This is one of the great political and cultural statements made by African-Americans during the civil rights era. Apart from the music itself, there was the reaction to it – the nadir of which was critic Ira Gitler's notorious Downbeat review [reproduced here in the booklet] in which he took it upon himself to call Lincoln “a professional Negro”, which is compounded by incomprehensible terms such as “blackly authentic” and a wish for her to be “militant but less one-sided.” All of which shows enormous insensitivity to what African-Americans had to endure during those tryin’ times and an acute misunderstanding of where Lincoln was coming from emotionally, culturally and politically. Had he not chosen to view the album in such a one-dimensional way, then Gitler would have heard music that vividly presents an intensely moving sense of pride in being black, all of which is consolidated by a vocal performance and arrangements that strike a fine balance between restraint and invigoration. Aided and abetted by the all-star line-up that was largely featured on Max Roach's landmark We Insist! Freedom Now Suite, Lincoln is grippingly bittersweet, and the crepuscular harmonies of the horns as well as the tough but tender stance of the rhythm section gel beautifully with the wry, lightly fissured character of her voice. A combination of strength and vulnerability was one of her greatest strengths and it is entirely suited to the vocabulary of a minor blues lament that builds astutely on Thelonious Monk's nonchalance with time as well as his daring with harmony. Lincoln is simply spellbinding on pieces such as ‘When Malindy Sings’, an adaptation of a Paul Laurence Dunbar poem, or the title track where the tremendous poignancy of the lyric – the image of the road where “you got a problem getting where you want to go” – might well touch a listener cognisant of civil rights, even a critic who deigns to sit and listen without prejudice. Three bonus tracks featuring trumpet star Kenny Dorham on piano are not devoid of interest.