Black women built the sound.
Not just as performers but as creators, visionaries and cultural architects. We didn’t just sing the songs. We wrote them, arranged them, lived them. From the rawness of gospel to the soul of R&B, from the grit of rock to the smoothness of funk, our fingerprints are on everything.
We know the names — Beyoncé, Mary, Lauryn, Rihanna, Nicki, Jazmine. Their influence is undeniable. But before Black women had the platforms to grow, the foundation had to be laid.
This piece is a tribute to the godmothers of music. The women whose history has been cast into the shadows of their counterparts. The ones whose names have gone unspoken for far too long.
It’s time we honor the blueprint.
The Godmothers and Pioneers
Sister Rosetta Tharpe — The Mother of Rock & Roll
Before Elvis. Before Chuck Berry. Before rock and roll even had a name, there was Sister Rosetta Tharpe.
She was more than a gospel singer. She was a disruptor. In the 1930s and 40s, while most women in gospel wore long dresses and sang politely behind pulpits, Rosetta picked up an electric guitar and tore through tradition. Her style was bold. Her voice was thunder. Her playing was pure electricity.
She recorded her first hit, “Rock Me,” in 1938. It was gospel, yes, but it swung with a bluesy groove that made the church side-eye her and the clubs lean in. That tension between the sacred and the secular became her signature. She could stir a crowd to tears with a hymn one night, then bring the house down at the Cotton Club the next.
Rosetta was one of the first artists to tour with both gospel and swing bands. She stood in front of all-Black choirs and all-white crowds, often in segregated venues that did not know what to make of her. And yet, she played on.
When she performed in the United Kingdom in 1964 as part of the American Folk Blues Festival, she sang and shredded her guitar on a rainy railway platform in Manchester. The audience, mostly white and British, watched in awe. Among them were young musicians like Eric Clapton and Keith Richards, who would later cite her as a key influence.
Little Richard called her his greatest inspiration. Johnny Cash praised her impact on American music. Chuck Berry’s duckwalk and guitar licks mirrored hers so closely it bordered on imitation.
But while the men she inspired went on to fame, magazine covers and million-dollar deals, Rosetta was erased. She died in 1973, largely forgotten, buried in an unmarked grave in Philadelphia.
It was not until 2018 that she was finally inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame under the “Early Influences” category.
But Rosetta was not just an influence. She was the origin. The sound, the soul, the spirit that rock and roll was built on. Every time a guitar growls with grit or a voice rises with raw conviction, that is her. That is Sister Rosetta Tharpe.
She was not a footnote in music history. She was the first chapter
Big Mama Thornton — The Original Rock Rebel
We know Latto’s hit. We know the big talk, the big persona, the Big Mama energy. But before the charts and the catchphrases, there was the Big Mama.
“Hound Dog” is a cultural staple. But before it became Elvis Presley’s signature song, it was Big Mama Thornton’s warning shot.
Her voice was not delicate. It was thunder. Guttural and raw, soaked in the kind of truth you cannot fake. She didn’t sing to entertain. She sang to testify.
Big Mama recorded “Hound Dog” in 1952 with producers Jerry Leiber and Mike Stoller, who originally wrote the track for her. Her version was fierce and confrontational, delivered with the bite of a woman who had seen too much and was not afraid to call it out. When she sang, “You ain’t nothing but a hound dog,” it was not a playful jab. It was a rejection. A demand for dignity.
The song became a hit on the R&B charts, but it never reached mainstream audiences the way it should have. Four years later, Elvis recorded his own version. It stripped the song of its original grit, repackaged it for white radio and went on to top the Billboard charts. Elvis got the fame. Big Mama got forgotten.
She never received royalties for her version. She was not credited as a songwriter. And yet, without her, the song would not exist.
But Big Mama Thornton was never one to shrink. She performed with a swagger that could match any man in the business, and her presence on stage was electric. She toured with legends like B.B. King and Junior Parker and held her own in every room.
In 1968, she recorded “Ball and Chain,” a blues anthem that would later be made famous by Janis Joplin, another white artist influenced by Black women whose names were often left out of the story.
Thornton’s influence is all over rock and roll, but her name remains unfamiliar to many. Her legacy, though, is undeniable.
She reminded the world that rock was not born in rebellion for rebellion’s sake. It was born out of survival. Out of pain, truth and power.
Her voice is still echoing, a growl in the dark that refuses to be silenced.
Betty Davis — The Funk Trailblazer
Betty Davis didn’t follow trends. She set them.
Her music was a slap in the face to respectability politics. Songs like “Nasty Gal” and “If I’m in Luck I Might Get Picked Up” dripped with sex, power and defiance. She didn’t sing about desire in metaphors. She named it. Claimed it. Let it breathe.
Before Prince was on stage in lace and leather. Before Tina Turner owned every inch of the spotlight. Betty was already burning it all down.
She was married to Miles Davis, and even that part of her story gets buried. Betty introduced him to the sounds of Hendrix and Sly Stone, pushing his music in a new direction. But while he thrived, she got shut out.
She was labeled too much. Too wild. Too sexual. Too Black. Her music was banned from radio, her shows canceled, her career erased before it ever had a real chance.
But her fingerprints are everywhere. You hear her in Erykah Badu’s edge. In Janelle Monáe’s genre-bending confidence. In Kelis’s chaos. In Rico Nasty’s rage.
Betty didn’t just make funk. She embodied it. Raw. Unfiltered. Unapologetic.
She didn’t want to be palatable. She wanted to be free.
The Innovators Who Changed Music Forever
Florence Ballard — The Lost Supreme
Before the world knew Diana Ross as a solo icon, there was Florence Ballard.
Flo co-founded the Supremes. Her voice was bold. Her presence was magnetic. In the early days of Motown, it was Florence who gave the group its soulful edge. She had the range, the richness and the roots that made people stop and listen.
But as the group rose to stardom, the spotlight started to shift. Diana’s tone was softer, her image more aligned with the label’s crossover vision. Florence, with her raw power and unfiltered honesty, didn’t fit the mold.
Slowly, she was pushed into the background. Her lead vocals were replaced. Her mic was lowered on stage. And eventually, she was pushed out of the group she helped build.
After leaving the Supremes, Florence signed a solo deal that never got the support it needed. She raised three daughters while navigating personal losses, health struggles and financial setbacks. The industry moved on.
Florence Ballard died in 1976 at just 32. No comebacks. No tribute specials. No flowers.
But she was never just the girl in the background. Her voice is in the DNA of every Supremes hit that made Motown what it was. The tone, the texture, the magic — Florence was part of that foundation.
This isn’t about erasing Diana. It’s about remembering Florence.
Because you can’t talk about the Supremes without her.
Minnie Riperton — The Queen of the Whistle Note
Before Mariah hit her high notes. Before Ariana made it trend. There was Minnie Riperton.
Her voice didn’t just reach impossible octaves. It told stories. It painted scenes. It made time stop.
Minnie trained as a coloratura soprano at the Chicago Conservatory of Music and brought that classical precision into soul and R&B. Her most iconic track “Lovin’ You,” released in 1975, wasn’t just a love song. It was a vocal revolution. She didn’t belt. She floated. She stretched her voice to places most singers wouldn’t dare go. Not just for the sake of range but for emotion.
Her whistle register didn’t just influence other singers. It expanded what Black women’s voices were allowed to sound like. She brought delicacy and control to a genre often known for grit and power. She reminded the world that softness is strength too.
She was also one of the first artists to speak publicly about her cancer diagnosis. Even while battling illness, she stayed committed to her art and her family. Her daughter Maya Rudolph would later carry her legacy into another generation.
Minnie Riperton died in 1979 at 31. She didn’t have decades on the charts. But in the time she was given, she changed what was possible.
Every time someone floats into a whistle note or lets a melody breathe with grace, that’s Minnie. Still singing.
Teena Marie — The Ivory Queen of Soul
Teena Marie didn’t just love Black music. She lived it.
Born Mary Christine Brockert in California, she stepped into R&B in the late 1970s under Motown with something to prove. She wasn’t the label’s first white artist, but she was the first to be fully embraced by Black audiences.
Her debut album “Wild and Peaceful” came out with no image on the cover. People assumed she was Black. When they found out she wasn’t, it didn’t matter. Because the voice was real. The feeling was real. The soul was real.
Teena could sing with the rawness of gospel and the fluidity of jazz. She wrote her own songs. She produced her own records. And she stood on her own, even as critics tried to box her in.
Her partnership with Rick James gave us “Fire and Desire,” a duet that still gives goosebumps decades later. But Teena wasn’t riding coattails. She was writing her own legacy.
She fought for her creative control when labels tried to restrict her. After a contract dispute with Motown, she took them to court and won. The case led to what is now known as the “Teena Marie Law” which made it illegal for labels to hold artists under contract without releasing their work.
She used her platform to advocate for Black artists and never pretended to be anything she wasn’t. She knew she was a guest in the house of soul and she acted like it.
Teena Marie wasn’t just invited to the cookout. She brought dishes of her own and cleaned up after.
She didn’t ask to be accepted. She earned it.
Linda Martell — The First Black Woman in Country Music
Before Cowboy Carter. Before Mickey Guyton. Before genre-bending was a statement. There was Linda Martell.
In 1969, she became the first Black woman to perform at the Grand Ole Opry. She wasn’t trying to break barriers. She was just trying to sing. But her presence in country music was revolutionary whether she asked for it or not.
Linda’s voice was smooth and twangy with a clarity that demanded attention. She could hold her own on any stage. Her debut album “Color Me Country” charted on both the country and R&B lists. She was proof that country music wasn’t a white genre. It never had been.
But Nashville didn’t know what to do with her. She was often introduced as a “Black female singer” instead of just a singer. Audiences heckled her. Some radio stations refused to play her music. Industry support disappeared before she had a chance to grow.
After just one album and a few national appearances, Linda Martell was quietly pushed out of the spotlight. For decades her name rarely came up when people talked about country music’s greats.
But she never stopped being part of the blueprint.
Today her influence echoes in the work of artists like Rissi Palmer who named her radio show “Color Me Country” in Linda’s honor. And when Beyoncé released Cowboy Carter, it wasn’t just a genre crossover. It was a cultural correction.
Linda Martell walked so today’s country rebels could run.
The Voices That Shaped the Sound
Anita Baker — The Quiet Storm
Anita Baker didn’t need gimmicks. She didn’t chase trends. She just opened her mouth and let timelessness pour out.
With a voice like velvet and phrasing that felt like conversation, she carved out a lane that was all her own. When “Sweet Love” dropped in 1986, it didn’t just introduce the world to a new kind of soul. It elevated the genre. Her tone was warm and intimate, yet full of range. She could make a whisper feel like a declaration.
Rooted in jazz but always soulful, Anita helped usher in the quiet storm era — smooth, emotional R&B made for late nights and deep feelings. She made space for stillness. For restraint. She showed that power didn’t always have to be loud.
Her success was undeniable. She won eight Grammys and sold millions of records. Yet somehow, she was still left out of many mainstream conversations about pop or R&B icons. She was labeled “grown folks music” and pushed into a box. But the box never fit.
Anita’s sound lives on in the vocal choices of artists like Toni Braxton, Brandy, Ari Lennox and Alex Isley. Anyone who’s ever dropped into a lower register mid-verse or held back for emotional effect owes something to Anita.
She made soul sophisticated. She made grown woman music without apology. And she did it all while staying true to herself.
Phyllis Hyman — The Voice That Felt Everything
Phyllis Hyman didn’t just sing the lyrics. She lived them.
Her voice was rich and unshakable, filled with emotion that cut through every line. She had the presence of a jazz singer and the vulnerability of a poet. Whether she was on stage, in the studio or in a scene on Broadway, Phyllis made you feel it.
Songs like “You Know How to Love Me” and “Living All Alone” weren’t just ballads. They were testimony. She carried her pain with elegance and turned every performance into a masterclass in emotional delivery.
Phyllis came up during a time when artists were expected to choose — be soulful or be commercial, be polished or be real. She never fit neatly into either side. She had roots in jazz, but she brought drama and scale to her R&B work. She could float over a track or cut straight through it, depending on what the story called for.
But the industry didn’t always know what to do with her. She had the voice, the look, the presence. Still, she was often overlooked in favor of artists who were easier to package. Her career was filled with beautiful records and half-hearted rollouts. Despite it all, she stayed committed to the music.
Phyllis struggled with depression and mental health throughout her life, and the industry didn’t make it easier. In 1995, she died by suicide just hours before a scheduled performance. She was 45.
What she left behind is unforgettable. Her voice still reaches across time. And when artists today dig deep and let the pain show, when they sing like it’s the last time they’ll ever be heard, they are channeling Phyllis Hyman.
She gave everything she had. Every single time.
Angela Winbush — The Genius Behind the Curtain
Angela Winbush wasn’t just a voice. She was the blueprint behind some of R&B’s most iconic sounds.
In an industry that often boxed women in as performers only, Angela did it all. She wrote. She produced. She arranged. She sang. And she did it at a time when few women — especially Black women — were being given credit for that kind of full-circle artistry.
She first gained recognition as half of the duo René & Angela. Their hits like “Your Smile” and “I’ll Be Good” set the tone for late 80s R&B. Her sound was lush, emotional and unmistakably hers. But Angela wasn’t content with just performing. She was behind the boards too, producing the duo’s music and shaping every part of the process.
Outside of her own work, Angela wrote and produced for legends. She worked with the Isley Brothers. She penned songs for Stephanie Mills. And when she stepped out on her own, her solo hits like “Angel” proved that her pen was just as powerful as her voice.
She had range — not just vocally but creatively. Angela could write a heartbreak ballad that felt like a slow burn and turn around and build a groove that made you want to dance. And the best part? She never needed to be loud about it. She just let the work speak.
Even now, she doesn’t get mentioned nearly enough when people talk about the greats. But if you know, you know. Her influence is deep.
Angela Winbush didn’t ask for the spotlight. She built the stage.
Ann Peebles — The Soul Behind the Sample
You know the song. “I Can’t Stand the Rain.” You’ve heard it flipped by Missy Elliott. Sampled by Timbaland. Echoed in R&B and hip-hop for decades. But long before it became a staple of 90s production, it was the voice of Ann Peebles that gave it life.
She came out of Memphis in the early 1970s with a voice that was smooth but cutting. Soulful but sharp. She didn’t wail or oversing. She didn’t have to. Her delivery was precise and emotional. Honest without ever trying too hard.
Ann recorded for Hi Records, the same label as Al Green, and held her own in that same sonic space — warm horns, slow-burning grooves and church-tinged vocals that still hit like confession. Her music captured a kind of everyday heartbreak that felt real. Songs like “I’m Gonna Tear Your Playhouse Down” weren’t just stories. They were warnings.
Even with hits on the R&B charts, Ann never got the mainstream spotlight she deserved. Her sound influenced generations but her name stayed buried behind the samples.
And yet the legacy is loud. Missy built a whole classic around “I Can’t Stand the Rain.” Rap and R&B artists continue to pull from her catalog. Her voice still lives in the bones of the beats we love.
Ann Peebles may not be a household name. But the soul she poured into her music still resonates. Still knocks. Still stands.
They weren’t always the loudest. They weren’t always the most visible. But their voices shaped everything.
These women didn’t just sing songs. They gave them soul. They didn’t just chase hits. They created standards. Some had their flowers while they were here. Others were buried beneath the sounds they inspired.
But make no mistake — without them, the blueprint is incomplete.
Every run, every riff, every sampled lyric or whispered harmony carries a piece of what they started. And as we continue to celebrate the music we love today, we have to look back and name the women who gave us the language to feel.
They shaped the sound. Now it’s on us to make sure they’re never silenced again.
Lots of great history here. Nice to see you paying homage to these brilliant artists.
Many contributed to the soundtrack of my youth.