Finding My Voice In The Unheard Melodies of a Cancelled D’Angelo Concert

There’s a moment, brief but stretching, when my thumbs hover over the screen of my phone, deciding what to say about my friend Donovan’s photo with his wife and daughters at the Eiffel Tower. Do I write something simple like “Beautiful pic!” or express how proud I am of his journey, from having never left our hometown to exploring the world with his incredible family? That feels too heavy for Instagram though, a platform designed for quick reactions and emojis.

I tap out “love the view!” and press send. It’s what feels acceptable here. The rest of the comments are just as hollow—hearts, flames, clapping hands, and short phrases that barely skim the surface of genuine sentiment.

How many times have we reduced our reactions to these little bite-sized engagements? These drive-by affirmations barely scratch the surface of how we truly feel. It’s all just noise.

But sometimes, a simple photo can trigger something deeper. Donovan’s photo made me think back to my own time in Paris.

I’ve been to Paris a few times before while on tour, but this was my first visit on my own time. Initially, I had planned the trip around D’Angelo’s planned solo concert at the famed Salle Pleyel. Despite a few reschedules and ultimately a cancellation, I decided to go anyways.

Paris is a truly beautiful city—the architecture, the art, the people, the food. It’s also, unexpectedly, hard to breathe there. I was not prepared for the unbelievable amount of cigarette smoke. It was nearly impossible to escape. Even sitting indoors at a restaurant, the lack of air conditioning means all the windows are open and the clouds of smoke follow you into the back corners of the room. Despite the smoke, the trip was unbelievably special.

I’ve always been drawn to places frequented by my favourite creatives. There’s something mentally + spiritually romantic about visiting the same places they visited in some weird attempt to absorb their energy—or rather to absorb the energy that absorbed them, allowing them to create the masterpieces of theirs I fell in love with.

Paris has plenty of these kinds of locations. The one that I was most excited about was Saint Germain’s Café de Flore. Café de Flore has played a role in the stories of many of history’s favourite creatives, but for me, it was the stories of James Baldwin sitting by the windows and writing some of my favourite literature that led me here.

After settling into my corner seat on the terrace, equipped with my café au lait and pain au chocolat fresh from the oven, I took out my small notebook and pen, and began writing.

I rarely write by hand anymore, but I knew my iPad would only invite distraction.

At first, I didn’t know what to write. I just wrote. I wrote about where I was, what I was seeing around me, and how my coffee and pastry tasted. I wrote about being led to Paris by my slight obsession with D’Angelo’s artistry. I wrote how excited I had been to hear the acoustics of Salle Pleyel—a venue designed specifically to complement Chopin’s performances on the iconic Pleyel piano—and how unforgettable it would be to hear D’Angelo play keys in the same venue.

I recounted my visit to Paris’ famous antiques market, where €10,000 mirrors left me in shock, but where I also discovered a treasure trove of rare records, including some harder-to-find D’Angelo b-sides and promo releases that had been forgotten in regional distribution warehouses around the globe.

As I continued to write, something shifted. My thoughts became clearer, and my expressions deeper. This act of writing without a specific topic or goal was changing me. Writing became the purpose itself. So, I wrote.

I found myself exploring the depths of my experiences, finding a rhythm in my thoughts. Once I found that rhythm, I was deep in the pocket like James Jamerson, Pino Palladino, or Clyde Stubblefield. I wrote for another hour or so until my hand cramped up. After putting down my pen, I ordered another cafe au lait and pain au chocolate, and savoured the moment.

I fell in love with that feeling—the freedom of writing and expressing myself without any external considerations or limitations. I don’t know why I’ve allowed the habit to fade. I’m lying; I know exactly why. Part of is the lack of time—or more accurately—lack of better time management skills. The other is social media. The micro-expressions encouraged by social media satisfy our mind’s desire for expression, while atrophying our ability to think and express deeply.

I prefer the luxury of solitude—away from the algorithms, ephemeral stories, and superficial interactions.

Though I don’t plan on leaving social media anytime soon, I find myself being more thoughtful about my approach. It’s no longer a primary destination for expression or consumption; rather, it’s a tertiary one at best.

My experience at Café de Flore taught me something valuable: we can create spaces for deeper reflection and expression anywhere. Sometimes, it’s as simple as putting away our phones and writing whatever comes to mind.

In a world of constant connectivity, knee-jerk reactions, and half-baked thoughts, perhaps the most revolutionary act is to disconnect, reflect, and express ourselves fully. It’s in these moments of solitude and deep engagement that we truly connect—with ourselves, our thoughts, and ultimately, with others.