Genius, we’ve all been taught, comprises one percent inspiration and 99 percent perspiration. But, with apologies to Thomas Edison, I’d argue that musical genius, particularly when shaped inside a studio, is dependent on more than just a disproportionate mix of magic and sweat. It also demands thoughtful, informed decisions about what to record, who to record with and who to record for.

Such smart choices have been Rita Coolidge’s stock-in-trade for over a third of a century, dating all the way back to her earliest work with Delaney and Bonnie, Eric Clapton and Joe Cocker (engulf yourself in the hauntingly self-deluded heartache of her self-penned “Superstar” on Cocker’s landmark Mad Dogs and Englishmen to appreciate an intelligent young performer in precisely the right place at precisely the right time with precisely the right material), and her near decade-long association with Herb Alpert and Jerry Moss at their remarkably nurturing, uniquely artist-oriented, A&M label.

Coolidge’s wisdom grew in tandem with her fame. Presaging the post-millennial blurring of musical lines (among the cream of contemporary vocalists—creatively inspired artists like Jamie Cullum, Norah Jones and Curtis Stigers—genre-hopping has, thankfully, become de rigueur), Coolidge never allowed herself to become boxed in, demonstrating a connoisseur’s skill for shifting effortlessly between pop, rock, blues, soul and country. (“Music is my heart,” she reasons. “It’s my language. So, if I want to speak another language, who’s going to stop me?”) She’s also the one who, without due credit, ignited renewed interest in the Great American Songbook. Long before Linda Ronstadt, Natalie Cole, Rod Stewart and innumerable others shook off their rock roots to plumb Tin Pan Alley, Coolidge took the bold step of recording, with her dear friend Barbara Carroll on piano, an entire album, the mid-’70s richly accomplished Out of the Blues, of standards (too bold a step, perhaps, since the disc was originally relegated to Japan-only release, not seeing the light of day in the U.S. until nearly two decades later). So taken with Blues was Coolidge’s pal Willie Nelson, that it motivated him to explore and embrace similarly classic material, resulting in his landmark Stardust.

To date, though, Coolidge’s keen decision-making instincts have never come together quite so sublimely as they do throughout her stunning Concord debut, And So Is Love. Nearly five years in development, this polished collection of gems showcases a true American original—growing, like fine wine, deeper, more robust and more deliciously complex with age—at the height of her creative powers. And, more to the point, at the height of her creative smarts.

First, consider the songs she, in tandem with executive producer John Burk and producer Jimmy Haslip, has chosen. “There were,” she explains, “songs that I deleted because I thought they were probably too young for me, and there were others I’d chosen that John suggested, without in any way hurting my feelings, would be better sung by someone younger. The goal was to find intelligent lyrics that have something more to offer than just an ‘ooh, baby’ hook. So, I chose songs that Rosemary Clooney had done, and songs done by Peggy Lee, who has been my hero since I was three-years old and became a friend later in life.”

The result is a dozen tunes of various vintages that cultivate Coolidge’s maturity, artistically and personally, to maximum advantage. “Sentimental Journey,” for instance, successfully launched Doris Day on the road to superstardom in 1944. But Doris was barely out of her teens at the time, and it’s tough to imagine such a fresh-faced youngster having much of a past to get sentimental about. In contrast, Rita’s rendition is fueled by a lifetime of joys and woes—a heartfelt journey from innocence to experience that validates the lyric’s wistful mistiness. So, too, “The Masquerade Is Over,” made famous by the wonderful Nancy Wilson when she was just starting out, but here navigated with a sanguine self-awareness that only hard-won familiarity can afford. Also “Come Rain or Come Shine,” included by Coolidge in tribute to her friend Ray Charles, which, much like Charles’ classic version, is gloriously encumbered with decades of romantic satisfaction and disillusion.

A genuinely adult perspective further enables the transformation of Peggy Lee’s bouncy “I Don’t Know Enough About You” from kitten frisky to lioness sultry. Likewise, Boz Scaggs’ “We’re All Alone,” a massive hit for Coolidge in 1977, is utterly transformed. “When I sang it 25 years ago,” she says, “I was a totally different girl. I didn’t even know what it meant! Now, to be able to re-record it with Alan Pasqua’s marvelous arrangement brings it to a whole other place.”

Next, consider the pros Coolidge has chosen to align herself with. Starting with Haslip and arrangers Pasqua (who doubles on piano for half the album) and Russell Ferrante (who takes over on the keys for the other six tracks), Coolidge is, typical of Concord sessions, surrounded by the best the jazz world has to offer. Drummers Ralph Humphrey and Terri Lyne Carrington (“So soft spoken and such a gentle spirit,” enthuses Coolidge, “and then she goes out there and tears up those drums!”), bassists Dave Carpenter, Darek Oles and Chuck Berghofer, flautist and soprano saxophonist Bob Sheppard, baritone saxophonist Ronnie Cuber, guitarists Larry Koonse and Sandro Albert, vibraphonist Dave Samuels (borrowed from the sizzling Caribbean Jazz Project), cellist Stephanie Fife and percussionist Alex Acuña provide Coolidge, as she embarks on her first overtly jazz-oriented outing, the sort of virtuoso support that jazz dreams are made of. “When you play with people who are better than you,” she suggests with typical modesty, “you rise to a higher level of understanding and emotion with the music and a deeper connection with the players, which made me a better person and certainly a better artist.” As a bonus, Coolidge was also afforded the opportunity to work alongside former boss Herb Alpert for the first time in more than two decades, with Herb writing and providing beautifully burnished trumpet accompaniment on her scintillating bossa nova treatment of “Estaté.”

Once, not long ago, Rita Coolidge told an interviewer that, “I didn’t choose music, it chose me.” Does she, then, believe these dozen classic tunes chose her? “Absolutely!” she insists. “It’s a lot like going through the process of childbirth as far as nurturing each cut on the album, ensuring it is as healthy and perfect as it can be and taking proper care of the music by honoring each song. Then, when it’s all done, I have to let it go and find it’s own wings.” Here’s hoping it soars (higher and higher).

- Christopher Loudon