In England, at least, where she was big enough to inspire a television miniseries last year, she must have seemed very much a matter of right place, right time: Liverpool, 1964, discovered and managed by Brian Epstein.

Easy math then.

But, in a sense, she was both in time and out of time, charmed and cursed in equal measure, a big-voiced ballad singer who came along at the very moment the Beatles’ long shadow made that style a harder slog than it had literally been the day before.

No, she wasn’t quite Dusty Springfield or Dionne Warwick or Lulu or Shirley Bassey. But that just shows how deep the bench was once upon a time. And I’ll just say, I’ve been doing this for a few years, and, in searching around YouTube for an appropriate clip or two, every one I opened had an outpouring of affection on a level I’ve never encountered researching anyone else who just passed.

She had real talent, then, but I suspect the depth of that affection has less to do with that than a sense she was one with an audience who had grown up suspecting no one famous would ever be one with them.

So, you know, a rock and roller after all.