Never having had the pleasure of experiencing America's most authentic heir to Marvin Gaye's throne live before, it was hard to know what to expect from D'Angelo's long-awaited arrival in Brixton. Surely bound to be a polished, all-American show, would it also be as lazy and soporific as 'Voodoo', the man's last beautiful yet resolutely downbeat jam of an album? And if so, would the feet and attention span manage to last it out?
Shame on us, we should've known better. From the moment the band creep out onto the stage, the humid Brixton atmosphere is already coursing with pheromone-fuelled anticipation, and becomes utterly electrified. The relentless snapping of digital treble sees the band lurking around the stage in black hooded cloaks, like bizarre characters from an R&B retelling of Lord Of The Rings. Then one runs to the front of the stage to thrust back his hood.
As the spotlight picks out the figure of D'Angelo, the screaming begins and rarely seems to let up for the rest of the evening. A menacing version of 'Devil's Pie' is swiftly followed by 'Send It On', then the classic 'Feel Like Making Love' is trotted out, sealing the sense that Brixton is witnessing a classic soul performance in its own answer to the Apollo.
Throughout the show, Roots drummer Amir ?uestlove is perched on top of his kit looking like he just wandered into the venue off the street but commanding the tight performance with a military precision worthy of James Brown. Similarly, D'Angelo turns up the pressure reworking his own slow jams with more than a hint of the Godfather's funk and the occasional grunt, betraying that passion for cigarettes that smacks so incongruous with his trademark sweet high notes.
Then the barely contained hysteria breaks out with a vengeance as our rippling hero throws himself headlong into the crowd and a sea of female hands appear to rip frenziedly at his white t-shirt, revealing that famed chest. As D'Angelo pushes himself back onto the stage, nearly losing his trousers as well, he turns on the Godfather theatrics, scowling as the front rows, throwing down his mic stand and tugging indignantly at his trousers. If James Brown looked this way, he'd be taking notes.
A couple of favourites from D'Angelo's groundbreaking first album, 'Sh*t, Damn, Motherf*cker' and the title track 'Brown Sugar', have the crowd reluctantly anticipating the end of the evening. But he has one more treat in store for us at the close of the night.
An extended encore of 'Untitled (How Does It Feel?)' progresses with each musician in turn saluting the crowd and shuffling off stage. As the song is broken down to its constituent parts, eccentric guitarist Spanky Alford who looks for all the world a composite of Sly Stone and Johnny 'Guitar' Watson leaves the stage, and D'Angelo is left with only a keyboard player for accompaniment. Then he leaves D'Angelo to take to the keyboard and sustain the song's relentless questioning chorus, the crowd filling in for him as he requests and lights up a cigarette.
Hearing the man's shiver-inducing voice with all instrumentation stripped away provides the perfect end to the night, it's just a shame that, a good 25 minutes after the venue's usually strict curfew time, he has to cut the intimate moment short without leaving us to sing the chorus out.
