"I wait patiently." Those three words, sung soulfully instead of woefully by Irma Thomas in "Ruler of My Heart," could easily be applied to my hope for a proper reissue of one of the greatest soul albums of all time. It's been more than a decade since Esther Phillips's 1971 From a Whisper to a Scream – the dark-hued studio sister of her fierce and flawless Atlantic 1970 live recording Burnin' – has been released on CD. When From a Whisper lost out at the Grammys to Young, Gifted and Black, Aretha Franklin gave her award to Phillips, saying Phillips deserved it more. Even if Franklin no longer knows how right she was, anyone who has heard From a Whisper can attest to it.

Franklin had peaked before and would peak again. In contrast, Phillips's CTI Kudu stint, showcased on Home Is Where the Hatred Is: The Kudu Years 1971-1977, was no picture-perfect stroll to fame and riches. Diva expert David Rathan recounts a time when the artist paid a visit to CTI, decked out in a mink coat and armed with a baseball bat, to remind her financially truant employers that her records "pay the rent on this fuckin' office." Home is where the hatred is, indeed. Hooked on heroin at an early age, the singer who started out as a salty child named Little Esther battled addiction for most of her life, and it's tempting to posit Burnin' 's feisty assurance and From a Whisper's rage to survive as bookends of a brief clean period.

Yet Phillips's voice was always potent as honey-dashed whiskey. Only her attitude changed. Whether restrained (by post-Lady in Satin Ray Ellis Atlantic trappings, which were only apt in the sense that Phillips deserves to be mentioned in the same breath as Billie Holiday) or wearily bemused (by the gaudiness of late-era Kudu tracks such as "What a Difference a Day Makes"), her performances responded to her musical surroundings. Phillips's sly irony, without peer, spills into the cracks of "What a Difference" 's brittle, tinny edifice – she'd finally gotten to cover one signature song of her idol, Dinah Washington, but had to do it to a disco beat to get a hit.

In contrast, Phillips struts through the respectful challenge of Pee Wee Ellis's noir From a Whisper arrangements with the command and assurance they deserve. That album's titular cut unites Phillips with Thomas's songwriter, Allan Toussaint. As profoundly sharp-edged as anything by Curtis Mayfield, the track that supplies this compilation's name is the definitive reading of Gil Scott-Heron's twilight junkie lament, and "Baby I'm for Real" lives up to its title and adds a g to the middle of the title's last word. The great singers always teeter between the sublime and the ridiculous, but Phillips stands alone in her ability to violently seize listeners by the throat only to wink at them. Don't fuck with Phillips – listen to her, and listen good. (Johnny Ray Huston)