SHE was Queen of the Blues and she brooked no rivals. During a tour of Britain in 1959, Dinah Washington told her audience: “I'm happy to be here, but just remember. There's one heaven, one earth and one queen: Elizabeth is an imposter.” Far from being shocked, her listeners loved it. It was just what they expected from the singer whose first hit had been “Evil Gal Blues”. Throughout her career, Dinah Washington's vocal power was matched by a formidable personality which kept her in the newspaper headlines as much as in the Top 40.

Musically, style was the woman. Like many black American singers, her background was in gospel music: indeed, she was a church soloist at the age of 15. Yet even then, she had her eye on show business, and she translated the ardour of the gospel repertoire into the secular and sexual passion of the blues. Her delivery combined intense feeling with crystal-clear diction so that, as the music poured out, she still seemed in total control. An early critic was struck by her “tart, take-me-or-leave-me sound”, and her vibrant, seductively self-possessed timbre made her a star by the age of 20.

Nadine Cohodas's rich, well-researched biography compellingly charts her subject's rise, and the stormy dramas which attended it. Wilful and volatile, the Queen of the Blues always got what she wanted.

Her determination was a godsend to young musicians she believed in. When she demanded that her record company hire Quincy Jones—then an unknown arranger, now a global entertainment magnate—for her next album, its executives said they preferred “a name”. “Here”, replied the Queen, “is a name for your ass: Dinah Washington, and Quincy Jones is my arranger.” Mr Jones got his break. He also became one of the singer's many lovers, for the Queen got what she wanted romantically as well, at least in the short term. Her string of brief marriages and lovers is a life-long pattern that Ms Cohodas attributes to insecurity and to an inability to be alone.

Yet the impression from this book is not of vulnerability, but of a salty independence. Even in dealing with her public, Dinah Washington imposed her own terms, once shushing a noisy listener with, “Mister, I hope I don't have to call you motherfucker.” Whatever she called them, her fans were entranced by a style that could put its stamp on any material—blues, jazz or pop. She ranged with relish from the double-entendre rudery of “Long John Blues” to the high romance of “What a Difference a Day Made”. And musicians loved her too, despite the imperious moods. They respected her consummate professionalism and an ear so keen that she could, she said, hear grass grow.

Her talent was projected by sheer force of emotional commitment. As she put it: “I lead with my heart all the time.” To some critics, her full-frontal attack was ideal for rhythm and blues, but was less well suited to the tonal and rhythmic subtleties of jazz. Ms Cohodas acknowledges that the singer lacked the suppleness of such divas as Ella Fitzgerald and Sarah Vaughan. Yet even jazz listeners praised what one called “that fine, hard Dinah clarity and impact of sound”.

Ms Cohodas's chronicle derives its interest and authority from such first-hand observations. Generally, the author does not overdo speculation, though she does keep the reader apprised of the racism black Americans—including stars—routinely had to endure. She also highlights the social pressure that the cult of beauty exerted on women, and even on Dinah Washington, who always harboured a sense of physical inferiority. Ms Cohodas believes that an obsession with dieting had something to do with the singer's death in 1963 (she was just 39) from an accidental overdose of prescription drugs. Yet the Dinah Washington who dominates these pages does not seem at all cut out for the role of victim. Whatever the cost, she was every inch the Queen.