From New Breed Leader: Call Me Michael, Chapter 6: The Jam of the Tramps

June 1997

(2 years and 4 months before The Video)

D'Angelo had been very busy the past few months, nearly living at Electric Lady Studios in Greenwich Village, jamming and recording with Questlove and Raphael. He was immersed in music, searching for musical inspiration from the greats. D had a term to describe the greats. He called them "Yodas".

He soaked up everything from the Yodas; from every genre, jazz, rock, funk, soul, even folk.

Not just Prince, but the Founder of the studio he was camping out in: Jimi Hendrix. The other Yodas were George Clinton and Parliament Funkadelic; Bootsy Collins; Sly & The Family Stone; Stevie Wonder; Roberta Flack; Betty Davis; Joni Mitchell; Miles Davis.

But there were days when D didn't show up to the studio at all, leaving Ahmir, the producers and engineers frustrated when they couldn't locate him. Cellphones were still a new thing, but D never had one on him. After absorbing all that music back at the studio, D needed time to internally process it all by himself. He slept in most days, not even bothering to get out of bed. He listened to music on his CD Walkman, but sometimes, he just stared out the window, smoking.

The fame and success from Brown Sugar came swiftly. Suddenly D'Angelo was at A-list parties on both coasts, being toasted by the likes of Giorgio Armani and Anna Wintour. He received standing ovations from Tupac and Biggie at award shows. Sold-out stadium and festival shows attended by tens of thousands of fans. Being swarmed by those same fans when he tried to do simple human things like walking to the corner store. Stevie Wonder sang D'Angelo's songs back to him on the phone. It was a lot, and it didn't take long for D to become overwhelmed. After all, he was a simple country church boy from southern Virginia. They took things slowly where he was from.

Virginia. He missed home. He missed church. He missed his mother and his grandmother. He was able to buy big houses for all three of them because of Brown Sugar, so that was nice. But he felt farther from his family than ever before. During one tour stop in Britain for the Brown Sugar album, D'Angelo began to hyperventilate backstage and was rushed to the hospital. The attending emergency department doctor informed him and his team that he experienced an acute panic attack. D'Angelo had never even heard of a panic attack before.

He hadn't heard from Michelle since he dropped in unexpectedly at her apartment back in January.

Michelle.

He missed her most of all. He wanted to call her, but he was afraid she'd met someone else. He didn't want to chance calling her number and hearing another man's voice on the other end. But he couldn't get her off his mind. At Electric Lady, he played all the bootleg tapes Michelle made for him for Ahmir. He was blown away by what he heard.

"D! Are you in here?" came the female voice from down the hall.

D sat up in bed. "Yeah, I'm in the bedroom". He brushed the weed ash off his white wife beater shirt.

The door creaked open and Angie Stone walked in. Her hair was tucked underneath a forest green apple cap. She wore dark shades. Her skin was exotic and glistening, her lipstick, shimmering on her full lips. "I smelled the weed. Why ain't you at the studio?"

"Ion feel like it", D mumbled as he leaned back on the headboard. His face contorted into annoyance because he knew what was coming. A lecture.

Angie pulled her shades off. "What's the matter...are you not feeling well?" Angie moved closer to the edge of the bed. She reached a hand over and touched his forehead. He smacked it away.

"Ain't nothing wrong with me", D snapped.

"Well then why aren't you at the studio, D?"

D's jaw clenched. "I just said I don't feel like it, god dammit!". There was a snow globe next to him on a bedside table, a gift from Luther, one of his brothers. D snatched it and threw it across the room. It exploded against the wall.

Angie shut her eyes tight. She let out an exasperated sigh and sat on the edge of the bed. She'd seen this before. When D shut down and didn't want to face the world, there was nothing she could say or do to make him budge.

"Are you hungry?" she conceded. "I can make you something".

She cooked fried chicken and waffles. They ate in the kitchen.

"You know you ain't supposed to be eating this? Your personal trainer has you on a strict diet". Angie said as she poured syrup on D's waffles.

"Then why'd you make it for me?" D grinned, bits of waffles in his teeth.

That was a good question. It was rhetorical, though. They both knew the reason. Angie was in love with D'Angelo, and he loved her too. There wasn't anything she wouldn't do for him.

Angie watched D eat with a smile on her face. Then they made love and spent the rest of the day in bed together while they talked.

D was doing plenty of recording and jamming in the studio – but no writing. D suffered a terrible writer's block stemming from both perfectionism and imposter syndrome. After soaking in the Yodas all day, D felt like he couldn't measure up.

"What right do I have to stand among these amazing people?" D asked as he stared up at the ceiling.

Angie's head was cradled on D's chest. She slowly caressed his chest with one hand, the hum of his heartbeat vibrating in her ear.

"You just said the word, D. 'People'. They're just people, like you and me. And while it's true that God kissed them with amazing talents, at the end of the day, they're still fallible humans".

D sat up and swung his feet over the side of the bed, grabbing his pack of Newport's to pull one out. "No they not. They ain't just 'people'. They created masterpieces that stand the test of time. I want to do that, too".

"You already have", Angie said, caressing D's back. "And you will again. You just have to be patient". She moved over to him and wrapped her arms around his neck, tilting her head to look at his face. "Look, I understand that these artists are superheroes to you".

"They're more than that", D said as he placed a Newport between his lips. "Especially Prince".

"What do you mean?"

D pushed himself off the bed and walked over to a boombox on the other side of the room. He pressed a button. A tape ejected and he grabbed it and walked back to the bed. "You ain't heard what I been hearing. Somebody made a tape of some shit Prince did that he ain't put out. Shit's amazing, Angie", D shook his head, his voice filled with child-like wonder.

"Well let me hear it", Angie said

D neglected to mention that this "somebody" was another woman. He decided to keep that to himself. He popped the tape into his Walkman and handed it to Angie. She sat up and swung her feet over the side of the bed so she could concentrate. Pretty soon, her head started moving. "Oh shit, D", she yelled. "I like this!"

"What I tell you?" D smiled, the lit Newport in his mouth. He got up and sat next to her.

Angie pressed the stop button on the Walkman and pulled the headphones off. She placed a hand on D's shoulder and smiled. "You know, D...you don't have to worry about writing. If it's really that big of a problem, I can help you".

D cast his eyes down and shook his head. "I don't know", he mumbled.

Angie leaned into him. "Why don't you want me to help you? I am a songwriter myself, you know".

"True", D muttered, looking at her. He kissed her forehead.

Angie put her arm around D's neck and rested her head on his shoulder. "God kissed you, too". She waited for him to say something. But instead, there was silence as D turned his eyes back to the floor.

July 1997

New York loved Prince.

Prince was well into his major concert tour called Jam Of The Year, promoting his 3-disc Opus Emancipation. He arrived in New York triumphant. Local TV news stations did segments about the show, with interviews from the fans. The excitement was thick in the air. Unlike the small club show he did a few months ago at the Palladium, this was a major concert tour stop at a larger venue; Jones Beach in Long Island.

Michelle, Carl and Letitia Sanderson, who flew in from Chicago, were zooming along the Southern State Parkway. "I'm hot", Carl said as he fanned himself. "Please don't whine all the way to Wantagh", Letitia said. Before you knew it, Carl and Letitia were in each other's faces, screaming at each other a mile a minute. Michelle was at the wheel, trying to quell the noise, to no avail. You could barely hear her over the yelling. Finally, she snapped. In the middle of the Parkway, she slammed the brakes on the rental car, a metallic green Mercedes Benz Roadster. She didn't even pull over. "That's it! Fuck both of you!" Michelle screamed. Carl and Letitia propelled forward, their faces nearly smacking into the backs of the two front seats. Michelle's face was red with anger as she turned to look at them. "You two either get your shit together or I will throw you both out of this car and you will walk to Jones Beach. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, ma'am", Carl stammered. He shot a look at Letitia, who was still stunned from the outburst.

"We're sorry, girl", Letitia said, looking at Carl as if to say she got the message.

"But Michelle", Carl whined, "Can you please pull the top up and turn on the AC? I'm dying back here".

"I will do that right now, Carl". Michelle said as if she were addressing someone in customer service. She pressed a button and the black top whirred over them. Other cars sped by. Some were blaring Prince music. "We know where they're going!" Letitia said excitedly as a red Toyota zoomed past blaring Housequake. Michelle turned the AC on. The cool blast of air filled the sports car as it started to move towards Jones Beach.

All three were in the front row at the outdoor venue. The Artist arrived to the stage on a speedboat to thunderous cheers. Prince danced, writhed, and undulated all over the stage; played blistering electric guitar like the god he was. At one point during the show, before an expletive-filled song, Prince admonished all the parents with kids in the audience to usher those kids out before he proceeded with the number. Some audience members looked quizzically at each other, but most just hollered and kept dancing. They figured it was part of the show.

Unbeknownst to Michelle, D'Angelo was also in attendance. He, his brother Luther and Questlove watched the show from backstage.

As a recent graduate of the Columbia School of Journalism, Michelle was granted a press pass to the show. She didn't know what she was going to do career-wise, but she at least knew on this night; she'd be backstage. As the three of them wandered around looking for Prince, Michelle suddenly saw him. D'Angelo, leaning against a wall, talking to Questlove. He was dressed in black from head to toe. Black wife beater t-shirt, baggy pants, and black Timberlands. A burst of adrenaline exploded in her stomach and her eyes flared. D'Angelo was deep in conversation with Ahmir when his eyes darted in Michelle's direction. He did a double take and smiled wide. "Yo!" D said suddenly leaving Ahmir by himself as he sauntered over to her. "Michelle. What's up?"

"Well, hello, stranger", Michelle outstretched her arms for a hug. She was wearing a white cotton linen sundress with short sleeves. A large straw sunhat topped her head.

Their embrace was slow and tender. "It's good to see you again", D whispered in Michelle's ear. He lingered there longer than he should have, until Ahmir suddenly appeared. "Yo, Ahmir", D turned to him as he grabbed Michelle's hand. "This is Michelle. Michelle, this is Ahmir Questlove Thompson".

"Nice to meet you", Michelle extended her hand.

"So you're the one who made all those Prince bootleg tapes. Thank you for those", he shook her hand.

"Guilty as charged", Michelle smiled. She felt a hard nudge on her shoulder. She turned around to see Carl and Letitia, their arms folded. "Oh shit, I'm so sorry! D, you know Carl already. This is my other good friend, Letitia Sanderson, from Chicago. Letitia, D'Angelo and Questlove". Pleasantries and hands were lightly shaken. Just then, Luther appeared, and the introductions began again. "This is my brother Luther", D said to Michelle. "Damn that shake hands shit", Luther said. "Give me a hug".

"We gotta go", Ahmir announced. D leaned into Michelle's ear. "Prince wants us to go to Tramps in Manhattan", he whispered. "Meet me there?" His breath was warm, his voice syrupy and sexy. His accent was an ambiguous melding of Richmond and Brooklyn. The strong aroma of weed emanated from him.

"Of course", Michelle said softly, looking at Ahmir. His eyes narrowed as he sized her up.

"1 a.m.", D whispered. He squeezed Michelle's hand as he walked away. Letting go, he walked backwards so he could still look at her.

"I saw De la Soul here a year ago", Michelle said to Carl and Letitia as she flashed her press credentials at security and walked past them.

Tramps was a legendary New York City club. Bob Dylan played there. The Rolling Stones played there. De La Soul recorded their live album there. And in a few hours, Michelle was going to witness Prince – along with D'Angelo and Questlove – playing at the very same club.

"You got the Rhodes?" D said to Luther as he sat next to him in the tiny dressing room. Luther was breathing heavily. He was busy walking around trying to secure D's keyboard of choice after Prince suddenly invited him to join him onstage for his aftershow. "Yeah", Luther said as he fumbled with a cell phone. "They're setting it up now".

D sucked on a Newport as he sat back in his chair, watching people come and go. "Is Michelle here yet?" he said to no one in particular.

"I have no idea", Luther shrugged. "I'll go check", he sighed as he rose from his seat.

D'Angelo was experiencing the greatest night of his life. Backstage at the Jones Beach Amphitheater, his idol asked him to join him onstage at Tramps for a small club aftershow. Prince's aftershows were legendary; he was known for playing several hours at the regular show, then turning up at a random hole-in-the-wall club and playing even more hours, sometimes until sunrise. D had been listening to some of those shows, thanks to Michelle; and now, he was going to be part of one. He was on cloud nine. And is if that weren't enough, the girl he was enamored with was going to be in the audience, watching the whole thing.

"What's making you smile like that?" asked the deep voice. D jolted to attention, sitting up straight. Standing in the doorway, wearing shades, a cream-colored jumpsuit and a white hooded parka, was Prince.

"Yo", D said, quickly stubbing his cigarette out on the ashtray behind him. "I'm sorry", D cleared his throat.

"Never apologize for smiling", Prince said as he sauntered into the dressing room. His bodyguard, Aaron, a thin bald white man standing nearly 6 feet tall and dressed in a black suit, stayed in the doorway. Prince pulled a wooden chair from underneath the makeup table, flipped it around, sat down and rested his chin on the back of it. "So...did you enjoy the concert?"

"Yeah", D gushed, a wide grin lifting the corners of his mouth.

"I gave my band the night off. It's just us tonight", Prince said, looking at D.

"Cool", D smiled. His idol was engaging in a conversation with him. D wanted to be careful not to say anything foolish, (including calling him "Prince") so he just smiled and nodded while The Artist talked. A female scream suddenly pierced the room. D turned his head to look at the doorway, where Aaron was physically preventing a young woman from breaking through and assaulting Prince. Prince himself didn't even flinch. He just kept talking to D like nothing else was happening.

"Hey", Prince tapped D's arm. "What song do you want to play?"

D looked at him and froze. What song? What song? D thought. His stomach did flips and his face beamed. I can't believe my idol just asked me what song I want to play. He had dreamed of this moment, prepared for this moment, all of his young life. And now that moment had finally arrived. D suddenly realized he had been silent for a couple of minutes. Prince was staring at him, waiting for an answer. "The Ballad of Dorothy Parker!" D blurted.

Prince immediately shook his head. "Naah. Not that one". Prince turned his head to the doorway. "Hey, Aaron...get me some Fiji water, please. And where's Larry?"

That same fight-or-flight feeling D felt when he had the panic attack in Britain returned. His face was crestfallen. His eyes began to dart nervously and blink rapidly. He rocked back and forth in his chair as he lifted his hand to the top of his braided head and rubbed it.

"Yo", he finally said, deciding to take that dive off the cliff. "You don't understand. I gotta play that song". His voice was small, but sincere. "I got to. You just gotta let me play it". He said everything but "please". He never said that word to anyone, but if he had to say it to His Royal Badness, D was prepared to lower himself to do just that.

Prince's eyes were hidden behind a pair of shades, so D couldn't read his expression. Prince's hands were clasped as he drummed his fingers together. A beat, then...

"Alright. We'll play that one. Then we'll play Brown Sugar...cool?"

D's heartrate slowed and the rapid blinking subsided. He could breathe again. "Thank you", he exhaled, a wide grin lifting the corners of his mouth.

"You sing lead on it, ok?" Prince said. D nodded in agreement.

Questlove suddenly appeared. Prince briefed him on the setlist.

In the audience, Michelle, Carl, Letitia and a couple hundred other lucky club-goers waited for something to happen. This was protocol for Prince aftershows: be prepared to wait and wait a very long time. Letitia and Carl were leaning on each other, wracked with tiredness. "The things we do for Prince", Michelle laughed as she looked at the pair. The overhead lights dimmed and there were multiple screams from the crowd. Prince, D'Angelo and Questlove slowly walked onto the small stage. The place erupted. Ahmir took his place behind the drum kit; D settled in behind the Rhodes organ that his brother moved heaven and earth to get delivered at the 11th hour. He pulled the microphone that was situated inside its stand near his mouth. Prince picked up a bass guitar and, with the help of a guitar tech, secured the strap around himself.

There were no greetings, no song introductions. The three men went straight into the first song, "The Ballad of Dorothy Parker". Michelle could've taken off like a rocket, she was so happy. Ahmir drummed that classic staccato beat that the song is famous for; D's nimble fingers glided across the keyboard; Prince turned into thunder thumbs. He leaned back on one leg while he curled his lips, looking out at the club crowd with a regal air. Michelle looked up at him with fawning adoration, grooving to the music. Then she looked over at D, partially hidden by the keyboards, but she could still see his round face, illuminated by the spotlight, which kept changing colors. She craned her neck so she could see him better, maybe get his attention. When D turned his head and looked directly at her, she knew she succeeded. She waved at him; he returned a big smile.

D began to sing the lyrics, in the exact same key and cadence as Prince's on the record. "Dorothy was a waitress, on the Promenade...she worked the night shift..." The crowd exploded with screams, shouts and whistles. Michelle almost couldn't tell if it was D or Prince singing. The music shook the floor beneath them as the funky trio jammed for nearly 10 minutes. D slowly turned his head, following his almond eyes as they fixed on Michelle. "You're kinda cute...wanna take a bath?" he sang with a wink. Michelle's body felt warm and her cheeks stung with blush as "woos" and screams swelled around her. The next song, Brown Sugar, elicited more screams and shouts from the crowd. You could barely hear D as he sang because the crowd sang over him. "Let me tell you 'bout this girl, maybe I shouldn't...I met her in Philly, and her name is Brown Sugar..."

His voice was a moving thing. It reached out and touched Michelle in private places. It had texture; she could feel his voice on her skin. Their eyes met again, and Michelle smiled wide, acknowledging his sensuous effect on her. When D sang "stick out my tongue and I'm 'bout ready to hit this pretty gritty bitty with persistence..." Michelle shut her eyes. She could feel his tongue inside of her, his silky-smooth voice transporting his desire straight to her imagination. She needed cold water. She was even warmer now. Prince didn't sing a note; he let D do all the vocal work. They jammed on Brown Sugar for another 10 minutes. When the song was done, there was shouting from the audience. "I love you, Artist!" I love you, D'Angelo!"

Questlove tested the kickdrum. Prince was standing in front of him, talking to the audience. A wicked grin spread across Ahmir's face. "Yo, D", he stood up slightly so he could see D's face. D looked back at him. "Yo", he replied.

"Let's play it", Ahmir said.

D knew what "it" was. "It" was one of the Prince songs they had been playing for hours at Electric Lady the past few months. He nodded knowingly, returning a devious smile. Not waiting for direction from Prince, Ahmir counted off with his sticks and started playing the drums. At first, the pattern was unrecognizable. D joined in with a keyboard line. Sporadic screams and shouts erupted as the crowd began to realize that they were listening to "Head", from Prince's third album "Dirty Mind". Then the cheers became loud and raucous. Ahmir hammered out the funky drums. D banged on his Rhodes, moving his head to Ahmir's funky beat. The only thing missing was Prince's iconic bassline, the thing that made Head, "Head". Michelle was so focused on watching D play, she didn't notice that Prince all but evaporated from the stage. She looked over to where he was standing but he was gone. "Where did Prince go?" she asked Carl. "Girl, he ran off the stage", Carl said, wiping his sweat-glistened face with a handkerchief. "You didn't see him?"

"Yeah", Letitia chimed in. "He froze, like this..." Letitia stood motionless, locking up her muscles, her eyes looking like she'd been electrocuted. "Then he sprinted off the stage".

"Really?" Michelle said slowly, tapping her index finger against her cheek. That was...weird".

"Girl, it's Prince – when is he not weird?" Carl asked.

"No, no", Michelle shook her head. "This isn't his usual weird. This is...different".. She craned her neck to get a better look backstage. Standing in the wings, with his arms crossed, was Larry Graham. What's he doing here? Michelle thought.

She looked over at Ahmir and D. They were still jamming, both men deep in their respective pockets. D's eyes were focused on his hands as he played. But the smile that was there a moment ago had dissipated. His jaw tightened, his forehead furrowed. D looked dejected. Michelle knew that D was thrilled to be able to play with his idol. Her face softened as she looked at him with sympathy because she knew something had gone wrong and D felt rejected.

Despite all of that, Questlove and D'Angelo kept playing. D mumbled some of the lyrics to "Head". "Remember when I met you, baby, you were on your way to be wed...you were such a sexy thing...love the way you walk, the things you said..."

Michelle swooned; the sound of D's soulful voice manipulated her like a puppet. Just like when she listened to his records, he made her feel sexy, despite being a big girl.

D kept singing. "I was so nonchalant, didn't want you to be misled..." The  head turn again, even slower this time. D's sensual lips parted as his eyes locked with Michelle's.

"But I got to have you, baby...I got to have you in my bed..." D cooed, his falsetto tinged with lasciviousness. His eyes stayed on Michelle, a lusty stare boring through her.

If Michelle hadn't received the message the first time, it would have been crystal clear to her now. Staring back at him, she bit her upper lip. The "Head" jam went on for a few more minutes, then D raised a finger in the air and Ahmir crashed his cymbals, ending the song to rapturous applause.

It was nearly 3:30 a.m. as they filed out of the club. "I wonder why Prince suddenly left the stage", Letitia wondered aloud as she yawned.

"Maybe he had to pee", Carl said. All three stopped in their tracks near the door. Michelle and Letitia gave him a look. Then they all burst into laughter. Emerging into the warm New York summer night, they walked along West 21st Street for a couple of blocks, stretching their tired limbs. "Questlove and D'Angelo were so good", Michelle swooned as they walked. "Yes, lawd", Carl drawled, doing a high kick. "I am going to remember this night forever", Letitia said.

Behind them, a deep voice bellowed "Yo!" Michelle turned around. D'Angelo, pushing his way through a crowd of fans trying to pull him back, was headed towards them.

"Yo, hold up", D said as he approached.

"Hi! Why aren't you with Prince?"

D wrapped his arms around Michelle's waist and pressed his lips against her cheek. "I just wanted to see you", he whispered. Adrenaline flooded her body at his touch. Her heart raced and she felt dizzy.

"Great show tonight, Mr. Archer", Carl said, taking a bow.

"Thanks, man", D smiled.

"It was so good", Letitia chimed in.

"I'm glad you enjoyed it", D said, giving her a hug. Letitia's eyes almost bugged out of her head. He turned his attention back to Michelle. "Yo...I'mma call you...aight?" His face was inches from hers.

"Ok", she said, looking directly into his eyes. She took a mental snapshot of his pupils, his lashes.

Carl slid his hand between their faces. "Heelloooo. Girl, it's time to go. No offense, Mr. Archer, but I'm tired. Michelle, where did you park the car?"

Michelle and D hugged once more and said their goodbyes. She ruminated on him all the way back to the Bronx on the drive home and back at her apartment. She also thought about Prince abruptly leaving the stage at Tramps. She couldn't stop wondering why it happened and wanted to know why. She could still feel D's arms around her waist. She lifted a hand to touch her face as she smiled at the memory. Her mind raced back and forth between the two things...D'Angelo and Prince.

Why did Prince abruptly leave the stage like that?

Does D'Angelo like me?

Why did Prince ask people to remove their children from his concert before he performed that song?

I think I'm attracted to D'Angelo.

What was Larry Graham doing at Prince's show?

I know I'm attracted to D'Angelo. There's no doubt about it.

When she thought of him now, she smiled warmly and she felt light enough to float. Though she was tired, a flood of exhilaration filled her entire body, like she had swallowed a warm liquid.

When Michelle awoke the next morning, it was crystal clear what she wanted to do. Opening her bedside table, she plucked a business card from the bottom. She lifted the cordless phone from its cradle, pulled out the antenna and dialed the number. She placed the card on the table, tapping it with her right index finger while holding the phone with her left. It rang twice. When it picked up, she heard heavy breathing. "This is Tom McGinnis, Metro desk".

"Mr....McGinnis?" Michelle almost changed her mind and hung up the phone. But she knew this was the right decision. She shut her eyes tight and swallowed. "This is Michelle Simmons".

"Oh yeessss", he drawled. "Hello, Ms. Simmons. How can I help you?" He sniffed.

"Is your offer for a sex columnist still available?" Michelle said hesitantly.

There was a pause during which Michelle's heart raced, because it occurred to her that Tom could've been joking when he brought it up inside the New York Recorder's conference room that day.

"Why, yes...yes it is, Ms. Simmons", Tom said, his voice gruff, but jubilant.

"Good", Michelle exhaled. "I accept".