Abbey Lincoln virtually defined jazz singing. Her commanding voice and imaginative songwriting set her apart while confirming her status as a worthy successor to her major influence, Billie Holiday. But Lincoln, who died on Aug. 14 at age 80, owed her status as a great artist not just to her musical gifts, but also to a bold originality that accommodated the classical values of Holiday, Ella Fitzgerald and Sarah Vaughan while foreshadowing the modernist impulses of Diana Krall, Dianne Reeves and Cassandra Wilson.

Born Anna Marie Wooldridge, Lincoln meant her stage name as a tribute to both Abraham Lincoln and Westminster Abbey. She began her career in the 1950s as a conventional club singer, seemingly content to embrace the more glamorous aspects of that racially volatile era. On the cover of her debut album, "Affair … a Story of a Girl in Love" (1956), Lincoln wore a carefree smile and a dress that was notable for its décolletage.

But by the time she released "Abbey Is Blue" (1959) and "Straight Ahead" (1961), her albums had taken on a political tinge, and her vocal approach had matured from genteel to ironic, taking on all the dramatic heft that such a transition implies. Not coincidentally, Lincoln had become involved with drummer, bebop pioneer and civil rights activist Max Roach, performing on his iconic 1960 album, "We Insist! Freedom Now Suite," and subsequently eliciting a putdown from a critic who dismissed her as a "professional Negro." During her marriage to Roach, from 1962 to 1970, Lincoln became better known as a film actress than as a singer, appearing in "Nothing But a Man" (1964), a racial drama with Ivan Dixon, and "For Love of Ivy" (1968), a romantic comedy with Sidney Poitier.

Unfortunately, Lincoln's recording career went into decline. She was already in her 60s when she signed a deal with the prestigious Verve label, resulting in a series of albums that earned critical acclaim and revived her reputation.

"The World Is Falling Down" (1990), Lincoln's Verve debut, offered a solid sampling of her music. But her true breakthrough came with "You Gotta Pay the Band" (1991), which is arguably her best disc. Accompanied by a crackerjack band featuring saxophonist Stan Getz, pianist Hank Jones and bassist Charlie Haden, Lincoln mixed originals such as "Bird Alone," "When I'm Called Home" and the title song with jazz-friendly standbys including "A Time for Love," "Summer Wishes, Winter Dreams" and "Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?"

What you hear on the album is not some trendy take on jazz, but the sound of someone who weighs each word she sings for maximum emotional impact. This late in her career, Lincoln was certainly no ingénue, but she uses that to her advantage. Throughout "You Gotta Pay the Band," she displays gravitas, but also joy. Along with Betty Carter and Shirley Horn, her label mates on Verve, Lincoln approached jazz as an art that's worth the effort it takes to learn to listen to it.

Just as Holiday had an impact on Lincoln, so has Lincoln left her mark on the music. It's impossible to listen to singer-songwriters Jamie Cullum or Reeves without being reminded of Lincoln's willingness to take risks, or to a Wilson disc without noticing that, as both a vocalist and a composer, her tendency toward eclecticism is not unlike Lincoln's. Wilson covered a Lincoln song, "Throw It Away," on her 2003 album, "Glamoured." Even Krall, whose fans have insisted on pigeonholing her as a retro act, showed signs of Lincoln-style bravado with her 2004 album, "The Girl in the Other Room," which put the emphasis on original tunes, not well-worn standards.

Something's lost whenever an artist of Lincoln's stature reaches the end. But in her case, the loss is particularly poignant, because you get the sense that not enough people got to hear and appreciate her artistry, and too many remain unaware of it.

In 1994, Lincoln performed with an incredible band of young musicians at the Folly Theater in Kansas City. In a review for the Kansas City Star, I wrote that the concert "delivered some of the most involving, sophisticated music heard in Kansas City this year." Indeed, the show couldn't have made a stronger case for the sheer exhilaration of modern jazz.

Yet, out of a possible 1,100 people, only 600 had the privilege of being in the presence of one of the essential jazz singers.