Mavis Staples possesses one of those voices identifiable before she completes her first line. Deep, grainy and remarkably warm, it can carry sorrow, humor, faith and defiance within the same few notes.
This summer at 87, she remains a working singer with a new album, Sad and Beautiful World, and concert dates on her calendar.
Staples is often described as a contralto. In formal terms, a contralto is the lowest natural female singing voice—the female counterpart, roughly speaking, to a male baritone. Contraltos sing comfortably in the lower register, where the sound becomes dark, full and resonant. True contraltos are comparatively rare.
That explains the range of Staples’ voice, but not its effect.
Hers carries the rough texture of gospel without losing its tenderness. She can lean into a note until it sounds weathered, then soften the next phrase into something intimate. There is always a pulse beneath it, a feeling that the song existed before the musicians arrived and will continue after they leave.
She was born in Chicago on July 10, 1939, and began singing professionally as a child with her father, Roebuck “Pops” Staples, and her siblings Cleotha, Yvonne and Pervis.
Pops played a spare, tremolo-laden guitar while the family voices moved around Mavis’ extraordinary lower register. When 16-year-old Mavis sang lead on “Uncloudy Day,” listeners heard a voice that seemed to belong to someone who had already lived a long and difficult life.
The Staple Singers carried gospel beyond the church without abandoning it. After Pops became close to the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr., the family joined the struggle for civil rights. Their repertoire expanded from traditional spirituals to songs of dignity, protest and racial justice. “Respect Yourself,” “If You’re Ready (Come Go with Me)” and “I’ll Take You There” became popular records, but they also served as invitations: stand up, come along, and do not surrender your humanity.
Bob Dylan recognized the power of the Staple Singers early. The family recorded several of his songs, including “A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall” and “Masters of War.” Dylan’s admiration for Mavis was musical and personal. The two courted during the early 1960s, exchanged letters and, according to Mavis, did some “smooching.”
Dylan even told Pops Staples that he wanted to marry her. The marriage never happened, but their friendship endured. Dylan’s admiration is easily understood. Both singers value truth above polish. Neither has a conventionally pretty voice, and neither requires one.
Dylan heard in Mavis what he sought in his own singing: conviction. Her voice could make a lyric sound witnessed rather than merely performed. Mavis later worked with Curtis Mayfield, Prince, Ry Cooder and Wilco’s Jeff Tweedy, among many others.
Yet producers and fashions never managed to disguise her. The essential Mavis remained: the church-trained contralto, the civil-rights veteran, the woman whose laughter is nearly as recognizable as her singing.
Seven decades after “Uncloudy Day,” age has added wear to the voice, but little weakness. The lower notes have grown earthier, and she uses them with the judgment of someone who knows she need not shout to be heard. Mavis Staples has spent her life singing about a better world while keeping both feet planted in the one we have. That is why her voice lasts. It carries history, but it is still moving forward.
