A legend and rarity in the fractious Latin world

Celia Cruz sent me a Christmas card in 1985. It was one of those that had a photograph on the front, the singer pictured in a festive red dress along with her dapper husband, musician Pedro Knight, his arm around her shoulder.

Celia, as everybody knew her, also took the time to send me a couple of postcards while on the road, from Helsinki and Holland. She addressed them to “Amigo Agustin,” always on behalf of her and her beloved Pedro.

So when Celia passed away this week, it really felt as if a friend was gone. Her letters were clearly a promotional gesture for the press. She kept in touch with other writers the same way. But somehow, she made these greetings seem personal and special.

And that’s exactly how millions of people felt about her singing. Her voice was warm and enveloping, rootsy as the blues and gutsy as gospel but also soothing as a lullaby. And it was instantly recognizable. Nobody sang like Celia.

Celia was a rarity, a female lead singer in a male-dominated dance genre. And she was black, a stunning exception among superstars in the Latin entertainment business. Forget her race, her age, her unglamorous features.

Everybody loved Celia, who died Wednesday at 77 at her home in Fort Lee, N.J. She was as Cuban as they come, with that musical way of speaking Spanish. But she was embraced by Puerto Ricans and Mexicans and Argentineans, the whole fractious, nationalistic Latin world.

In the wake of her death, colleagues and critics attributed her professional longevity to her willingness to change. That’s how she stayed on top, they said, through so many phases of the music over so many decades. But the truth is, Celia never changed. Yes, she recorded with a wide variety of bandleaders, from the jazzy, big-band Puente to the brash and experimental Willie Colon and the traditional, tipico Johnny Pacheco.

But from her first song to her last, she retained her unmistakable style and identity.

It was the music, like the world, that changed around her. At the end, she even had hip-hop youngsters singing and dancing in her show. But she remained like a totem at the center, an artist grounded in her rich Antillean traditions, in her graceful manners, in her old-world values, in her Afro-Cuban spirituality.

Put down any rhythm and Celia could sing to it, and swing to it. To the listener, it always felt so natural. That’s because Celia was always sure of herself, at least in public. But in 1977, when she first recorded with Colon, she was wary of one song, as the Nuyorican producer recalled Wednesday. It was a Brazilian number and Celia wasn’t sure it fit her style. But Colon encouraged her to try it.

The song became one of her biggest hits, “Usted Abuso.”

It was the peak of her comeback during the salsa boom of that decade.

Celia was in her 50s. Colon, the bad-boy trombonist of New York salsa, was barely in his 30s. Yet, nobody noticed a generation gap.

Celia, who first became popular in the 1950s, had waltzed to the top of a new generation of salsa musicians, hungry to put their upstart stamp on the genre. New York pianist-arranger Larry Harlow, a Cuban music fanatic, introduced a semiretired Celia to new U.S. fans when he gave her a guest vocal on his 1973 salsa opera, “Hommy,” a takeoff on the Who’s “Tommy.” Celia played the role of Gracia Divina, or Divine Grace, and had only one number. But within a year, she was the major attraction of the Fania All Stars, the salsa super-band of the era. She’d come out on stage and all the young, bearded turks would almost bow.

With what ease she handled the powerhouse orchestras of the era, her soulful voice weaving over, around and through their supercharged rhythms. Her power and improvisational skill are captured on her trademark “Bemba Colora,” the perennial show closer included in a 12-minute version on 1975’s “Fania All Stars Live at Yankee Stadium” album. She must have sung that song thousands of times. But every time out, she put her whole heart into it and got the fans shouting the one-word chorus between her exciting verses, like a preacher at a revival meeting.

But Celia could also be tender. Listen to her mellifluous treatment on any of her boleros, from 1952’s “Tu Voz” with La Sonora Matancera to 1975’s “Vieja Luna” with Johnny Pacheco and “Encantado de la Vida,” a sweet duet with Cheo Feliciano on Tito Puente’s 1978 tribute to Beny More.

Celia kept making hits and doing shows right to the end. Her voice had lost some of its range and her performances some of their vigor. But who could fault her, as long as she had breath to keep doing what she loved?

“I keep working because I enjoy my career and there are so many people who love me, who appreciate me,” she told a reporter in 2001. “Music is the most important thing for me. If I didn’t sing, I’d die. I’ll keep singing until God calls me, as long as I’m able and the public likes me.”