Aretha Franklin's Empowering Anthems Spoke to Women Everywhere
Julie Hinds
Detroit Free Press
1:53 p.m. ET Aug. 16, 2018
Aretha Franklin never claimed to be a feminist icon. But decades before the emergence of the #metoo movement, the Queen of Soul was a voice for female fans who had experienced harassment and abuse.
Who were controlled or taken for granted by the men in their lives. Who fought for equal pay and economic independence. And who kept striving despite the systemic sexism that dogged their hopes and dreams.
That legacy remains, even with the passing of Franklin. Whenever a woman stands up and demands the dignity and equality she deserves, Aretha will be there in spirit.
Franklin, who died Thursday in Detroit at the age of 76, will be remembered as an unparalleled musical talent. But she also played a special role as a cultural mover and shaker whose signature song, "Respect," became a defining anthem for the marginalized. Her brilliant interpretation spoke directly to the civil rights movement, which she tirelessly championed throughout her life. And yet it had the same impact as a soundtrack for her sisters of all races, ethnicities, income levels and ages.
Franklin was reluctant to define herself in such political terms. “I think that’s Gloria Steinem’s role,” she told Rolling Stone in 2014. “I don’t think I was a catalyst for the women’s movement. Sorry. But if I were? So much the better.”
But women felt the same insistence on fairness in Franklin’s songs that they did from a Steinem speech. And they related in a deeply personal way to the fact that Franklin’s career soared even as she faced more than her fair share of emotional pain and personal loss.
Ranking her first in a 1999 list of Michigan’s top 100 artists and entertainers, the Free Press wrote that, “In person, Aretha is something of a mystery — an impetuous, impulsive diva who often seems haunted by fathomless sorrow.”
What could be fathomed was difficult enough. There were divorces, reports of domestic abuse, and in her later years, health challenges that largely remained undisclosed. The mid-1980s brought the death of her father, years after he'd been shot by burglars and lapsed into a coma, followed over the years by the deaths of three siblings.
Despite her genius, Franklin experienced fears and insecurities that could make it hard for her to revel in her fame. Fear of flying kept her from venues not reachable by train or tour bus. Negative coverage in the press could wound her deeply. A 2014 unauthorized biography by the same writer who also penned her more discreet autobiography left her leery of the media’s appetite for gossip.
As recently as 2016, she went to court over attempts to screen at film festivals an unreleased documentary, “Amazing Grace,” that captured the 1972 recording sessions at Los Angeles’s New Temple Missionary Baptist Church of her hit gospel record. The performance footage was of Franklin at her finest, but her objections pointed to the frustration she felt at not being able to control the use of her artistry.
As TV host Tavis Smiley told the New Yorker for a 2016 profile, “There is the sense in her very often that people are out to harm you. And she won’t have it. You are not going to disrespect her.”
Women everywhere understood that reaction. Their fight for respect, like Aretha’s, was — and continues to be — a day-to-day battle. That’s why Franklin struck such a resonant chord when she recorded her version of “Respect” in 1967. She didn’t merely interpret the lyrics. She lived them with her truth.
Written by Otis Redding, the song began its life as a traditional gender-role saga of a man who brings home the bacon to his wife and wants her admiration in return. But Franklin’s version reinvented it practically down to the atom. As NPR wrote in 2017, “Franklin's version blew (its) structure to bits. For one, Redding's song doesn't spell out "R-E-S-P-E-C-T" like Franklin's does. It also doesn't have the backup singers and their clever interplay. So much of what made "Respect" a hit — and an anthem — came from Franklin's rearrangement.”
Franklin took Redding’s patriarchal salute and transformed it into a fight song for the matriarchy. Changing its texture in ways large and small, “Respect” would never be anyone’s tune but Aretha’s again. For instance, the “re-re-re-respect” sung in the background by Franklin’s sisters is a clever shout-out to Aretha’s nickname of Ree. "It's a kind of R&B quasi-syllogism: Aretha is respect is Aretha," wrote author Matt Dobkin in his book “I Never Loved a Man the Way I Love You.”
Franklin weighed in on “Respect” in her autobiography, “Aretha: From These Roots,” this way: "It was the need of a nation, the need of the average man and woman in the street, the businessman, the mother, the fireman, the teacher — everyone wanted respect. ... (D)ecades later I am unable to give a concert without my fans demanding the same 'Respect' from me. 'Respect' was — and is — an ongoing blessing in my life."
As the Detroit diva told Free Press music critic Brian McCollum in June 2017, she didn’t consider it a brave act at a tumultuous time in history. "I don't think it's bold at all," she said. "I think it's quite natural that we all want respect — and should get it."
Yet, oh, what a declaration of independence is embedded in that song — and in other Franklin classics, from “(You Make Me Feel Like) A Natural Woman" to "Freeway of Love,” that are packed with special meaning for women.
“You, Ms. Franklin, you’ve never been just a singer. You, as you probably know, have been an architect of emotions, combining words and music to guide us through, around or over whatever was in the way. As an adult, when I heard your plaintive but powerful affirmations of the pain and joy of love, you prepared me for heartache. Some songs make you dance. Some make you laugh. Your voice makes me feel, no matter what you’re singing,” wrote Free Press columnist Rochelle Riley earlier this year, addressing Franklin’s possible retirement.
The lessons of “Respect” echoed through her body of work — and her most memorable on-screen appearances. In the testorone-fueled 1980 action comedy “The Blue Bothers,” Franklin delivered a commanding, joyous version of her 1968 song “Think” as a waitress in a diner. Dancing in pink house slippers and cornering a chauvinistic man with her lyrics, she was an everywoman as a goddess: not to be trifled with and subservient to no one.
At the 1998 Grammys, Franklin stepped in for an ailing Luciano Pavorotti to perform “Nessun Dorma,” an opera aria by Puccini, with exquisite feeling. The moment was breathtaking as a demonstration of her virtuosity. And the subtext was as crystal clear as it was uplifting: Never underestimate the power of a woman.
Near the end of 2015, in the twilight of her career, Franklin reminded everyone why she was the best. Singing for all of her sisters – black, white, Asian and Latina, young and old, richer and poorer – but in particular for Kennedy Center honoree Carole King, she took the stage in Washington D.C. to sing “Natural Woman.” As the song reached its soaring conclusion, Franklin stood up from the piano and walked to the front, tossing her floor-length fur coat to the floor.
It was the dramatic move of a superstar, much like James Brown’s cape drop or Elvis Presley’s flinging of a sweaty scarf. But it also was her way of peeling off the layers she used to protect herself. “This is me,” Franklin seemed to be signaling. “I’m an idol, but I’m a real woman. I don’t need anything to communicate with you but my voice, my truth, my story.”
Bless you, Ms. Franklin, for delivering the empowering message that while adversity is inevitable, making it through this life with grace and strength is possible. It’s time now to say a heartfelt goodbye to a monumental figure, the woman who asked everyone to “find out what it means to me” regarding respect. For so many of us, it always will mean Aretha.
Contact Detroit Free Press pop culture writer Julie Hinds: 313-222-6427 or jhinds@freepress.com.
Detroit Free Press
1:53 p.m. ET Aug. 16, 2018
Aretha Franklin never claimed to be a feminist icon. But decades before the emergence of the #metoo movement, the Queen of Soul was a voice for female fans who had experienced harassment and abuse.
Who were controlled or taken for granted by the men in their lives. Who fought for equal pay and economic independence. And who kept striving despite the systemic sexism that dogged their hopes and dreams.
That legacy remains, even with the passing of Franklin. Whenever a woman stands up and demands the dignity and equality she deserves, Aretha will be there in spirit.
Franklin, who died Thursday in Detroit at the age of 76, will be remembered as an unparalleled musical talent. But she also played a special role as a cultural mover and shaker whose signature song, "Respect," became a defining anthem for the marginalized. Her brilliant interpretation spoke directly to the civil rights movement, which she tirelessly championed throughout her life. And yet it had the same impact as a soundtrack for her sisters of all races, ethnicities, income levels and ages.
Franklin was reluctant to define herself in such political terms. “I think that’s Gloria Steinem’s role,” she told Rolling Stone in 2014. “I don’t think I was a catalyst for the women’s movement. Sorry. But if I were? So much the better.”
But women felt the same insistence on fairness in Franklin’s songs that they did from a Steinem speech. And they related in a deeply personal way to the fact that Franklin’s career soared even as she faced more than her fair share of emotional pain and personal loss.
Ranking her first in a 1999 list of Michigan’s top 100 artists and entertainers, the Free Press wrote that, “In person, Aretha is something of a mystery — an impetuous, impulsive diva who often seems haunted by fathomless sorrow.”
What could be fathomed was difficult enough. There were divorces, reports of domestic abuse, and in her later years, health challenges that largely remained undisclosed. The mid-1980s brought the death of her father, years after he'd been shot by burglars and lapsed into a coma, followed over the years by the deaths of three siblings.
Despite her genius, Franklin experienced fears and insecurities that could make it hard for her to revel in her fame. Fear of flying kept her from venues not reachable by train or tour bus. Negative coverage in the press could wound her deeply. A 2014 unauthorized biography by the same writer who also penned her more discreet autobiography left her leery of the media’s appetite for gossip.
As recently as 2016, she went to court over attempts to screen at film festivals an unreleased documentary, “Amazing Grace,” that captured the 1972 recording sessions at Los Angeles’s New Temple Missionary Baptist Church of her hit gospel record. The performance footage was of Franklin at her finest, but her objections pointed to the frustration she felt at not being able to control the use of her artistry.
As TV host Tavis Smiley told the New Yorker for a 2016 profile, “There is the sense in her very often that people are out to harm you. And she won’t have it. You are not going to disrespect her.”
Women everywhere understood that reaction. Their fight for respect, like Aretha’s, was — and continues to be — a day-to-day battle. That’s why Franklin struck such a resonant chord when she recorded her version of “Respect” in 1967. She didn’t merely interpret the lyrics. She lived them with her truth.
Written by Otis Redding, the song began its life as a traditional gender-role saga of a man who brings home the bacon to his wife and wants her admiration in return. But Franklin’s version reinvented it practically down to the atom. As NPR wrote in 2017, “Franklin's version blew (its) structure to bits. For one, Redding's song doesn't spell out "R-E-S-P-E-C-T" like Franklin's does. It also doesn't have the backup singers and their clever interplay. So much of what made "Respect" a hit — and an anthem — came from Franklin's rearrangement.”
Franklin took Redding’s patriarchal salute and transformed it into a fight song for the matriarchy. Changing its texture in ways large and small, “Respect” would never be anyone’s tune but Aretha’s again. For instance, the “re-re-re-respect” sung in the background by Franklin’s sisters is a clever shout-out to Aretha’s nickname of Ree. "It's a kind of R&B quasi-syllogism: Aretha is respect is Aretha," wrote author Matt Dobkin in his book “I Never Loved a Man the Way I Love You.”
Franklin weighed in on “Respect” in her autobiography, “Aretha: From These Roots,” this way: "It was the need of a nation, the need of the average man and woman in the street, the businessman, the mother, the fireman, the teacher — everyone wanted respect. ... (D)ecades later I am unable to give a concert without my fans demanding the same 'Respect' from me. 'Respect' was — and is — an ongoing blessing in my life."
As the Detroit diva told Free Press music critic Brian McCollum in June 2017, she didn’t consider it a brave act at a tumultuous time in history. "I don't think it's bold at all," she said. "I think it's quite natural that we all want respect — and should get it."
Yet, oh, what a declaration of independence is embedded in that song — and in other Franklin classics, from “(You Make Me Feel Like) A Natural Woman" to "Freeway of Love,” that are packed with special meaning for women.
“You, Ms. Franklin, you’ve never been just a singer. You, as you probably know, have been an architect of emotions, combining words and music to guide us through, around or over whatever was in the way. As an adult, when I heard your plaintive but powerful affirmations of the pain and joy of love, you prepared me for heartache. Some songs make you dance. Some make you laugh. Your voice makes me feel, no matter what you’re singing,” wrote Free Press columnist Rochelle Riley earlier this year, addressing Franklin’s possible retirement.
The lessons of “Respect” echoed through her body of work — and her most memorable on-screen appearances. In the testorone-fueled 1980 action comedy “The Blue Bothers,” Franklin delivered a commanding, joyous version of her 1968 song “Think” as a waitress in a diner. Dancing in pink house slippers and cornering a chauvinistic man with her lyrics, she was an everywoman as a goddess: not to be trifled with and subservient to no one.
At the 1998 Grammys, Franklin stepped in for an ailing Luciano Pavorotti to perform “Nessun Dorma,” an opera aria by Puccini, with exquisite feeling. The moment was breathtaking as a demonstration of her virtuosity. And the subtext was as crystal clear as it was uplifting: Never underestimate the power of a woman.
Near the end of 2015, in the twilight of her career, Franklin reminded everyone why she was the best. Singing for all of her sisters – black, white, Asian and Latina, young and old, richer and poorer – but in particular for Kennedy Center honoree Carole King, she took the stage in Washington D.C. to sing “Natural Woman.” As the song reached its soaring conclusion, Franklin stood up from the piano and walked to the front, tossing her floor-length fur coat to the floor.
It was the dramatic move of a superstar, much like James Brown’s cape drop or Elvis Presley’s flinging of a sweaty scarf. But it also was her way of peeling off the layers she used to protect herself. “This is me,” Franklin seemed to be signaling. “I’m an idol, but I’m a real woman. I don’t need anything to communicate with you but my voice, my truth, my story.”
Bless you, Ms. Franklin, for delivering the empowering message that while adversity is inevitable, making it through this life with grace and strength is possible. It’s time now to say a heartfelt goodbye to a monumental figure, the woman who asked everyone to “find out what it means to me” regarding respect. For so many of us, it always will mean Aretha.
Contact Detroit Free Press pop culture writer Julie Hinds: 313-222-6427 or jhinds@freepress.com.
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