The Blues Pioneers

Inspired by “I Used to Be Your Mama,” this column features Bessie Smith, Billie Holiday, Ma Rainey, and Mamie Smith.

On August 10, 1920, Mamie Smith, a Black vaudeville singer, made history by recording a title for the Okeh label. She stepped away for just a few moments, getting ready to celebrate, but in February, she had already recorded “Crazy Blues,” known at first as “That Thing Called Love.” A jazzy, spicy composition by Perry Bradford. With this song and a few others, Mamie Smith established herself as a pioneer of the blues. C. Handy himself admitted that until then, no one had the authenticity of Mamie Smith. It’s true that, as a blues singer, she opened a new door. The record companies took particular notice of the dynamic power of her singing. Amateur fans of African American music, the composers, frequently emphasized the raw and powerful side of her voice in search of the essence of African American music. Commercially, “Crazy Blues” opened the door for female blues singers to make a name for themselves.

She thus signed with the Okeh label, which entrusted her with several of its songs, like “Crazy Blues,” “You Can’t Keep a Good Man Down,” and “That Thing Called Love.” In 1921, Mamie Smith turned 27—her real date of birth remains uncertain.

Born in May 1893 in Ohio, in a Cincinnati suburb, Mamie Robertson embraced an artistic career from a very young age, joining various vaudeville troupes, learning to sing and dance on stage in front of diverse audiences. She was called Mamie Robertson at the time—her original name. She was part of the Four Dancing Mitchells, then part of a traveling show. She quickly gained renown in Harlem, where she ended up settling. Her career took off in 1913. She became an accomplished artist and the first African American star singer to succeed in recordings, thanks to Okeh, who recognized her notoriety and potential. Perry Bradford, her mentor, saw her as the perfect female singer to break into the new era of records. Her blues style would be aimed not only at African American listeners but also at White audiences, who discovered that, with her, the voice of the “blues” could resonate in their homes. The era was still that of Jim Crow, with segregation in full force, but Mamie Smith’s singing crossed boundaries and made an impression. After “Crazy Blues,” she recorded “It’s Right Here For You” in 1921, a track produced by the Okeh label with the Jazz Hounds, her usual formation, which accompanied her on stage.

The success was immediate. In 1921, she made the film The Gunsaulus Mystery by Lawrence Chenault, then Jailhouse Blues (1929). That same year, she even traveled to London. She gave numerous concerts, her popularity soared, and her name appeared in large letters on Harlem theaters and beyond. She also performed in front of segregated White audiences, who, although sometimes wary, ended up accepting her talent. John Lee Hooker and Howlin’ Wolf, as well as other big names, would come after her. The commercialization of the blues owes her a great deal. She helped legitimize African American music for a wide audience, even if the vast majority of the records were sold in “race music” departments. She herself sang in musicals. Later, she would appear in the film Paradise in Harlem in 1939, then Murder On Lenox Avenue in 1941, Sunday Sinners in 1941, and Because I Love You in 1943. Mamie Smith died in 1946, in New York.

Her voice, stage presence, and her talent for dancing allowed her to break free from the strictly classical blues, paving the way for more urban forms. She gave a popular face to African American culture, even though part of that public considered it “exotic” or “wild.” She is often overshadowed by those who came after her, like Bessie Smith, but her role was decisive. She remains an icon of the female blues.

I’m a man
I said (Ma) man
All you pretty women
Stand in line
I can eat you now

The abundance of these lyrics resembled the image of a woman who shared Mamie Smith’s heritage with all who listened. In men’s blues songs, women were often reduced to a functional or accessory role. For example, Robert Johnson, whose flirtation borders on the romanticization of the blues, compares a tightrope walker’s body to a crude image in a song like “Terraplane Blues.” When they’re not just trophies to be won by male musicians, women are often presented as objects to conquer or trophies to brandish. The example is given by his predecessors, like “When I Been Drinkin’” by Big Bill Broonzy, a guy who’s proud to sing the woman’s place in the house—“Ain’t no woman to me but the one who is my maid.” Or “My Baby Left Me” by Pinkney “Pink” Anderson, who laments the woman’s departure.

In the vast majority of male blues, the theme of departure or breakups is seen from the vantage point of a disappointed or betrayed man. With “Crazy Blues,” in 1920, the image changes drastically: the man is told, “Papa, didn’t you hear the news? There’s a new pair of shoes.” The words are already feminist. They already show the extent of the respect Aretha Franklin would demand forty years later with her own title. The woman can say “enough is enough,” can leave if she’s not respected. She can do so with as much anger as heartbreak. Bessie Smith and many others would later join in. The woman is no longer seen as weak or dependent, but rather as free to choose her lover.

Mamie Smith marks the break. She’s the exact opposite of the classic male blues, where the woman is an object. She also opposes the popular culture that trivializes subservience, before the advent of feminist criticism in the 1960s and 1970s. You can see in her the birth of a new phenomenon: the female singer who asserts her power, not as a reflection of a man or a mere sidekick, but as an artist in her own right, building her own legend. Her success is enormous. In 1921, she sang “That Thing Called Love” for Paramount or “Royal Garden Blues” for Robjohns records. She was accompanied by “Dramatic Daddy Blues.” She directly addressed men’s behavior. She refused to be “the mistress” or “the kept woman.”

The producers and managers who hired her thought they could make her a novelty act. They quickly realized her potential went well beyond that. She brought out something unstoppable: a determination and a desire to push her example further and to have women evolve through her performances. Her voice was powerful, her timbre unique. Her capacity to interpret the blues, in tune with the new big bands that emerged, was unmatched. Often, the company traveled by train or by boat down the Mississippi to St. Louis and beyond. The journey sometimes turned violent. Segregation was brutal in those states. The singer used her talent to defend herself, to perform in clubs of the big cities, and also to make her name known. Then came Bessie Smith, “the Empress of the Blues,” an iconic figure who would reach maturity in her art. Her successes were soon going to make people forget Mamie Smith, but she had paved the way for the cause of women, demanding respect for them, and thereby asserting herself as well. “Beale Street Blues,” the third song she recorded in December 1923, says it all:

“I don’t care if my friend runs away
If he wants to talk nonsense to me, let him do it.
If he cheats on me, let him do it,
but he won’t come to me to blame men.”

She reclaimed her freedom and liberating power. Confronted with patriarchal norms, she went on to meet new audiences throughout the South. In doing so, Ma Rainey also found her place. In her daily life, she sang what she felt like singing, and in her everyday style, she fought according to her taste for leisure, gambling, freedom, short hair, and traveling in men’s clothing. Some have said that she was bisexual, sometimes loving men, sometimes women. The most important thing for her was to sing “Prove It On Me,” in 1928, which some interpret as a lesbian song. But her feminist stance went beyond the private sphere. She sang about “Man, you’re not worth a dime.” Or she sang about “Army camp,” to amuse the public, reversing the usual codes of female submission. She was accompanied by talented musicians: Louis Austin, Louis Armstrong on cornet, and also Fred Longshaw on piano, or sometimes by her husband, Will Rainey. Her voice thundered across theaters, where she had to fight to avoid insults or accusations hurled at her, especially “corrupting the youth,” and especially “Prove It On Me” as a real “weapon” of an album:

“Went out last night with a few of my friends
They must’ve been women, ‘cause I don’t like men”

After having performed for three years with the Jazz Band, from 1924 to 1927, she found herself at the heart of Paramount. She recorded there with the Jug Washboard Band. She made her voice resonate on a personal album in September 1928, titled Prove It On Me. And in concert, she performed with two pianists: The Trixie & Airdrome Quartet, which brought a jazz color to her voice. She had a hectic life, punctuated by two marriages: the first to Will Rainey, the second to the manager of the Louisiana Chicago Theater. She ended her life in Rome, Georgia, in 1939, after a final trip to Chicago and a short pneumonia. She left behind an impressive discography.

If Mamie Smith was the spark, Bessie Smith was the flame, and Ma Rainey the unstoppable blaze. All of them are part of the unstoppable movement of the women’s blues, who demanded the right to exist as artists in their own right, refusing to be relegated to a subordinate role. And if they had to call themselves “wild women” or “ugly women” to do it, they did so with a laugh. In the next generation, women like Memphis Minnie or Victoria Spivey would pick up the torch. Bessie Smith and Ma Rainey could sometimes meet up, though the music industry tried to pit them against each other. Both performed on stage, sometimes with the same orchestras, fueling rumors of rivalry. But the public wanted to see them both. At the end of the day, the 1920s and 1930s belonged to them.

He answered her: “I’m sorry, Papa, but I’m looking for the same thing as you.”
Ma Rainey asserted herself, making her music both a tool and a place for self-affirmation. The men around her often saw it as a display of ignorance or even a perversion of tradition in the blues. In Black Eye Blues, she addresses herself directly to an audience caught between a branch of the southern “country blues” and a city-based approach. She uses irony to talk about men’s violence. She says: “I’ll give you a reason to cut your throat, boy, so you can never again complain that I didn’t warn you.”

The definition of masculinity as an absolute power subjected women to a misogynistic archetype in the Blues. The men demanded “submission” or “obedience” in these songs. Ma Rainey, for her part, claimed equality or even superiority of women toward men. Ma Rainey made it clear in “Trust No Man”: she speaks directly to them, calling them names like “dogs” or “pimps”:

“I’m ready for your body good enough to throw in the old mud
But I’m no dog, buddy, you can’t do that to me.
Now I don’t trust you, fellas, you women are cunning,
Because you can’t handle me, I’m a real woman, honey.”

With this song, Ma Rainey blazes the trail for a feminist revolution in performing the blues. She refuses to confine herself to the “love” realm. She takes pride in her independence and her right to be as free in her desires as men claim to be in the codes of male blues. She paves the way for “Traveling Blues” or “Booze and Blues”: it’s a radical stance, going against the tide of the social norms of her time. She’s often labeled an “immoral” or “corrupting” artist. Ma Rainey responds with even stronger texts, references to “women’s prisons,” and eventually meets Bessie Smith, with whom she records and goes on tour. She’s the one who taught her “the new secrets.” Or at least, that’s what the popular rumor claims. The younger Bessie Smith, not content with these words, unleashes “C.C. Rider.” The song would become one of the great standards of the blues and would be recorded many times, notably by a few of the biggest female figures in the history of popular music: Bessie Smith, Ella Fitzgerald, Lavern Baker, Peggy Lee, Janis Joplin.

The portrait of Ma Rainey that emerges from these lines of the late 1920s justifies the acceptance of “the outlaw.” She spent her last years between 1928 and 1933 continuing to perform. In “Black Eye Blues,” she scolds a man who dares to hit a woman. It’s about one man, but she generalizes, as if to warn all men that she no longer tolerates submission. The theme of domestic violence appears. In “He’s Never Gonna Throw Me Down,” she addresses this man, letting him know she’s no longer afraid of him. Sandra Lieb, in her analysis, sees in Ma Rainey’s lyrics a resolutely feminist stance, for example in “Don’t Fish In My Sea,” which suggests that if men want to fish in women’s waters, they must expect a reaction. “Don’t fish in my sea, if you don’t know how to handle me,” exclaims Ma Rainey. Bessie Smith, the “empress of the blues,” continues this same impetus.

She was discovered in 1912 in vaudeville troupes. Ma Rainey and her spouse, Pa Rainey, managed the Braid Front Minstrels show. It was in 1913 that Bessie Smith joined them. Thanks to Clarence, another member of Moses Stokes’ troupe around 1904. At age 12, or maybe even 9, an audition allowed Bessie Smith to be part of the TOBA circuit, where she trained. The meeting with Ma Rainey was pivotal, but that training didn’t end with her. She also frequented other women from the show, forging her own independent style, both her own repertoire and her own flamboyant stage presence.

She quickly gained fame in Atlanta, in the Standard Theater of Atlantic City and the Paradise Garden in Philadelphia. Bessie Smith refined her approach, her relationships with men… or her breakups. She had a stormy love life, a strong character, and an uncompromising attitude toward men. In January 1923, Bessie Smith signed a contract with Columbia, on the recommendation of Clarence Williams, the man who had previously approached Mamie Smith. She was 29 years old. On February 15, 1923, in New York, she recorded her first record, “Down Hearted Blues,” a song whose authorship had long been associated with Alberta Hunter, although Bessie Smith recognized neither parentage nor reference. “Down Hearted Blues” goes:

“I want to be somebody’s baby so bad
But they treat me nasty and mean
Say I ain’t never had my rightful mind
They want to see me undone
A man turned me into a miserable one.”

“I want to be the puppet of someone for love all the time/I want to be someone’s puppet to see them make me dance.” The apparent contradiction of this text sung by Bessie Smith is more about depicting how a dependence can turn into a form of feminine transgression. She doesn’t hide the fact that her desire for submission is, in fact, the sign of her own formation as an artist. It’s her choice. She claims it openly and thus achieves acceptance on two levels. She asserts herself as a free woman, in line with certain codes of society and certain moral norms, but also breaks them, having neither the language nor the desire to hide her sexuality. It’s a role she plays, and that alone contributes to the blues’ splendor. “Approved” is “Baby Won’t You Please Come Home.” Bessie Smith is more about calling the shots than being subjugated. In 1924, she records “Any Woman’s Blues,” a big success, and announces that she will be free:

“I ask him morning, noon, and night
I kiss him from morning till dawn
If that man tries to leave me
I’ll take my shotgun and go kill him.
If he wants to fight me, I’ll tear off his head, you see?
Because I’m the woman, he’s the man, and I have rights.”

The power of Bessie Smith’s songs lies in how she conveys the condition of these women in a phrase that sums up their situation:

“He said: ‘Listen, Bessie
I’ve had enough of your man’
Then I replied: ‘Well, you’ll have to endure me
Because I’m not leaving
I’ll cut you, I’ll devour you
I’m the one who rules your bed.’”

The motive of murder is at the heart of another track, recorded in February 1928 and titled “I Used to Be Your Sweet Mama,” composed by Lovie Miller for Legendary Music.

Bessie Smith adopts a radical stance, more violent than the one defended by the Black feminist associations of the time. This is because Bessie Smith brings to her themes an intensity and depth that foreshadow a new world, foreshadowing the arrival of other jazz, or even R&B, stars in the decades that followed. When Bessie Smith interprets “Poor Man’s Blues” in 1928, she denounces a social system that devours the poorest. There’s no adaptation to be found—she records it in 1925 on Cake Walking Babies From Home—and it’s not to amuse the audience. But that doesn’t stop her from pleasing. And her success does not prevent her from seeing the precarious conditions in which many of her people live. “Careless Love” is another example of how Bessie Smith, in 1925, questions the precariousness of existence.

Bessie Smith gradually achieved immense success in the 1920s, which convinced her to tour widely. In that sense, Billie Holiday would later take up the torch, going even further in her flamboyant performances. Bessie Smith’s mother died when she was still very young. She was raised by her older sister. She had to make her own way in life and began by singing in the street. Then, around 1912, she met Ma Rainey, who introduced her to the traveling show. That was the feminist spirit of the black musical universe: women forging alliances, supporting each other. Bessie Smith, like Ma Rainey, demanded respect from men, from the audience, from the music industry. She sang about her heartbreaks but also her refusal to be enslaved by any man.

For instance, “Hard Driving Papa” or “Mean Old Bedbug Blues,” “Bleeding Hearted Blues,” or “Weeping Willow Blues,” and “Eavesdropper’s Blues” evoke the harm men do to women, but also the vengeance or rebellion of those women. Bessie Smith has an imposing stature, nearly 5 feet 9 inches tall, physically strong, with a presence that mesmerizes. She nourishes the idea of a female “boss,” a rebellious role that breaks from the norm, not to mention her openly bisexual orientation, which is rumored but never hidden from those close to her. In her repertoire, we find references to “wild parties,” “sex with men or women,” or “booze.” The tone is direct, raw. She tries to shock the bourgeoisie, as it were, but above all, she tries to exist on stage. It’s an identity claim in a world that leaves little room for women, let alone Black women.

The women’s movement for suffrage and engagement was awakening at the end of the 19th century, under the notable impulse of the National Association of Colored Women, created in 1896 by journalists and activists Josephine Ruffin and Mary Church Terrell, among others. But in the early 1920s, black women were still far from achieving equality. Bessie Smith was no exception, yet her success opened a path. She sold tens of thousands of records, contributed to the financial well-being of households in black communities, where they pooled their resources to buy them, or sometimes going to the record store was a luxury. She traveled from city to city, from Chicago to Memphis, from Memphis to Atlanta, from Atlanta to New York, forging a sense of national belonging in a black America that was still deeply segregated. The power of her voice, combined with her sense of showmanship, made her the star of the blues, a superstar. And if Ma Rainey remains “the mother of the blues,” Bessie Smith becomes “the empress.”

In 1933, at the request of producer John Hammond, she recorded a few tracks in a Harlem basement that would later be released as The Complete Recordings. People talk about the charm of a voice “once again fresh,” even though she was around 39 years old. She was living in New York, where she was trying to breathe new life into her career. But the wave of the Great Depression had swept away a large part of the black working class, who no longer had the means to buy her records. Billie Holiday was beginning to make a name for herself, and the music industry was shifting. Bessie Smith, for her part, tried to adapt, incorporating a few swing touches into her final sessions, but it was too late. She died tragically in 1937 following a car accident near Clarksdale, Mississippi, at the age of 43. That same year, “Nobody Knows You When You’re Down and Out” was reissued. She also left behind “He’s Got Me Goin’,” “Baby Won’t You Please Come Home,” “I’m Wild About That Thing,” or “Kitchen Man,” each one unveiling a new facet of her rebellious character.

Later, Charles Warfield and Clarence Williams, who had collaborated with her, would say: “She gave everything. If you had a story, a heartbreak, a painful memory, she would sing it better than anyone else, because she had lived it.” Bessie Smith is one of the few who bridged a gap between rural blues and city blues, between a certain violence in relationships and a playful sexuality. She broke taboos about women’s roles. In “Mean Old Bedbug Blues,” for instance, she says:

“I want to be the puppet of someone for love all the time
I want to be the puppet of someone to see them make me dance.”

She flips it around, addressing men who treat her like an object:

“If you want to be the puppet of someone for a day or a night
I’ll be your puppet. But if you don’t love me, you’ll see what I’m capable of.”

This tension between submission and power is encapsulated in a single phrase about the condition of women.

Bessie Smith took a radical stance, much more so than that promoted by feminist associations of the time. She added an intensity and depth to her themes, heralding a new world, with the arrival of other jazz, or even R&B, stars in the following decades. When Bessie Smith interprets “Poor Man’s Blues,” around 1928, it’s a social denunciation. There’s no adaptation—she recorded “Cake Walking Babies From Home” in 1925, and it’s not to amuse. But that doesn’t stop her from pleasing. Her success doesn’t prevent her from seeing the precarious conditions in which many of her people live. “Careless Love” in 1925 is another example where she evokes the precariousness of existence. Bessie Smith was immensely successful in the 1920s, which convinced her to travel extensively. In that sense, Billie Holiday would pick up the torch, going even further in her flamboyant performances.

She recorded her name in the top 15. Billie rubbed shoulders with and even recorded with jazz legends: Fletcher Henderson, Duke Ellington, Lester “Prez” Young, who gave her the nickname. In the West, she recorded in 1931 without success, then joined the prestigious Orchestra d’Arshile Shaw, a white formation with whom she experienced some drama… But her color didn’t stop her from singing. “Carelessly” would become a major success in 1930. Billie Holiday would then appear in nightclubs, sometimes overshadowed by bigger stars, but she continued to believe in her talent, forging her path.

Billie Holiday’s father was in the band, which gave her a certain aura. She was discovered by John Hammond, the same producer who sought out Bessie Smith. In 1935, she signed with Columbia, then Decca. She overcame many prejudices with her unique voice, but she was also deprived of the tender childhood she deserved. She didn’t care about it or tried to forget it through songs. At the dawn of the war, Billie Holiday perfected her political and social engagement, especially with “Strange Fruit,” an assault on the violence inflicted on blacks, which shocked and upset—“Poor Man’s Blues” by Bessie Smith.

She then turned to Commodore Records and achieved great success, sparking debates and criticism. Faced with the fight against the rise of fascism, Billie Holiday preferred political engagement, daring “Strange Fruit,” an indictment of racial violence that shook the media. It was censored by certain radio stations but ended up being hailed as one of the first major protest songs. She performed it in clubs, sometimes confronted by racist or outraged spectators. She performed it again in 1941 with the famous “Gloomy Sunday,” taking it to new heights. In 1944, she signed with Decca, and on that label, she had more freedom. This is where Billie Holiday’s name took on its full meaning. She recorded with strings, big orchestras, or in small combos. She worked with Joe Guy, who became her companion, until 1945. She continued to challenge the moral codes of her era, often found in clubs in Harlem or Chicago. The press labeled her a scandal, but also recognized her undeniable talent. She was introduced to “the King,” Benny Goodman, or the Count Basie Orchestra, but that ended up creating conflicts of interest. She overcame them and continued to record “Lover Man” in 1945, a big success.

In the late 1940s, her life became more complicated. She was arrested for drug use. She was sentenced to prison in 1947, released the following year. In 1953, she performed at Carnegie Hall for a triumphant concert. But her health was declining. She recorded “Lady in Satin” in 1958, an album that resonates like a final testament. She died in July 1959, leaving behind a repertoire that shaped an entire era of vocal jazz. She brought to her songs an intensity, a fragility, a sincerity rarely achieved. Her voice, which critics describe as “broken,” was that of a woman bruised by life, a voice that would influence Nina Simone, Etta James, or Dinah Washington, and well beyond. Billie Holiday ended up in the hospital in 1959, under arrest for narcotics possession. She died handcuffed to her bed, the victim of her times, and of a system that rejected her while wanting to exploit her. She left behind “Strange Fruit,” “God Bless the Child,” “I Cover the Waterfront,” “Fine and Mellow,” “Lover Man,” and so many other classics that shaped the music and the struggle for women’s equality.