almIRA DEVOUX

Before the smoke machines and spotlight hits, there was Detroit—choir lofts on Sunday, block-party radios on Saturday, and a little girl named Almira DeVoux learning that a hook can move a crowd but the Spirit can move a soul. In a gospel home where harmonies were homework, she sharpened a voice that could glide like satin and testify like a Sunday sermon.

By the time the 80s turned neon, Almira had the full silhouette: padded shoulders, precision choreography, and a mic presence that felt both royalty and revival. The dance icon was born in mirror-ball light—clean lines, razor footwork, quiet-storm vocals riding LinnDrum snap and synth bass. Her calling card? A stage entrance that said “queen,” and a chorus that said “glory.”

The love story the tabloids remember? A whirlwind with Ammonius Soulstar—two meteors crossing in a single groove. She walked away when the hair gel started getting top billing; he loved that Jheri curl a little too loudly. Almira chose a higher love, trading the drama for devotion and returning to the reason she sang in the first place: Jesus Christ. The breakup wasn’t a cliff—just a pivot back to purpose.

The break came in the breeze—literally—on a Christian cruise ship, moonlight on the deck, band on a pocket groove. Jukebox Saints Records saw what the sea already knew: Almira could make the faithful dance and make the dancers feel. She signed not to chase charts, but to channel praise—turning slow jams into prayer-poems and uptempos into joy set to time.

Today, Almira DeVoux wears the crown lightly and the message proudly. Every chorus lifts, every bridge bows, and every final note lands where she always meant it to—at the feet of the Savior. The headlines call her an 80s R&B queen; she calls it ministry with a melody.