For the Sake of Sanity, I Needed to Write Something that Was Not Politics
So I wrote this for the Jon S. Randal Peace Page, on Facebook
When she took to the stage, she held it like she owned it. She commanded attention, and she got it. Hers was a talent built from the harshness of life. In the raw truth of her songs, on that stage, she laid her soul bare
She was young when her parents died, leaving her and her six siblings to survive their own way. They could sing. It was all they knew, so they began performing on street corners for pennies. It was a brutal education, one that taught her the difference between singing for pleasure and singing for your next meal.
This early hardship was the fire from which a queen was forged. It was here she developed the grit that would define her career.
Her older brother Clarence, who became a performer himself, would eventually help her get an audition with a traveling troupe, the Moses Stokes Company. She was hired, not for her singing at first, but as a dancer. This was her entry into the world of tent shows and minstrel circuits, a vibrant but often dangerous part of the entertainment world.
It was on this circuit that she met Gertrude “Ma” Rainey, a towering figure in the blues world. While the story that Rainey "kidnapped" the young girl to join her show is a myth, there is little doubt that Rainey became a mentor to the younger singer. Rainey taught her the intricacies of stage presence and how to navigate the cutthroat world of the touring performer.
Bessie Smith took what she learned from Ma Rainey and became a queen in the world of the blues. She absorbed everything from her mentor, from vocal styling to the business of the road.
She and Rainey had a special bond, one that extended beyond a professional relationship. They were part of a larger circle of queer women in the blues and jazz world who found community and acceptance in each other. Bessie even reportedly bailed Ma Rainey out of jail after a wild party was raided by police, a testament to their loyalty.
The tent shows were a world unto themselves, a kind of traveling community. They offered Black performers a chance to earn a living outside of the oppressive constraints of the Jim Crow South. But they also came with their own set of dangers, where an ambitious Black performer could quickly run afoul of local prejudices. One account tells of Bessie confronting members of the Ku Klux Klan who were trying to pull down her tent in Concord, North Carolina.
According to author Chris Albertson, Bessie ran out and cursed them, yelling, "I'll get the entire tent out here if I have to! You just pick up them sheets and run!" The Klansmen, reportedly stunned by her boldness, fled.
This era was a crucial part of her development. It was where she learned to not just sing, but to perform. She learned to command an audience with more than just her voice—she used her body, her charisma, and her unyielding presence to own every stage she stepped onto. It was here, in the heart of the minstrel and tent show circuits, that the Empress of the Blues was truly born.
By the early 1920s, the burgeoning recording industry in the North began to seek out new talent. They were looking for artists who could capture the authentic sounds of the South, the music of Black America. It was this search that led to Bessie Smith’s discovery. She signed with Columbia Records in 1923, and her life would never be the same.
The sound of Bessie Smith was unlike anything that had been widely recorded before. Her first record, a coupling of "Downhearted Blues" and "Gulf Coast Blues," was an immediate and phenomenal success. "It sold over 780,000 copies in the first six months," according to
awardspace.com. She became an overnight sensation, catapulted from the regional circuit to national fame. She would never see the inside of a tent again.
Her music resonated deeply with her audience. Her songs were not just tunes; they were stories of love and betrayal, of hard living and heartbreak, all delivered with unshakeable confidence. "Nobody knows you when you're down and out," she sang with a voice that put the soul in the blues. She gave a voice to the universal struggle of finding your way in a world that often seemed determined to keep you down.
With success came a certain kind of power. Bessie was paid well, and she demanded respect. She toured in her own custom-made railroad car, a luxury that was both a status symbol and a practical necessity in a segregated America. This independence, however, didn't shield her from the constant struggle against bigotry.
She was known for her refusal to back down, her willingness to fight for herself and her bandmates against racial slights. "She was known for her assertive personality and her willingness to stand up for herself, even in the face of racial prejudice or exploitation," notes Encyclopedia Britannica.
Her personal life was as tumultuous as her music was passionate. For a time she was married to a man named Jack Gee, a relationship that was filled with both love and violence. She was also openly bisexual, a fact that was a testament to her uncompromising nature in an era when such things were not spoken of, let alone lived publicly. She lived her life on her own terms, a defiant spirit in a society that tried to force her into a mold.
Bessie Smith’s reign as the Empress of the Blues coincided with the cultural era of the 1920s, a period of dramatic change. Her influence extended beyond just the blues, touching the worlds of jazz and popular music. "Her influence on subsequent generations of singers, including Billie Holiday and Mahalia Jackson, is immeasurable," states the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. The power of her voice laid the groundwork for countless singers who followed in her footsteps.
The roaring twenties could not last forever, though. The Great Depression hit the music industry hard, and the demand for new blues recordings waned. Public tastes began to shift toward the lighter, more upbeat sounds of swing music. Bessie’s career, once soaring, began to decline, though she never stopped performing. She continued to tour and adapt, even trying her hand at swing arrangements.
A glimpse of her formidable stage presence was captured in a short film from 1929, "St. Louis Blues." It remains one of the only visual records of her in performance, a testament to her undeniable charisma and the sheer force of her personality. Even on film, her power was undeniable.
Her career was beginning a slow climb back when tragedy struck in 1937. A car accident on a rural highway outside Clarksdale, Mississippi, took her life at the age of 43. The circumstances of her death have long been a subject of controversy and urban legend. A widely circulated, though largely discredited story claimed she died because a whites-only hospital refused to treat her. While the specifics of the story are debated, the tragic and premature end to her life remains a point of deep sorrow for her fans and for the history of music.
Langston Hughes spoke of the importance for Black artists to embrace their own cultural heritage without. Bessie Smith was the embodiment of this philosophy. She sang her truth, a truth rooted in the raw, unvarnished experiences of Black America. In doing so, she carved out a permanent space for the blues in the American cultural landscape.
Her legacy was a gift she gave to the world, a fiery spirit that lit the way for all who followed. Her style and powerful delivery were an inspiration to countless other musicians. The raw power of her voice and her unapologetic stage presence influenced everyone from Billie Holiday to Janis Joplin.
Her story is more than a list of achievements. It is a testament to the grit of a girl who grew up an orphan on the streets of Chattanooga, with a voice that refused to be silenced, a life lived with a fierce independence, and a legacy that has inspired artists from Aretha Franklin to Nina Simone.
Janis Joplin once said of Smith, "She showed me the air and taught me how to fill it. She's the reason I started singing..." After learning that Bessie Smith's grave had remained unmarked since her death in 1937, Joplin, along with a woman named Juanita Green, paid to have a proper headstone installed in 1970. The epitaph they chose was a powerful tribute: "The Greatest Blues Singer in the World Will Never Stop Singing."
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