James’s book caps the most productive and rewarding phase of her career since the mid-’60s. Earlier this year she released “Mystery Lady: Songs of Billie Holiday,” a collection of handsomely rendered standards with lovely, low-key arrangements by jazz pianist Cedar Walton. Singing with a mature restraint in her rough contralto, James pays tribute to her idol by not imitating her: “If anybody messes with her songs, they should be cool about it.” James says. A new live music label, On the Spot, just released a classic performance from 1981, “Live from San Francisco,” that shows off her raunchy side. And she’s working on another album of standards, to be released in conjunction with the book. James is perhaps better known for her growling, strutting blues, but it’s always been the ballads that set her apart. On transcendent recordings from the ’60s like “At Last,” “Trust in Me” and “Sunday Kind of Love.” James did for soul what Patsy Cline did for country: she elevated it to the realm of the divine, and set a new measure for heartache.
Maybe that’s why James has always appealed more to women than men. “When I make records, I make the records for women,” she says. “I’m talking to them because they’re the ones who really like me. A man don’t jump up and buy an Etta James record. Something about me intimidates them, I guess. I think even my singing does.” Not that she particularly minds. “My husband, he’s not intimidated by me,” she says. “He’s not insecure. And I’m the boss! Remember that! We got nine dogs. with a German shepherd and a Rottweiler in the bunch. Woooo, I have to crack that whip.” Spoken like a woman, if not like a lady.
