S03E01 – Abbey Lincoln, Chicago, 1930

Per molto tempo alle donne nel jazz è stato permesso solo di cantare, tutto il resto era considerato un’invasione.

Chicago (Illinois), 1930

There is a moment, in the lives of some artists, when the question is no longer what to do, or how to do it.

It is neither the voice, nor the style, nor success. The question is what to call oneself. How many times have we read a story or a biography that begins like this:

Abbey Lincoln was born Anna Marie Wooldridge on August 6, 1930, in Michigan… and so on and so forth.

How many times have we stopped to think about it? To understand why? I’ll tell you: not many. What drives an artist to abandon their birth name and take on a new one? Can it really be just a matter of branding? Of marketing?

Changing one’s name, for an artist, is not an aesthetic choice. It is a threshold.

David Bowie used to say, “my name is my shield.”

A name is the first thing we are given. We do not choose it. It comes before us. It defines us even before we can speak. It carries with it a story that often does not belong to us: a family, a social class, a geography, sometimes a trauma. For many artists, arriving at a new name does not mean inventing themselves, but freeing themselves.

Anna Marie Wooldridge understands this early on. She understands that this name contains a little girl who learned how to survive before ever feeling safe. A child who worked too soon, who saw too much, who could never afford the illusion of protection. The classic story of someone at the very bottom, from a family at the very bottom. An absent father, many siblings, a mother drained by work, the enforced absence of affection and protection. To keep carrying that name into adulthood would mean continuing to answer a call she never chose.

And then something happens that is not spectacular at all, yet is profoundly radical: she chooses what to call herself.

She becomes Abbey Lincoln.

It is not a light name. It is not neutral. It is a name that carries weight. Abbey as a place of silence, of listening, of inner concentration. Abbey as Westminster Abbey (as she herself would say): a place of coronations, a place of burial, a place of history. A space in which the individual voice measures itself against long time, against what survives human life.

Why would an African American woman in the 1950s look to Westminster Abbey? This is the crucial point: Abbey Lincoln does not choose a direct African American reference (as other artists would), but instead chooses a place from the Western canon, from European symbolic power. It is an act of appropriation—taking a symbol of the dominant culture and making it her own, without asking permission. It is not submission. It is saying, “Hey, this belongs to me too.”

For a Black woman raised in poverty, this is a radical gesture of self-legitimation. Abbey as a place, a choice that shifts attention away from the self, from the ego—a way of saying, “I’m not here to talk about myself; I’m here to say something that carries weight.”

Lincoln is not a celebratory homage, but a gesture of positioning. She is an African American woman becoming an artist in the 1950s, when racial laws—the Jim Crow laws—are still in place. African American civil rights movements are being violently suppressed. Schools are still segregated, divided between white and Black students. Thousands of young people who enlisted hoping to finally return as full Americans discover themselves disillusioned, or dead in battle.

Lincoln becomes the symbol of a promise made but never fully kept: emancipation proclaimed, but not realized. To call herself Lincoln is to place herself within American history, not on its margins, while simultaneously recalling its contradictions. It is not a comfortable or decorative name. It carries a moral weight, a constant reminder of collective responsibility. Every time it is spoken, it evokes freedom as an unfinished process, not a definitive achievement.

In this sense, Abbey Lincoln does not present herself as an icon, but as a witness: someone who uses her voice to keep a question open, not to close it. In that name is already a program, a posture, a stance taken toward the world as it is.

For Abbey Lincoln, changing her name is not a disguise. It is subtraction. It is removing what is no longer needed in order to speak with a new voice. Not a more beautiful voice, but a truer one.

She is not alone in this gesture.

Eleanora Fagan becomes Billie Holiday to avoid carrying onto the stage the weight of an absent father and a childhood marked by violence. Eunice Waymon becomes Nina Simone to protect herself, to create a space where music can say what society does not allow her to say. Chloe Wofford becomes Toni Morrison to sign books that ask for no permission. David Jones becomes David Bowie to avoid being confused with someone else, but also to build a vital distance between the man and the myth. Malcolm Little becomes Malcolm X to reject the name of the slaveholder, to declare that his story begins elsewhere. Prince even relinquishes letters, transforming into a symbol, when he understands that a name itself can be a chain.

Existential. It is saying: I am not only the result of what has happened to me. I am also the choice of what I decide to be.

“For Abbey Lincoln, that name marks a clear before and after. Before, there is Hollywood, with its stereotyped roles, with female bodies used as ornament, with tamed voices. After, there is a woman who refuses to be decoration. Who refuses to sing just to please. Who even refuses the idea of being ‘a jazz singer’ in the conventional sense of the term. I can tell you, having known her well, she only realized at the end the full power of her choices—how much she did for all of us, how much strength she gave to so many women of her generation.”

When Anna Marie Wooldridge arrives in Hollywood, she does not arrive to rebel. She does not arrive, like many others, to live “the American dream.” She arrives to work. Los Angeles— as we discussed in the episode of this podcast dedicated to Melba Liston— is the city of the emerging American film industry. For a young Black woman who is poor and intelligent, it seems like one of the few places where talent could matter more than background. At least on paper. Here, she studies acting, sings in clubs, auditions. She lands small roles, appearances, parts that are supposed to represent a beginning. But very quickly, she realizes that she is not the one being watched: it is her body. Her face. Her willingness to be in the right place, in the right way, without making too much noise.

The roles offered to her are always the same: seductive women, exotic figures, decorative presences. They speak little, understand less, and exist primarily to be looked at. No one asks her what she thinks. They ask her to smile. To soften her gaze. To not seem too serious.

“I was at an audition, one of the many my agent kept telling me to do. I was in front of three white men who were telling me to do this and do that. At one point, almost in unison, the three of them said, ‘Try to talk less,’ ‘Yes, that’s good, smile a little more,’ and the other one, ‘There, you mustn’t seem too serious.’ At first, I felt belittled, but I was learning to respond. I said, ‘Hey, seriousness is the only thing I have—who do you think I am?’ Of course, I didn’t get the part.”

Her agent, at auditions, and her colleagues constantly suggest she “lighten up.” Anna Marie immediately understands what that means: don’t be too smart, don’t be too aware, don’t be too real. She does not conform. Not because she is courageous in the romantic sense, but because she doesn’t know how to. Seriousness is the only thing she truly has.

Hollywood quickly teaches her a fundamental lesson: visibility can be a form of control. You can be everywhere on the screen and have no voice. You can be desired and not be heard. You can work hard and yet not exist at all. She rejects roles that humiliate her. She rejects caricatured accents. She rejects submissive postures. Every refusal makes her less employed and more isolated, but also clearer. She understands that in that system, success comes at a specific price: the surrender of complexity. And she is not willing to pay it.

“My time in Hollywood? No, it was absolutely not a failure, quite the opposite. It was a school. A strict school, yes, but a necessary one. I cried a lot, but above all, I discovered. Hollywood had very clear ideas about the role of women: desirable but not authoritative, present but not central. They didn’t want me to be intelligent; they wanted me to be visible. My body came before my mind, and I wanted the opposite. I would rather not work than be diminished. In Hollywood, I learned to say no. I discovered that not every opportunity is truly an opportunity, and I saw clearly what happens when the industry decides who you can be even before you open your mouth.”

It is in Hollywood that her definitive rejection of the decorative role is born. It is there that the urgency for a voice that does not accompany images, but interrupts them, takes root. When she leaves Hollywood, it is not due to a lack of opportunities. She leaves because she understands that freedom, for her, will never come from a screen that asks her to be less than she is. Hollywood is the experience that gives her a standard, a way to understand herself, to define herself, and finally to discover her true name.

By the late 1950s, Abbey moves. The destination is almost inevitable: New York, Harlem, the Greenwich Village. New York is the true center of an important musical, artistic, and political scene. If Los Angeles was a place where jazz was shaped through cinema and industry, New York is where the language of jazz is formed. It is the creative city, the city where everyone eventually arrives. Abbey too, like Melba Liston from Los Angeles, like Mary Lou Williams from Kansas City, like Ellington from Washington DC.

New York is a city not only tolerant but deeply interested in unrestrained voices, new sounds, and external stimuli. In those years, iconic records will be produced in Rudy Van Gelder’s mother’s kitchen or at the Village Vanguard. These are the years of John Coltrane, Sonny Rollins, and Miles Davis.

In this context, Abbey arrives not as a star, but as an adult artist in formation. These are the years when she plays in clubs, becomes familiar with a traditional jazz repertoire, and connects with top-level musicians. It is here that she releases her first albums, presenting herself as a vocally elegant singer, yet already less accommodating, with a growing focus on lyrics and meaning.

“At first, when I arrived in New York, I sang the way I thought one was supposed to sing. Then I began to subtract, to understand the power of words and the role a singer must have. It was here that I met Max Roach. Well, I knew who he was—he had played with Charlie Parker, collaborated with Dizzy Gillespie, I had heard him play. I don’t know exactly when or where we truly connected, but we recognized each other immediately.”

Max Roach is not only one of the greatest drummers in modern jazz. He is a thinker. A musician for whom jazz is a political language, not mere background. He himself would say: “Music reflects the times. If it doesn’t, it is lying.”

Between him and Abbey, something immediately forms that goes beyond collaboration. It is a mutual recognition. Both reject the idea of jazz as reassuring entertainment. Both feel that music must engage with the present, even when it is uncomfortable. He is the one who encourages Abbey to think politically about music, to explore meanings, what to say, the messages. To dismantle the idea of art as decoration, background, or consoling medicine.

Art becomes instead a direct response to historical violence, “an instrument of offensive and defensive war against the enemy,” to quote Picasso at the unveiling of *Guernica*. With Roach, Abbey definitively changes the way she sings. Her voice becomes leaner, more direct. The words matter as much as— and sometimes more than— the notes.

“I stopped singing to please. I started singing to speak the truth. Truth that I believe in. For me, music is not entertainment; it is communication. If you don’t believe in what you are singing, why should anyone else listen?”

By the late 1950s, neutrality is no longer an option. The civil rights movement sweeps across the United States. Images of protests, violence, and segregation are everywhere. Max Roach conceives a radical project: a suite that does not comment on the struggle, but embodies it. Not a “themed” record, but a true political act.

Thus, in 1960, “We Insist! Freedom Now Suite” is born.

The title does not ask for time. It does not ask for patience. It says *now*. And at the center of that work is Abbey Lincoln’s voice. What she does resembles nothing the jazz audience is used to hearing. At times, she does not sing—she screams. She moans. She cries. Her voice becomes body, wound, memory.

“It was a heartbreaking and truly intense period of my life. Max and I had a very strong relationship, also romantic. We moved in politically active circles—it couldn’t have been otherwise. We talked a lot, argued a lot about racism, colonialism, civil rights. It was the moment to do it, the moment to uproot all those habits we had been conditioned to, to destroy racial segregation, but also gender segregation. I frequented Mary Lou Williams’ salon in Harlem, where there were other women artists, Melba Liston, Nina Simone. We discussed how our anger could become music. When we recorded *Freedom Now Suite*, the tension was palpable—among the musicians, among the engineers. Someone said, ‘If we are uncomfortable, imagine how the listeners will feel.’ ‘Exactly,’ I said, ‘that’s what we want. If people feel discomfort, then you are saying something true.’”

Independence, the American present. It is an openly political work—a rarity in jazz at that time. Radio stations reject it. Some critics speak of excess, of propaganda. But Max Roach responds unambiguously, saying that no, approval is not the goal, honesty is. For Abbey Lincoln, this record is a point of no return. After *Freedom Now Suite*, she can no longer be simply a jazz singer. She has become a public voice, in the fullest sense of the term. A voice that takes responsibility for what it says.

“They told us the record was extreme, that only a madman could expect it to be approved. Approved by whom? At the time, we weren’t interested in approval—the point was honesty.”

Even her relationship with Max Roach, though fundamental, is complex. It is made of dialogue, clashes, and mutual growth. Abbey learns a great deal, but she never allows herself to be absorbed. When their paths part, she carries with her what that encounter gave her: the conviction that music is never innocent.

If Hollywood taught her what to reject, Max Roach and *Freedom Now Suite* taught her what to affirm. From that moment on, Abbey Lincoln would no longer pursue a career in the traditional sense. She would seek coherence and accept its price. As she herself would say: “Freedom is the most expensive thing there is.”

One thing is certain: Abbey Lincoln never chose musicians based on convenience, the work they might offer, or any business considerations. She chose them based on the truth they were willing to uphold, on the music they wanted to make, regardless of approval or commercial logic.

Sonny Rollins is one of them. You don’t see him staying in one place for long, because his music does not thrive in closed rooms. Rollins plays as if he were speaking out loud, without worrying too much about pleasing anyone. He did it then, and he does it still today, in December 2025, as I write this podcast. Abbey immediately recognizes that freedom—and recognizes that it is mutual. Respect is this: no one accompanies anyone. Each speaks, and the other listens.

In those same years, she collaborates with Eric Dolphy, who arrives like a shock. With him, there is no balance, only friction. His sound is not there to reassure; it is there to unsettle. Abbey is fascinated by this, and Dolphy does not ask her to sing better. He asks her to be present. And she is—fully present.

Then there is Coleman Hawkins. Hawkins has no need to prove anything to anyone. He is history itself, walking slowly onto the stage. With him, Abbey slows down. She weighs her words. She doesn’t raise her voice to be heard, because she doesn’t need to. Hawkins truly listens, and everyone listens to Hawkins. That is authority. Consecration, if you will. And let’s say it plainly: if the one listening to you and giving you space is the king—the old king, the one everyone, absolutely everyone, respects. In that space of listening, Abbey can reveal another form of strength: depth.

Three men, three languages. And one constant: none of them asks her to become something different. With Rollins, Abbey is free. With Dolphy, she is necessary. With Hawkins, she is legitimized. This is Abbey Lincoln’s strength—the strength not to adapt, but to define herself. It is not the collaborations that tell Abbey Lincoln’s story; it is Abbey Lincoln who, by moving through them, reveals what it truly means to play together.

After 1964, Abbey Lincoln does not fall into silence. She enters it.

It is a subtle difference, but a decisive one. Because for her, silence is never empty: it is a place of work. After years of total exposure, Abbey understands that the price of truth can be isolation. And she accepts paying it, without negotiating.

“After a certain point, the phone stopped ringing. I was too explicit, too uncomfortable. A Black woman speaking without mediation? Pff. After the assassination of Martin Luther King, the industry said: enough. The 1970s wanted divas, and I wasn’t one. But I also knew that anger had been necessary, yet it couldn’t be the only thing. I no longer wanted to explain myself—I needed to understand myself.”

In those years, Abbey Lincoln stops being a public symbol and returns to being a thinking woman. She reads poetry. Philosophy. Spiritual texts. She writes. She listens again to her own voice. Anger, which had once been necessary, now asks to be transformed. Not erased, but passed through.

The separation from Max Roach marks the end of a collective season. There is no bitterness, but a painful awareness: you cannot live forever inside a battle. Abbey feels that continuing along that path would mean becoming a caricature of herself. And she never wanted to be a form, but a person.

The 1970s offer her no comfortable refuge. She is too radical for the market, too complex for the labels, too quiet for those who want only noise. She is a Black woman who refuses to remain forever young, forcibly desirable, instantly recognizable. In the world of entertainment, this is almost an act of desertion.

And yet Abbey endures. She lives on little. She accepts only what does not diminish her. She teaches, observes, listens. She does not ask to return to the center. She waits for the center to stop being the only possible place.

When, toward the end of the 1970s, her voice begins to re-emerge, it is no longer a voice that shouts. It is a voice that knows. It knows the cost of speaking. It knows the cost of silence. And above all, it knows that truth does not need volume, but time.

These fifteen years are not a parenthesis. They are the place where Abbey Lincoln stops responding to the world and finally begins to speak from herself, where she makes peace with the ego, where she understands that the ego—when it does not take over but is held and guided—can be a good thing.

When Abbey returns, decades have passed. Now she has nothing left to prove. She no longer needs to convince the world of her importance, nor to defend her position. She has already paid the price of truth. And this finally allows her to speak softly. The first records are so delicate they almost pass unnoticed, but it is in 2007 that she releases her manifesto.

Thus is born the album *Abbey Sings Abbey*, the first record in which she places herself at the center. It is born not as a reckoning, but as a simple and radical gesture: singing herself. Her own words. Her own language. Her own memory. In a world that asks singers to reinterpret other people’s stories, Abbey decides that her life is enough.

“At a certain age, you can no longer sing lies. I’ve always sung the truth, but at 77 you see more clearly what that truth is. I sing my life because I believe it is enough, don’t you?”

The press receives the album very positively. *The New York Times* writes, “Lincoln has transformed her voice into an instrument of memory,” while *DownBeat* defines the album as “a work of rare intimacy and authority,” adding that it is “a mature voice that speaks of wisdom, not trying to sing beautifully but to speak rightly.”

*Abbey Sings Abbey* is her final album, her ultimate manifesto. The incredible journey of her life, as she called it, ends in August 2010 in New York, just days after her 80th birthday.

From Abbey Lincoln onward, the voice becomes a moral act. Words matter more than melody. Silence matters as much as sound. Anger is not smoothed over, but allowed to breathe.

“Black women in music were listened to, but never respected as intellectuals. This is where Abbey is decisive. We women always had to ask for permission, and permission was always denied. There was a chair for us next to the orchestra; we had to sit there and wait our turn to stand, to sing more than well words that often had no meaning, and then sit back down. We had to be beautiful, not intelligent. The message was: we were Black and women, therefore doubly grateful to be there and not in the kitchen doing the dishes. None of the women I knew in Mary Lou Williams’ salon had any intention of washing dishes, but Abbey was the only one who had truly decided to break those dishes. If we had broken them all, if there were no more dishes, what would we have had to be grateful for?”

Hearing this story today leaves us with a question and a wish. What is the role of women in music today, and do we respect them enough? So that no one, anywhere—especially in music—feels discriminated against for their gender or the color of their skin. Because music has no gender; people do.

Abbey Lincoln leaves us a legacy that cannot be measured in records, but in the courage to use one’s own voice without asking for permission. She taught us that music is not meant to please, but to speak the truth; that silence can be a political choice; and that becoming oneself is the most radical act an artist can undertake.

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Il podcast è scritto da Guido Maria Bianchini e Marta Leoni.
Voci di Guido Maria Bianchini e Laura Magni.
Sigla e montaggi di Guido Maria Bianchini.