So this is an amazing recording, even an important one. It will perhaps seem petty, then, to note that its whispers seduce but rarely satisfy. The album's sounds, though stunning, are less immediately distinctive than those of D'Angelo's female counterparts Lauryn Hill and Macy Gray, and the album feels less emotionally realized, generally, than the neo-soul of Hill, Gray, Angie Stone or Mary Blige. Voodoo's fusion elements are striking, but compared to the improvisations of Miles Davis and others, they come off canned and even a little lite-jazzy. And while D'Angelo (who will perform April 3 at the Paramount Theater) notes that his grooves "come in the name of Jimi, Sly, Marvin, Stevie and all artists formerly known as spirits," they next to never lead to the kind of sonic or spiritual release that those heroes routinely provided in something as basic as a memorable chorus. Every groove on Voodoo rocks you slowly and sweetly through the night, but come morning, you're surprised to find yourself alone and still aching for a climax to save your soul.