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Seven Benjamin was born at Badu’s house in 1997, on the same day her record company released “Live,” a CD meant to satisfy the demand of fans who loved “Baduizm” and wanted more. The back cover was dominated by an image of Badu’s swollen belly, and motherhood became a central part of her public persona. “I breast-fed onstage, in the limo, backstage at the Soul Train awards,” she says. A few years later, her friend Afya Ibomu (the wife of STIC, from the hip-hop duo Dead Prez) was due to give birth, and Badu flew to New York to help. “Her labor was fifty-two hours—all natural, no anesthesia,” she says. “We walked it out, we bounced it out, we talked, we sang, we danced, we drank oil, we threw up, we took a bath. All kind of things.” Inspired by the experience, Badu got some formal training, and she has assisted in dozens of births since then; on Twitter, she calls herself Erykah Badoula.

Mama s Gun was recorded with a crew of musicians known as the Soulquarians, led by Ahmir Questlove Thompson, from the Roots; around the same time, they were also working on Voodoo, by D Angelo, another of the great neo-soul albums. But then there is Green Eyes, the ten-minute song that ends Mama s Gun, which is an extraordinarily plainspoken evocation of the frustration and humiliation of a slow-motion breakup.

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Godmother of Soul

When Erykah Badu told Zach Witness, an unheralded producer from East Dallas, that she might like to come to his home studio and work on some music, he didn’t dare believe her. Badu, who is forty-five, has lived in Dallas all her life. But she spends a considerable part of every year on the road, as has been her custom since 1997, when she released her début album, “Baduizm,” which sold millions of copies, earned her a pair of Grammys, and made her one of the most celebrated soul singers of the modern era. The word people used back then was “neo-soul,” but nowadays it seems appropriate to omit the “neo”—not because her music has grown more old-fashioned but because it has grown harder to categorize, and maybe even easier to enjoy.

Witness is twenty-three, and he had been a fan of Badu ever since he was five years old, when he saw her surreal appearance on “All That,” a comedy show on the kids’ channel Nickelodeon. “This woman came on with incense, a head wrap, and tea,” he remembers. She was impossibly elegant, intoning lyrics that sounded like a dreamy distant cousin of the blues:

Oh, my, my, my, I’m feeling high
My money’s gone, I’m all alone
Too much to see
The world keeps turning
Oh, what a day, what a day, what a day

No doubt many Nickelodeon viewers were confused, but Witness was converted, especially once he discovered that the singer was also a local. Badu had come of age in the late nineteen-eighties, in Dallas’s embryonic hip-hop scene; two decades later, as Witness nursed his own obsession with hip-hop, he tried to live up to her example. (As a teen-age d.j. called White Chocolate, he entertained black and Latino crowds at the local skating rink.) Last year, he paid tribute to Badu with a faintly psychedelic remix of one of her best-loved songs, “Bag Lady,” which he posted online, along with a note in which he confessed that he viewed her as “a second mother.”

The remix was just one small sign of Badu’s enduring appeal and influence. Although she sometimes calls herself Analog Girl, she is adept at social media, and when she heard Witness’s remix she responded, on Twitter, with a four-letter word of praise: “Oooh.” Badu and Witness traded messages, and she told him that she had been thinking about recording a version of “Hotline Bling,” the viral hit by Drake, built around a passive-aggressive reminder to an old flame: “You used to call me on my cell phone.” This exchange scarcely prepared Witness for the shock of seeing Badu, a few days later, at the front door of his house—the same house where he had once watched her on television. She took him out for vegan food, and then they got to work.

The first session took about twenty minutes; Badu sang the words a few times, and before she finished warming up Witness had captured what became the final version. With a few lyrical edits, she made the song seem teasing and affectionate, as if she were both taking part in a dating ritual and observing it fondly from afar. While Drake moaned that his ex was “wearing less and going out more,” Badu seemed happy to report that hers was “getting dressed and going out more.” Eventually, she and Witness created a musical diptych, with two versions of “Hotline Bling,” a semitone apart, separated by a spoken interlude, purportedly the outgoing message on Badu’s cell phone:

If you’re calling to beg for some shit, but this is that pre-call before the actual begging, press five.
If you’ve already made that pre-call, and this is the actual call to beg, press six.
If you’re calling to ask for some free tickets in a city near you, and know she don’t really fuck with you like that, press seven.

The joke, if it was a joke, quickly grew more ambitious. Badu thought of other songs about phones: “Mr. Telephone Man,” by New Edition; “U Don’t Have to Call,” by Usher. She and Witness recorded eleven tracks in about as many days, culminating in an inspired reimagining of the Isley Brothers’ “Hello It’s Me,” for which Badu enlisted a special guest: André Benjamin, known as André 3000, from OutKast, who is the father of her oldest child. (Witness remembers trying not to act starstruck when he showed up: “It was literally André fucking 3000 on my porch, like, ‘What’s up, man?’ ”) Badu and Benjamin’s playful duet helped to turn her quirky phone project into a major musical event. She called the collection “But You Caint Use My Phone,” borrowing a line from “Tyrone,” one of her biggest hits. It was not quite an album, but when it arrived on iTunes it leaped to No. 2 on the album chart, behind Adele’s “25.” On music Web sites, Badu was suddenly ubiquitous again.

Some fans were surprised by Badu’s new sound: a singer once known for incense and head wraps had tackled—and possibly improved—an electro-pop hit by Drake. Most were simply happy to have something fresh to listen to, because Badu hadn’t released an album since 2010. “I’m a touring artist, not a recording artist,” she says, and she remains a big draw throughout the world. Her concerts and other appearances, combined with her garrulous presence on social media, have helped to solidify her position as one of the country’s most revered singers: a nineties star whose early hits have aged well and whose later work is both warmer and bolder than the songs that made her famous. She has also become a touchstone for a generation of younger musicians—the cool big sister they always wanted, as well as a self-empowered sex symbol. (“My ass and legs have gotten thick,” she once sang. “Yeah, it’s all me.”) Drake is one of many younger peers who count Badu as a friend and a mentor, a fact that he publicized with one of the most decorous boasts in hip-hop history: “Remember one night, I went to Erykah Badu house—she made tea for me / We talked about love and what life could really be for me.”

On a recent weekend, she had a late-night d.j. gig in Brooklyn, where most of the attendees looked scarcely older than “Baduizm” itself. They were all initiates, none more obviously than the young woman in a head wrap and bejewelled sunglasses who planted herself onstage, in front of the turntables, and sat cross-legged throughout the set, acting as a combination cheerleader and spiritual guardian. When security tried to remove her, Badu intervened, saying, quietly, “Let her go—she all right.” The woman bowed to Badu in appreciation. When the show was over, Badu bowed back.

Over the years, Badu’s onstage persona has come to more closely mirror her offstage personality. “She’s regal—but she’s ghetto at the same time,” as one friend puts it. Her early appearances earned her a reputation for high-mindedness which she is now happy to shed, and, among those who know her best, she is equally noted for her knowledge of herbal medicine and for her tendency to respond to seemingly benign comments with a profoundly corny punch line: “That’s what she said!” As a musician, Badu sometimes seems, gratifyingly, to be aging in reverse, embracing a youthful spirit that didn’t hold as much interest for her when she was young and dignified. “I’m the O.G.,” she says now. “Godmother. Auntie. They keep aging and getting old—and I just stay the same.”

Badu was a rapper before she was a singer, and a dancer before she was either, starting when she was a stubborn, quirky four-year-old, growing up in a working-class neighborhood in South Dallas. She was born Erica Wright, and she didn’t see much of her father, who struggled with drugs and spent time in prison. She was brought up by her mother, Kolleen Wright, along with her godmother and her two grandmothers—four mothers altogether. Or five, Badu says, “if you count Mother Nature.” One of her cousins, Robert (Free) Bradford, described the women around Badu as firm but not uptight. “They were cool—like, soul sisters with a hippie vibe,” he says. Badu bonded with her mother over Chaka Khan records and clashed with her over clothes: she was incorrigibly rumpled, nappy, sockless. Badu was a sensitive girl in a city that could be tough; for her protection, her mother enrolled her in a Catholic school, where Badu learned to think of herself as “weird.” She found a tribe of fellow-weirdos at Booker T. Washington, a performing-arts school that has produced Edie Brickell, Norah Jones, and Roy Hargrove, the trumpeter, who became an occasional collaborator.

Badu’s high-school years, in the late eighties, coincided with the ascendance of hip-hop, which captivated her and her friends while also making them feel slightly self-conscious about their home town. As some other Southern cities, including Houston and New Orleans, were inventing their own distinctive forms, Dallas was slower to develop. Badu and her friends envied—and sometimes adopted—the sounds and slang of New York hip-hop, which seemed like the epitome of toughness and sophistication. At school, she studied dance and theatre; outside it, she called herself Apples, half of a hip-hop duo, the Def Ones. During college, at Grambling State, in Louisiana, she kept in touch with the Dallas scene, and with her cousin Bradford, who was away at college in Chicago and learning music production. He sent her beats to rap over, but one of them inspired her to sing, instead, and the resulting song became a blueprint for their music. Working as a duo, they put together a demo under the name Erykah Free.

In New York, explorers like Groove Theory and Guru were combining hip-hop beats with R. & B. and jazz, and Erykah Free seemed like part of this new movement. Within a few months, they got an offer, with a catch: a young executive named Kedar Massenburg, who managed a rising singer named D’Angelo, was interested, but he didn’t want a duo. Badu signed a solo deal. “It took a while to get over it,” Bradford says now. Yet he remains close to Badu, and still admires her music. “ ‘Baduizm’ is one of the greatest projects ever,” he says. “So it happened the way it was supposed to.” Badu never doubted that she would find an audience. “I thought I was ahead of my time,” she says. “There was nothing like what I was doing—and they agreed, the music business.”

By signing with Massenburg, Badu acquired not just a major label, Universal, but a cohort: Massenburg arranged for her to record a duet with D’Angelo, and he put her in touch with one of her favorite acts, the Roots, which created hip-hop with a live band. To help market his charges, Massenburg coined the genre name “neo-soul,” which has stuck to both D’Angelo and Badu ever since. The term gestured back to the sound of nineteen-seventies soul, while delivering an implicit critique of contemporary music. Massenburg wanted listeners to understand: “You’re getting a certain level of consciousness that’s not your typical R. & B.” Badu sometimes made this critique explicit. “Music is kind of sick,” she said, incense in hand, during a BET special that served as her coming-out party. “It’s going through a rebirthing process, and I found myself being one of the midwives.”

In retrospect, it’s not clear that the era’s music was in such critical condition. (Look at Billboard’s list of the top R. & B. songs of, say, 1996 and you see one classic after another: Mary J. Blige, “Not Gon’ Cry”; Bone Thugs-N-Harmony, “Tha Crossroads”; Aaliyah, “If Your Girl Only Knew”; BLACKstreet, “No Diggity.”) And though the term “neo-soul” was affixed to a number of performers—including Bilal, Lauryn Hill, Alicia Keys, Maxwell, and Jill Scott—not many of them embraced it. Still, the success of Badu and the others convinced some listeners that a musical reformation was under way. R. & B. had grown more boisterous, under the influence of hip-hop, and Badu’s sophisticated songs provided a pleasant change of pace. Neo-soul spoke to and for an increasingly confident black bohemian culture—politically aware, spiritually minded, middle class. Its exponents took pains to show that mainstream hip-hop videos offered only a partial representation of black life.

Of course, “Baduizm” had its own understated hip-hop swagger. Badu’s willowy voice, softened by vibrato, inspired comparisons to Billie Holiday, but she had a rapper’s sense of rhythm and restraint: she knew how to stack syllables and deploy slang, and she knew when not to smother the beat with extraneous ad-libs. The song that transfixed Zach Witness, “On & On,” became the first neo-soul single to reach the top of Billboard’s R. & B. chart. Though it was almost smooth enough to be a slow jam, its lyrics more closely resembled a hip-hop freestyle. “On and on, and on and on / My cipher keeps moving like a rolling stone,” Badu sang, and in this context “cipher” might refer to a group of rappers standing in a circle, trading rhymes.

Her second studio album, “Mama’s Gun,” was even craftier than her début and, in Badu’s view, even better. It was anchored by a weighty hip-hop thump, and by lyrics that hinted at militance. (Massenburg says that some Universal executives were initially nervous about releasing an album with “gun” in the title.) Coming from a different singer, its lead single, “Bag Lady,” a cautionary tale for women too preoccupied to find love, might have sounded mean-spirited. “When they see you coming / Niggas take off running,” she sang. But Badu dispensed her hard truths gently, delivering two words of advice—“Pack light”—while encouraging listeners to hear her as someone who needed help at least as much as they did.

“Mama’s Gun” was recorded with a crew of musicians known as the Soulquarians, led by Ahmir (Questlove) Thompson, from the Roots; around the same time, they were also working on “Voodoo,” by D’Angelo, another of the great neo-soul albums. But, after “Voodoo,” D’Angelo retreated into his own world, while Badu’s world kept expanding. Unlike some of her contemporaries, she has never been content merely to resurrect an earlier musical era, which may explain why she has turned out a more engrossing body of work than any of the other acts associated with neo-soul. In the years since “Mama’s Gun,” Badu has grown less interested in establishing her independence—which no one, in any case, could doubt—and more interested in finding ways to connect. She calls herself “super mutable,” and part of the intrigue in following her career has been watching her form unlikely alliances. She was one of the most vocal supporters of Tyler, the Creator, when he was at his most antisocial, and she made an unexpected appearance on a Rick Ross album, singing the hook to a particularly sleek ode to conspicuous consumption. “Money and clothes, they gon’ come and go,” she sighed, while Ross and his collaborators explained the particulars of this process.

These days, one of Badu’s favorite young rappers is D.R.A.M., an inventive Virginian with a tuneful flow. He and Badu have been exchanging ideas, and a few weeks ago she dropped by Witness’s house to add her part to a song that D.R.A.M. had sent her, possibly for release on his upcoming mixtape. “I love this,” she said, laughing, as Witness hit play. “This kid has my heart.” The microphone was set up a few feet from the computer—Badu avoids vocal booths, because she finds the isolation inhibiting. She laid down her verse in two takes and then moved on to the chorus, nimbly matching D.R.A.M.’s delivery. “We on the clock / All the time / All the time / We on the clock,” she murmured. “Even when we make no moves / Father Time don’t never stop.”

“You’ve been practicing,” Witness said. “Before, you were having trouble keeping up with the rhythm.”

“I’ve been listening to it every day,” Badu said, satisfied. “Can I ride to that?” She wanted Witness to give her a copy of the song, and a few minutes later she was gone, disappearing down a quiet East Dallas street in her everyday car, a black Porsche Panamera with sky-blue rims and a license plate that reads “SHE ILL.”

The first major purchase that Badu made when she got famous was a house for her mother. The second was a house for herself, on White Rock Lake, in North Dallas, where she has lived ever since. The house was small, but as she toured she saved enough money to build new bedrooms and guest rooms, and found enough objects to fill them all. From the street, it looks like a tidy gingerbread house, glowing with multicolored lights; from within, it resembles a vintage shop with no room to grow, packed with statues and crystals and beads and candles and incense. The house is the nucleus of Badu’s extended nuclear family, and the décor provides an exhaustive record of her interests and accomplishments. The walls are full of paintings of Badu, donated by fans, and photographs of her friends and peers; on a table, an MTV Video Music Award sits snugly between a sewing machine and a golden pig statue wearing pearls.

On a cloudy recent afternoon, Badu was dressed down, in loose jeans and a baggy denim shirt, made baggier by a tear that ran from the hem nearly up to one armpit. This modification may have been accidental, but on her it looked like evidence of a trend that the rest of the world hadn’t yet caught up with. She was reminiscing about 1997, the year of her triumphant début. “You know how you get to pick groupies out of the audience, and stuff like that?” she said. “I didn’t get to do any of that.” She had met André Benjamin at a club in New York, and their son, Seven, was conceived in the chaotic weeks after “Baduizm” was released. “Me and Erykah actually had to sit down and figure if we were going to keep this child,” Benjamin says. The couple toured through the pregnancy. “She would hit the stage, I would hit the stage, then we would go back to the hotel and I would be putting shea butter on her stomach,” he says. Badu threw herself into research, learning enough about Reiki to become an instructor and earning certification as a holistic-health practitioner.

Seven Benjamin was born at Badu’s house in 1997, on the same day her record company released “Live,” a CD meant to satisfy the demand of fans who loved “Baduizm” and wanted more. The back cover was dominated by an image of Badu’s swollen belly, and motherhood became a central part of her public persona. “I breast-fed onstage, in the limo, backstage at the Soul Train awards,” she says. A few years later, her friend Afya Ibomu (the wife of STIC, from the hip-hop duo Dead Prez) was due to give birth, and Badu flew to New York to help. “Her labor was fifty-two hours—all natural, no anesthesia,” she says. “We walked it out, we bounced it out, we talked, we sang, we danced, we drank oil, we threw up, we took a bath. All kind of things.” Inspired by the experience, Badu got some formal training, and she has assisted in dozens of births since then; on Twitter, she calls herself Erykah Badoula.

From the beginning, Badu’s fans have looked for connections between her lyrics and her evolving family life. Her defining song might be “Tyrone,” in which she tells a deadbeat boyfriend to ask his friend for a ride home: “You better call Tyrone.” But she denied that it was about Benjamin, although Benjamin admits that “Ms. Jackson”—an OutKast track apologizing to a girlfriend’s mother, released after the couple had publicly split—was inspired by Badu. Unlike most R. & B. singers, Badu isn’t particularly drawn to lyrics about romantic love. But then there is “Green Eyes,” the ten-minute song that ends “Mama’s Gun,” which is an extraordinarily plainspoken evocation of the frustration and humiliation of a slow-motion breakup:

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