The Adventures of Aretha, the Queen of Soul
Aretha Louise Frankin 1942–2018
She was the absolute greatest singer that we will ever see or hear. This is not up for discussion. This is not LeBron vs. Kobe or Pacino vs. DeNiro or conservative vs. liberal, or any other social media debate that remains inflamed primarily because both sides can (although they usually don’t) make objectively solid arguments. Her contributions to popular music, to the Civil Rights Movement, to… singing, are so panoramic, so incomparable and so dynamic, that, head to head, her resume renders all others moot. Her voice could do anything — it was a seiche of power, heartbreak, exuberance, courage, grits, lust, and Spirit. The legendary Otis Redding wrote the song “Respect” for himself, recorded it, and then had two pleasant years of recognition for it until Aretha murdered it with such defiance that most of you are just now finding out that the song wasn’t hers to begin with. “That girl took my song,” Redding said, with a mixture of good natured sportsmanship and bemusement. He wouldn’t be the first or the last.
If you were creating a soul music icon from scratch, you couldn’t have started with any better foundation than Aretha’s childhood in Detroit. Her father, the charismatic preacher C.L. Franklin, was the most influential black preacher in America, second only to his good friend Martin Luther King, Jr. Countless luminaries passed through their home, from Duke Ellington to Sam Cooke; as a young girl, Aretha traded chords with the Reverend James Cleveland and harmonized with Mahalia Jackson. All the Franklin children inherited their father’s velvet singing voice but Aretha inherited his onstage charisma and obstinate ambition. After being courted by several labels — including a fledgling local label, Tamla, founded by an ex-boxer and factory worker named Berry Gordy — Aretha signed with Columbia at the age of 18.
The Columbia years produced very little by way of hits or fanfare but, in retrospect, they were essential to what she became. She did jazz, blues, doo-wop, R&B, standards, pop, easy listening, you name it. One reason we will never see anything like her again is because today’s music industry doesn’t give artists time to find their truest voice. (In related news, Purple Rain was Prince’s sixth album. Sgt. Pepper was the Beatles’ eighth.)
In 1967, she found that truest voice on Atlantic Records. You know the rest even if you don’t: Jerry Wexler, Muscle Shoals, her brilliant civil rights/feminist reconstruction of “Respect,” dropping music videos for “Baby I Love You,” the triumphant tranquility of “(You Make Me Feel Like A) Natural Woman,” the Stax warning shot “Chain of Fools,” and, of course, the haunting heartbreak of “Ain’t No Way.” In a time where harsh lines were drawn across race, class and gender, she somehow managed to make everyone think she was singing their song. And yet, she was more than just a voice: she personally bailed out and led benefit concerts for countless black activists. (Poet Nikki Giovanni once wrote Aretha “was the riot the leader/if she said come let’s do it, it would have been done.”)
The 1970s was uneven but still filled with monster hits: “Rock Steady,” the ethereal “Day Dreaming,” the biggest selling gospel album of all time, Amazing Grace. She desegregated a rock and roll sanctuary with Live at the Fillmore West. In 1974, she recorded my favorite song ever by anyone: “Until You Come Back to Me (That’s What I’m Gonna Do).” And did I mention the Sparkle soundtrack, which is flawless?
She was supposed to fall off in the 1980s but this ARETHA biiih: stole a scene from Belushi and Aykroyd in The Blues Brothers, embraced the synth wave of “Jump to It,” “Freeway of Love,” and “I Knew You Were Waiting for Me.” Then, she sang the theme song for the reason why I went to college.
Like Marvin Gaye and Freddie Mercury, her unrivaled voice also served to underrate her formidable chops as a pianist. If you are still unwilling to acknowledge her as the greatest American singer ever, please let me know if your nominee could do this:
There’s more, there’s a lot more. I’m too emotional to walk you through it. David Ritz’ jaw dropping (and very unauthorized) biography Respect: The Life of Aretha Franklin, deftly navigates the teen pregnancies, the volatile love affairs and probable sexual assaults, Aretha’s rampant insecurity and petty jealousies, the alcohol and food addictions, the beefs with everyone from Luther to Patti to Roberta to her talented siblings, all trapped in Aretha’s shadow and by her ego.
Contrary to Aretha’s belief, detailing her failings and demons actually made me have more respect for her, as I pondered what life must be like to be born with a talent that propels you past everyone and everything, even in spite of (and because of) your own human frailties. She was the gold standard for decades; everyone thought so, from MLK to Paul McCartney (who wrote “Let It Be” for her) to Rolling Stone to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame to Whitney Houston to Luciano Pavarotti to Barack Obama. And she will remain so as long as she wants, even after this sad day, when she has gone ahead of us — yet again — to return that majestic and unmistakable voice back to its original owner.
