Before Rap Rattled Your Windowpanes

It’s astonishing how many people are playing, and how quiet the whole thing is. Aretha is still fairly young here, the seventies running out of gas, this whole big-band orchestra extravaganza circling the drain already; but damn — she is entirely in control of herself, singing the way she wants to, not forcing it in any way, the material (Stevie Wonder wrote it) worthy of her effort.

Singing is athletic. I never want to see old singers perform much. They are shells of their former selves, usually, and it makes me sad to see them.

In her introduction, Aretha seemed to be laboring under the impression that the Canadian audience was going to sing along or get up and groove or form a wild, impromptu rave or something.

Man, was she lost.