I discovered the music of Nancy Wilson much later than I should have. One of the most acclaimed jazz singers of the twentieth century, she made a name for herself in part by the way she injected her personality into everything she sang. Nancy liked to be called a “song stylist,” and there’s never a shortage of style in her music. Listen to her phrasing in “Guess Who I Saw Today,” one of her most well-known hits:

When I listen to this song, my guilt reflexively wells up, as if Nancy is singing right at me, and yes, I’m busted. It’s been decades since she recorded this performance in a studio, yet I have an immediate connection to her.

What I think I value most in a singer — and I’m sure most people feel the same — is hearing the real person, giving me a piece of her heart. On “When Sunny Gets Blue,” another of my favorites, Nancy battles some overwrought strings to bring out the poignancy of one woman’s struggle:

I first noticed this song at a vocalist’s open mic that I play at sometimes, and Nancy’s rendition immediately took hold in my heart once I found it. I’ve since memorized the tune and play it often on my sax. When I play it, I try to channel Nancy’s compassion, and her smooth, focused emotional power.

I was planning to write only about Nancy Wilson today, but then I saw this fantastic new piece by Jia Tolentino in the New Yorker about Waxahatchee.

Waxahatchee is the alter ego of Katie Crutchfield, and her new album “Saint Cloud” has racked up a lot of plays on my Apple Music. Here’s my favorite from the album, called “Fire”:

Katie has the same emotional honesty I hear in Nancy Wilson. She’s been writing songs and singing since at least ninth grade, according to the New Yorker piece, but she says it was only recently that she came to appreciate the importance of her singing:

[E]arlier in her career, she had thought of herself as a songwriter more than a performer—she would “just stumble out on stage and kind of mumble my songs into the microphone and then stumble off and go out with my friends.” Through making “Saint Cloud,” she realized how much self-respect she had been denying herself: she needed to “love myself enough to go out and hone some power for a second and put it out into the world.”

I can’t think of a better description of a memorable singer than someone who “goes out and hones some power for a second.” So much of the best musical expression is stripped down, one lonely voice making herself heard.