My Colleagues Saw D'Angelo Live in Concert While I Sat Furious and Alone

No lie, I was sobbing.

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Complex Original

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Last night at 6:10 p.m., I sent the first of three text messages that, I'd hoped, would score me a last-minute seat at the massively destined D'Angelo concert about to take place just a half-mile walk from my house, at the Apollo Theater in Harlem. My gambit was desperate and potentially deadly, but I was left with no other options, short of barbarity.

1.

Damien is the lead editor of Complex Music, Christine is the channel's managing editor, and Ross is a deputy video editor. All three of these guys were together at the D'Angelo concert, whereas I was sitting on my couch in gym shorts, alone, listening to Björk, reading Roberto Bolaño, and chugging a liter of diet iced tea. I'd known for three weeks that Damien, Christine, and Ross had successfully bought tickets to February's biggest solo show in New York, a headline set by D'Angelo, the most elusive artist of my generation.

Half an hour after my initial series of conspiratorial text messages, all three of these dummies foiled my plot.

2.

I took to Twitter and saw that a prominent chunk of my timeline was engaged in one of two activities: (a) bragging that they were a will call away from seeing D'Angelo perform at a landmark theater, or else (b) bitching about their having failed to get tickets to witness a destiny 15 years in the making. Already so full of proud resentment, I tweeted about Björk instead.

Meanwhile:

3.

While Damien may indeed have blocked my number, Ross was more than happy to send me real time updates and details of the venue, the crowd, the mood, set times, etc. This was around 8:30 p.m., when I'd switched from Björk to Young Scooter, who, like me, is often disgusted and disgruntled with this world full of busters, suckers, and timid hustlers. If I had been listening to Young Scooter just a few hours earlier into the evening, who knows: I might have scissor-kicked and yoga-flamed my way into the Apollo Theater, max capacity be damned.

4.

I grew bitter. Typing but deleting drafts of spiteful texts. Chewing my nails, pacing the kitchen in search of hidden cookies. Despite my prediction to Damien that D'Angelo would be another 15 years late to his set, Christine texted me at 8:34 p.m. to tell me that the lights had dimmed; the beginning was nigh. A ripple shook their hearts, and mine.

5.

At that point I was back to cruising Spotify, where I noticed that Grantland writer Rembert Browne, friend of Complex, was streaming Brown Sugar. Presumably he, too, was missing out on the live show due to cutthroat demand for tickets and systemic racism, and whatnot.

Listening to Brown Sugar or Black Messiah would've proven too painful for me yesterday evening. Around 9:30 p.m. I switched from Young Scooter to Fela Kuti and then Verckys & L'Orchestre Vévé

6.

At which point I shook my fist at the refrigerator, choked on a rosemary Triscuit, and, eventually, passed out.


(Editor's note: Justin survived the Triscuit, and we also survived the D'Angelo show. Barely.)

Justin Charity is a staff writer at Complex. Follow him at @brothernumpsa

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