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WHEN ARETHA FRANKLIN SANG, OUT POURED THE

sun and the moon. Her voice was optimism shaded

with sorrow, joy tempered by the understanding

that nothing in life can be perfect—but above all

it was a sound that both absorbed and radiated

light. To hear it is to feel bathed in that light.

Franklin died on Aug. 16 at age 76, and her death

closes an era. She belongs not

just in the pantheon of great soul

singers, but in the realm of great

artists period: John Coltrane,

Elvis Presley, the Beatles, Billie

Holiday—with them, she helped

give shape to the second half of

the 20th century. To tell its story

in sound would be impossible

without Aretha. Her warmth—her

light—was explosive.

Franklin was born in

Memphis in 1942, although she

grew up, and lived most of her

life, in Detroit. Her father was

C.L. Franklin, a charismatic

Baptist minister and civil rights

activist. Her mother Barbara was

a gifted gospel singer. Franklin

grew up singing in the church,

and then on the gospel circuit,

with an often grueling schedule.

Her father began managing her

career when she was a teenager,

irst landing her a deal with

Detroit’s tiny J.V.B. Records and

later a contract with Columbia,

where she made nine records.

Franklin cut most of her

greatest songs after she made

the move to Atlantic Records in

1967, beginning with the irst

song she recorded for the label, the astonishing

“I Never Loved a Man (the Way I Love You).” Her

version of Otis Redding’s “Respect,” also from that

irst Atlantic album, was both a celebration and a

warning, an assertion of both racial pride and ball-

of-ire womanhood. It was a song that felt personal

but also embraced a community; its power could

reach anywhere.

The string of songs that spring to mind at the

mere mention of Franklin’s name seems endless:

“Chain of Fools,” “Son of a Preacher Man,” “Think,”

“Daydreaming.” (Those last two were written or

co-written by Franklin herself, who, as well as

being a superb pianist, had a gift for songcraft.) In

1980, she switched labels again, to Arista. Her 1985

Who’s Zoomin’ Who was one of the inest albums of

the decade, a set of iercely airmative songs that

felt so modern and free, you’d never imagine they’d

have come from a music veteran who was edging

toward her mid-40s.

FRANKLIN EMERGED FROMthe multiple paths

forged by Holiday, Nina Simone and Mahalia

Jackson. And like Sam Cooke, a family friend, she

melded gospel with pop music so seamlessly that

it’s now hard to think there was ever a time when

the two ran on parallel, if often

crisscrossing, paths. Without her

there could have been no Donna

Summer, Chaka Khan or Whitney

Houston (whose mother Cissy was

one of the Sweet Inspirations, who

often sang backup for Franklin);

nor would there be a Janelle

Monáe, a Rihanna or a Beyoncé.

Franklin was both a pioneer and

a connecting link to traditional

American music, looking ahead

every minute without ever losing

sight of where she came from. She

rewrote the rules, and shattered

the limits, of what could be done

with a song, even numbers that,

as recorded by others, already

seemed like a done deal. She

turned the Beatles’ “Eleanor

Rigby” into an eloquent honky-

tonk lament, changing the lyrics

to the irst-person, shifting the

action—and the pure loneliness

described in the song—onto

herself. She was an expert at both

expressing and hiding. Song by

song, Franklin drew us closer.

Her double helix of intimacy and

mystery only made us want more.

You can see all of Franklin’s

instincts at work, that assurance,

that skill, in the footage of her performance of

“America (My Country ’Tis of Thee)” at Barack

Obama’s Inauguration in 2009. She reinvents even

this song, one most of us have heard hundreds of

times, turning it into an acknowledgment that

even in a nation built on bloodshed and sufering,

there is a vast capacity for good. No monarchies

in this country—we don’t believe in that stuf. Yet

for a time, this sweet land of liberty was graced

with a queen. She sang her way through one of our

nation’s most charged and challenging eras, and we

followed the sound of her voice. She taught us so

much, just because it was pure joy to listen. □

TheBrief Appreciation

Aretha Franklin sang

her way through history

By Stephanie Zacharek

△

Franklin, in 1968:

She shattered the

limits of what could

be done with a song