#18: Etta James
Etta James could turn seduction into sorrow and rage into jazz. Her voice wasn’t velvet—it was leather, lived-in and loud and unafraid. She didn’t croon At Last. She claimed it, demanded it, like love owed her something. Etta’s strength came from her scars, and she made no effort to hide them.

Her songs were confessions, courtroom statements, midnight calls to the one who left. R&B, gospel, blues—whatever the genre, she sang like the rules never applied to her. And they didn’t. Etta didn’t fit into a box. She burned the box, lit a cigarette, and kept singing in the smoke.