AN ANJELIC REPAIR

June 28, 2025 | 6:00 pm

Moon Dog Café, Harp Fundraiser Event

A translation of a live performance and presentation by a local Detroit Harpist, whose Harp needs repair

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There she sat in a light blue jumpsuit, her hair pulled up and locked in, her pedals pushed down. It was a hot day, so she reminded us to stay hydrated, even though her notes were water enough.

As soon as you walked in, you saw it: the harp, centered on stage, the vessel for her stories, varnished with the fingerprints of those who had played before her. The reason she was here was the second reason we came. The room was full of people who loved her speckled parts and resonated with the scratches beneath the surface. Everyone waited patiently for the first pull into frequency. Even in practice, every glide was a blessing.

Oh, the level of respect that the harp demands. Any other sound would have been a disservice to the spaces between—the ones that reminded us to breathe, while her notes aided us in release.

It felt like a sacred ritual as she began by invoking the ancestors, naming our local figures—Alice Coltrane and Dorothy Ashby.

She protected the space with her own “sense of belonging,” claiming that she writes “sad boy songs”—what felt like a disclaimer for the raw emotion and melancholy melodies to come. Nevertheless, we were engaged. We all knew what we came for.

Then she began to play.

How does she do it?

How does she stop the strings from connecting and overlapping with such grace and control?

Heads waded back and forth, eyes closed, allowing other senses to open. We were unborn inside the harp’s cocoon, relying on the rhythm to lullaby us into rebirth.

Before each portal, she would describe why she loved it. She said she admired a song by Dorothy Ashby because it sounded mad—like she was talking shit. These introductions never felt out of place; they were simply evidence that truth can be messy.

She had a potty mouth too—constantly intertwining “nigga” and reminding us not to take ourselves so seriously.

The first note into Journey in Satchidananda was low and felt familiar. Then she stretched the portal further with loops, inviting us into the cyclic nature of existence. If you ask me, it all felt like a distraction—like a mother spoon-feeding her baby pre-chewed vegetables with an airplane. We all waited until the last resonating vibration and clapped because we were indeed full.

She didn’t offer much transition—just threw us into the facts:

Did you know that Alice Coltrane was a monk?

That she had her own ashram and would travel to India?

That was Anjel—if you could keep up.

Now that we were all in, she decided to share her journey of “sprinting in the dark.” Every beginning felt like I understood the whole story.

She sang in poetry:

“Everybody wants my time…”

We got to witness the scratches beneath the surface—how the notes arrive to us so beautiful, because of the work she does inside her own shadow.

And she made sure to bring us along, asking us to share the burden of the melody. She wasn’t shy about telling us to sing a little louder.

I heard nothing beside me.

I saw nerves in front of me.

I felt the confidence behind me.

All mirrors. We reflected on one another.

I love how she wasn’t afraid to demand more from us, teaching us a thing or two about navigating the relationship between artist and audience, creating music to heal others through sound.

Before she began to play another original “War Inside My Mind”, she called herself “depressed and anxious”—even though we didn’t see that. We saw joy. We saw carefree. I’m sure, in those moments, many of us just wanted to embrace her. But instead, we listened to her play her diary out loud.

A soft SOS. A message that this is what her gifts do to her, and heavy is the head that wear the crown.

Every octave felt like tears escaping when we weren’t around. Or when others weren’t around us. We all felt it.

The next song was a reckoning, she said—a calculation and chosen conclusion for the part of her life when people judged her a lot.

She closed us with meditation and affirmation, reminding us that we are loved, and that the Divine has a master plan for every man… followed by a sincere chuckle.

Anjel is—just that—an angel.

When she stands in her power, I can’t help but chuckle too. Do we even realize that this is an angel in our presence? And what does it mean that we all came here to see her play?

Did her mother instantly know, as soon as she was carrying her?

The answers only leave me with more questions.

What if she came here on a mission, and fulfills it every time she contacts the harp?

Where does her purpose find her?

Is she finding it difficult to move without her strings—what puppeteers are pulling and pushing her in every direction to deliver a mission that isn’t hers?

Is she sometimes too heavy to carry everywhere? Is she reaching out for help?

She tells us “The harp is literally pulling itself apart.” That makes my skin crawl—but maybe that’s just a metaphor for the journey she/we are on.

Breaking open.

Breaking free.

Revealing the parts inside of us.

And yet, Anjel continues to play and explore—bringing her full self everywhere and delivering new songs, with 50-year-old wisdom. Positive. Hopeful. Trusting that guidance will meet her perseverance.

God bless Anjel—and the need for repair. As humans, we all need it too.

But our gifts are perfect.

If you would like to donate to Anjel’s Fundraiser, check out her GoFund Me page here

Follow Her on Instagram Here: @theblackharpist