rap - Voodoo
Singing with spirits
Author’s note: This is a work of fiction. The only thing real about this story is the music.
“I named the album Voodoo because I really was trying to give a notion to how powerful music is…We use ‘voodoo’ in the drums…the cadences and call out to our ancestors and that in itself will invoke spirits. And music has the power to do that…evoke spirit.” – D’Angelo, Jet Magazine (2000)
Spirits. That’s the only thing he could think about while he walked under the warmth of the Cuban sun: him, his guitar and a yellow number “8” Los Angeles Lakers jersey clasping to the contours of his chiseled body.
As he explores the highlights of Havana, the man hears some music that holds his attention: a funky mix of soul and R&B coming from a nondescript jazz bar on the side of the street.
He walks inside and feels like he’s been transported to the 1970s: people seated on an assembly of wooden furniture while the walls are plastered with records of the day. Curtis Mayfield and Isaac Hayes. Al Green and Marvin Gaye. Roberta Flack and Donny Hathaway.
As the audience finishes applauding the band’s set, a woman goes up on stage and sings about the intricacies of her heart. The sheer amount of love she holds within it and how it doesn’t seem to be enough for the object of her affection.
She closes the song with a poem, flipping the narrative on its head. A poem criticizing the man who is now in love with her. Not the tender type of love that she wanted but the possessive, all-consuming kind of love that holds you tight and refuses to let you go. It’s a feeling that the man can relate to. A reminder of how he once treated a lady he used to know.
After hearing the woman’s song, the man feels compelled to go on stage, confess his sins and start a musical dialogue with her. He greets the band, waves at the congregation and vocalizes the first notes of the beat. The band quickly picks up on his rhythm and adds some Spanish flair to it. The groove has the crowd moving, united in their delight of having something to dance to.
The man keeps up the tempo and shouts out the phrase “chicken grease”. The band, hearing this, intuitively dig down into their funk roots as the man begins to strut on stage. The spirits he once feared start to take a hold of him now. He can feel them coursing through his veins, like a river about to overflow.
In a fit of sonic euphoria, the man abruptly cuts the song off with an elongated “he” as if he’s calling out to the Lord. The man takes off his jersey and walks around the stage in his white trousers, looking for the nearest guitar. A band member passes one to him and the man makes his way back to the mic stand, singing the words: “let me tell you about it, I wanna tell you about it”. The audience, equally filled with bewilderment and wonder, allow the man to continue with his musical testimony. A testimony about courage and conviction. A testimony about losing confidence and finding it again. A testimony about moving around the world with no fear.
The song ends and the man composes himself, apologizing to the stunned spectators for his temporary loss of control. He chuckles and blames it on the spirits, bashfully asking the congregation if he can testify to them one last time. They all nod in agreement and he brings a chair close to him. He lowers the mic stand and starts strumming a few guitar chords. The way that his fingers oscillate over the strings creates an audio viscosity, like water muddied with the magic and malice of mankind.
A whirlpool of pain, passion and paranoia. That’s the best way to describe the song being played at this moment. A moment of melodic mania where the mystical morphs into the mythological. Like Orpheus mourning for Eurydice, making the world share in his misery. Each lyric, an appeal to the “Alpha of creation” to alleviate his affliction. An affliction of a soul divided by the heartbreak of the past and the uncertainty of the future.
Stuck in the present, the man falls to his knees and brings the song to an end, laying the guitar on the ground as the ultimate sacrifice. With his eyes closed, the man mumbles the last remnants of a prayer, exhilarated by the experience of this spiritual affair.
Further Reading
[1] B. Getz, My Redeemer: A Love Letter to D’Angelo for 20 Years of Voodoo, The Upful Life
[2] dream hampton, D’Angelo: Soul Man, VIBE
[3] Harmony Holiday, Afro-Masochism, Black Music And Black Muses
[4] Touré, D’Angelo Is Holding Your Hand, Rolling Stone
Further Watching
[1] Black Orpheus (1959)
[2] Sinners (2025)
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Life Told Through Rap - Vodoo felt like a possession in prose. I loved the way you tied Voodoo’s spirit work to the man’s unraveling on stage. Someone getting baptized in sound. You caught that thin line between groove and spirit perfectly.