1986: Rapture, Anita Baker
DeAsia Paige
It’s deafening—the perpetual loneliness. Silence is a sound too aching to ignore. I’ve lived in six different states in the past six years, so I guess I should be used to it now. But I'm not. Growing up with no siblings and no cousins my age meant that family is few and far between. And friends are hard to find. Constantly being alone stings like the mosquito bite you can’t get rid of. Because feeling like the loneliest person in a crowd of people gets tiring. Because finding something to do on your phone to pretend you don’t care about being alone in public feels too routine. And being your own plus one at concerts blares louder than any of the songs performed.
Maybe that’s why I latch onto people so quickly and feel heartbroken when they’re no longer in my life, even when I haven’t known them for long. I don’t want them to leave.
And romance? I have yet to be in a real relationship, and I'm not sure if I will be. Maybe it’s the sexual trauma that fractures those chances. The first guy who told me he loved me was 19 when I was 14. He lied, cheated, conceived a child with someone, lied again and cheated with someone else. I haven’t believed in "I love you" since then. Or maybe it’s just bad luck.
At 24, I still feel like the fourteen-year-old girl who's waiting for a partner to tell me they love me and mean it. And as an only child, I deeply mourn the only child I almost had at 21. Because maybe I wouldn't feel as alone now. And maybe I wouldn't be as skeptical of love.
To be a Black woman living with severe trauma means to be in a perpetual state of migration. I'm always searching for a safety and love that I'm not sure exists for me.
But when I listen to Anita Baker’s Rapture I feel a little less lonely. All of the doubt subsides. I become a believer in love. The album warmly invites me, albeit temporarily, to understand the endless possibilities of having a romance that feels both liberating and comforting in a society that seeks to make that a distant dream instead of a reality. Rapture dares me to have hope. It consoles me.
Rapture, Baker’s second album, was released in 1986. In that same year, Janet Jackson made her declaration of independence with her groundbreaking album "Control," which introduced the pop star's new standard of funk-inspired dance beats. And Bobby Brown was searching for his post-New Edition emancipation with his debut album. Anita Baker yearned for her own coup d’etat. Her debut solo album “The Songstress” arrived in 1983 via Beverly Glen Music. While the LP shined for dreamy ballads like “Angel” and “You’re the Best Thing Yet,” it lacked the thundering emotional intensity and vocal dexterity that made “Rapture” feel and sound like Baker’s honorary unveiling.
Before Baker released Rapture, she signed to a new label (Elektra), named herself as an executive producer on her forthcoming album, and wanted to fully immerse herself in the soothing sounds of quiet storm. The result? A succulent eight-track collection that caresses the bliss of falling in love like a newborn baby. It gently swaddles love’s perseverance. And welcomes its desire. At 28, the croons of Detroit native encompassed the heart and soul of what happens when you lead with love.
As a fellow Detroit native, I heard snippets of Rapture throughout my childhood. On car drives after Sunday service. At wedding receptions. In the house during any cleaning day. But I never connected with the album until I started collecting vinyl records when I turned 22. Rapture was one of the first records I bought mainly because its album cover spoke to me. Record stores can often pose as art museums simply because of the colorful variety that an album cover brings. For Rapture, Baker, with eyes shut, hugged herself while donning an all-black outfit against a smoky gray backdrop. The cover introduced Bakers as a woman who was so deep in love that she never wanted to be pulled out of it. So all she could do was hug herself. I wanted to be her. I wanted to know her. I wanted to feel as loved as she did; so, I played the album for the first time on vinyl as soon as I returned home from the store.
“You Bring Me Joy,” backed by crescendoing chords and a honeyed saxophone solo, contains candy-coated melodies from heaven (see Yolanda Adams’ gospel take on the song during the 2018 BET Awards) that can mend the brokenhearted. Chronic loneliness makes me feel like I’m drowning in an ocean and no one’s there to help. Baker’s voice throughout the track is the balm that saves me. The words: Your bring me joy / When I’m down / Oh so much joy /
When I lose my way your love comes smilin' on me –– it sounds and feels like she’s speaking directly to me. That I’m someone worth saving. That I am loved. Baker’s lavender-laced contralto peaks on the funk balladry of “Sweet Love” –– making anyone who hears it instantly aches for the sweetest of loves that their heart desires. And “Been So Long” yearns for the tender, love, and care you know you deserve. I won’t be neglected / I won’t be denied, Baker sings in the opening verse.
No song solidifies that fiery emotion on the album more than “Caught Up in the Rapture.” Baker’s voice smolders into a floral fragrance that you decide to wear in the spring. And it sketches the joy of a summer romance. Her tone becomes an anointing oil. And my heart starts to believe in love and all of its possibilities. Listening to Rapture feels like a dream. The album evokes the bliss of a love that I’m not sure I’ll ever experience, but it offers me the hope that I might.
As the album ends, I’m reminded of my reality—-one in which misogynoir is a shining star. And the quest for love feels futile. And more people are exiting my life than they are entering it, like using a faulty revolving door that only has an opening on the outside but none of the inside. Maybe there’s something wrong with me. Granted, I’m in my twenties, and I still have a lot of life to live, but when trauma has consumed your outlook on love and the life you already have, it’s hard to have any optimism for the rest of it. The desire to simply be desired wanes. Loneliness becomes practice. Love fades away.
On Rapture, Anita Baker makes love feel magical, tangible, and heavenly. Her voice throughout the album is so rich in dimension that it cemented her status as a pioneering contralto in R&B. Rapture proves that love ballads can be just as convincing and sharp when sung in lower tones. In fact, the heft of Baker’s texture feels so explosive, that it makes you believe that love can truly conquer anything. That it can be as sweet as it is on “Sweet Love,” or as self-affirming and as “Been So Long.” I won’t be neglected / I won’t be denied. Maybe it is.
And maybe one day I’ll be caught up in love’s rapture, too. But for now, Anita Baker’s Rapture is enough to pull me through.
DeAsia Paige is an Atlanta-based music and culture reporter. Her work has been featured in Pitchfork, Elle, Teen Vogue and more. In 2020, she published her first book "The College Diaries: How a Budding Black Feminist Found Her Voice." She truly believes there's a song for everything. You can follow her on X and Instagram: @deasia_paige