At a distance, Jamila Woods sounds gentle, soothing. Her voice disarms, but her words bristle with questions and doubts. Her tone affirms, even as she struggles with what it means to be a target, an “alien from inner space” in a city that both affirms and disappoints her. Her first solo album, “HEAVN” (Closed Sessions), establishes this poet, songwriter and singer as the next major voice in a multifaceted community of hip-hop and soul that has seen powerful work in recent months from such artists as Chance the Rapper, Joey Purp and Eryn Allen Kane.

With production and cameo appearances drawn from her talent-rich pool of friends and musical peers, “HEAVN” could've easily come off as scattershot and unfocused. But Woods' voice and sensibility float gracefully through it all, a unifying thread that gives the album a coherent texture. That light touch enables her to blur the lines between the personal and political without becoming preachy or self-pitying.

The singer has a pretty, flexible voice, but it's rarely strident or showy. She tells her stories in a matter-of-fact tone that contains traces of gospel, soul, blues and hip-hop without really being any one of those things alone.

Her voice often turns into a one-woman choir, instantly stirring on the opening “Bubbles,” with its counterpoint melody lines. It sounds like a gentle entry into daylight, a song about shyness. “Lonely Lonely” disarms with its childhood reverie about playground games, even as it reveals how the self-doubting narrator finds the strength to meet each day.

It's a subtle setup for the album's hardest punches. “VERY BLK” plunges the narrator into the streets: “Hello, operator, emergency hot line, if I say I can't breathe, will I become a chalk line?”

The album peaks midway with “Blk Girl Soldier,” which offers a mini-history of black womanhood: “They want us in the kitchen/ Kill our sons with lynchings/ We get loud about it/ Oh, now we're the b------?”

Without ever sounding like a lecture or a complaint, the album addresses the systemic discrimination that prompts a young girl to look in the mirror and feel ashamed by her features, and her growing awareness as a young adult that she lives in a country where the road to true equality feels endless not just for her but also for her future children.

But despite this, Woods' songs emphasize, black women have found a way to rise above and thrive. On “Emerald St.,” a scat-singing Woods melds her voice with Peter Cottontale's jazzy keyboards. “Breadcrumbs” pays homage to a grandparent as Nico Segal's trumpet flutters and soars. These are moments of joy. So is the gospel-fired “Holy,” which mirrors the singer's contribution alongside Chance to Donnie Trumpet's “Sunday Candy.”

It might've made an upbeat finale. Instead, the album closes with “Way Up.” Over rippling martial rhythms, she asserts, “I don't belong here.” It could be a devastating statement, but Woods maintains her airy tone. In that sense, it summarizes the album well. Throughout, Woods asserts that acknowledging the truth of being the “other” in Chicago, in America, is not the same as being defeated by it.

Greg Kot is a Chicago Tribune critic.