Linda Sharrock Anchored Her Husband's Landmark Free Jazz Album

Though "Black Woman" was Sonny Sharrock's LP, Linda gave the album its soul.

There stood the vocalist Linda Sharrock, holding court on a stage somewhere in France in 1970, caterwauling as the music curled around her high-pitched squeals. You could call the sound “alternative” or “free jazz,” but there was something deeper and more spiritual happening. It was an unearthing — of pain, joy, frustration and pleasure — all coming through this frenetic blast of upright bass, surging drum fills and blistering guitar chords. At the center of it was Linda, a firebrand: Even as her husband Sonny, an acclaimed bandleader and experimental guitarist, contorted his face and rapidly plucked his instrument, Linda remained the focal point, breaking the tension with operatic wails that seemed otherworldly.

They were performing music from Sonny’s album, Black Woman, released in 1969. On what might be his masterpiece, Sonny and Linda sought to unpack the nuances of Black womanhood through seething arrangements that felt off-kilter yet somehow in control. Featuring Dave Burrell on piano; Milford Graves on drums; Norris Jones and Richard Pierce on bass; Teddy Daniel on trumpet; and Gary Sharrock on bells, it was a high-wire act teetering on the verge of too much. Yet you couldn’t deny the virtuosity, even if it landed harshly on the ear. It’s not until you start researching history that you begin to understand what Linda endured as a young Black woman in the ‘60s, and understand what it must have been like for Sonny as a Black man. Still, no matter what the guys went through, they likely couldn’t fathom Linda’s conflict. Black Woman at least tried to do so, even if the sound got away from Sonny occasionally.

“That took a lot of nerve,” he once said to the music journalist Ben Ratliff of the album. “That was a hell of a band … but I wasn't always in control of it. That's what you have to do as a bandleader.” Indeed, Black Woman felt benevolent, like one collective soaring towards a shared goal, no matter how dominant Sonny’s shredding could be. And though his name appeared first on the album jacket, the star of Black Woman was Linda, Sonny’s wife at the time. Without her voice, a shrill, haunting soprano of wonder, agony and outrage, Black Woman wouldn’t have its soul. Her yelps, screams and melodic runs, set against Sonny’s breakneck chords, properly conveyed the spirit of living while Black in America at that time — or any time, really.

Take the title track, for instance: Linda simmered at first; her hums warm and inviting, as if enticing the listener to kneel at the bandstand. Yet she and the group quickly ascended; by the 2:30 mark, she ramped to a full-throated wail, as the music teetered on the verge of collapse. The instrumental didn’t quite resemble jazz. Instead, it felt like psych-rock, or hardcore punk before the genre was invented. To me, Linda’s performance recalled Abbey Lincoln’s feature on “Triptych,” a fierce three-part suite on Max Roach’s landmark album,We Insist!, from 1960. But where Lincoln’s howl felt like an overall push for equal rights, Linda sounded exasperated, like she was fighting for everyone but no one was fighting for her. Through wordless sounds, she expressed how many Black women felt then and still feel in today’s social and political atmosphere.

Born Linda Chambers in Philadelphia in 1947, she came up in New York City’s avant-garde scene in the 1960s, working with the likes of the experimental vocalist Jeanne Lee, and the saxophonists Albert Ayler, Archie Shepp and Pharoah Sanders. Linda stood out because critics couldn’t identify her sound. It was jarring and ambitious, bold yet charming, driven by strong emotions that couldn’t be articulated or packaged neatly. As a result, Linda’s music was deemed “other” and not marketed properly. Then by the early ‘70s, listeners had moved on from jazz overall and the type of experimental jazz she created, and Linda faded from view. She pressed on nonetheless, releasing music that was still just as challenging as before.

In the ‘80s, Linda moved to Austria and continued to release music of all sorts, not just esoteric work meant to challenge listeners. A decade later, she released On Holiday, a straightforward synth-driven R&B set, via Polydor Records. The subsequent album, 1994’s Like a River, found Linda returning to the eccentric vocal nuances of previous decades. By then, though, there wasn’t nearly enough interest in avant-garde art; the record came and went without much fanfare. She continued to work after suffering a stroke in 2009, releasing albums under the name The Linda Sharrock Network, and others with a host of like-minded collaborators. While those health challenges have diminished her range, Linda still harbors the same gut-wrenching emotions; the deeper tone elicits a foreboding tone somewhere between grunge rock or death metal. But it all began on Black Woman, a daring 30-minute LP that’s just as powerful as ever.

Throughout the album, Linda’s tone shifted from rage and rebellion, to something more lithe and acrobatic. On the song “Peanut,” as her voice hovered in the background, her wails felt ghostly and spectre-like, as if sampled. Unlike the title track, where I heard Linda’s voice prominently, she sounded more aligned with the band here. Her voice was more agile, dancing alongside the percussion and bass without overtaking it. While it’s easy to call the music difficult, it’s important to keep the reasons for it centered: The music came from a deep place of unrest, where the suffering prevailed and all that remained was the shouting. In similar fashion, “Bialero” — a French arrangement composed by Sonny Sharrock himself — was a graceful duet between Linda and Sonny, where the music ebbed and flowed to give them equal billing. There was this fascinating juxtaposition between the drums and piano; the percussion rolled like thunder with ominous results. Yet the piano held in the upper register, and the song pivoted between light and dark textures, classical and free jazz, angelic and downcast. It led to the equally grand finale, “Portrait of Linda In Three Colors, All Black,” a masterful collage of stampeding drums and trumpet wails that centered Linda’s screeching. Perhaps on purpose, her voice was mixed louder devoid of effects, so we could fully absorb the splintering pain in her delivery.

In revisiting Black Woman, I’m reminded of something Donald Glover once said when asked about the creative approach of his 2016 album, Awaken, My Love. He remembered listening to his dad’s old records — albums by the Isley Brothers or Funkadelic — and “not understanding the feeling I was feeling.” He told Billboard: “I remember hearing a Funkadelic scream and being like, ‘Wow, that’s sexual and it’s scary.’ Not having a name for that, though; just having a feeling.”

That’s how I listen to Black Woman — for the thing I can’t quite describe despite its resonance in my spirit. In the car, the sound bounces off the windows, thudding along without attention to city or suburban bustle. On headphones, the album assails the way I need it to: In moments of fatigue or insecurity, it blows the dust out of my brain, locking me back into whatever work I want to do. On a pure sonic level, Black Woman is a forceful nudge beyond stagnation. It reminds me, indirectly, to not let fear paralyze me, to lean into whatever feelings arise without overly assessing them. Because to make an album like this, Linda and Sonny needed to be fearless at a time when stakes were higher, so who am I to be scared with greater creative freedom at play? Fifty-six years later, Black Woman still shines, and Linda Sharrock remains the brightest star on it.