Year: 2025
Time: 41:04
File: MP3 @ 320K/s
Size: 94,0 MB
Art: Front
(2:52) 1. The Moment Of Truth (Live At The Coliseum)
(4:33) 2. Don’t Be That Way (Live At The Coliseum)
(4:37) 3. You’ve Changed (Live At The Coliseum)
(4:43) 4. Let’s Do It (Let’s Fall In Love) (Live At The Coliseum)
(5:02) 5. Bye Bye Blackbird (Live At The Coliseum)
(5:43) 6. Alfie (Live At The Coliseum)
(4:41) 7. In A Mellow Tone (Live At The Coliseum)
(3:56) 8. Music To Watch Girls By (Live At The Coliseum)
(4:53) 9. Mack The Knife (Live At The Coliseum)
If someone stated the opinion “man, woman or child, Ella’s the greatest” it might well be dismissed as outrageous press agent hype. But the words were uttered by Bing Crosby, a man who knew a bit about the art of popular singing.
Shy and reticent when interviewed, Ella Fitzgerald morphed into an extrovert the moment she started singing. It’s often been argued that various other female jazz vocalists might have been more subtle, more profound, more dramatic or more seductive, but Ms Fitzgerald was hardly a klutz in any of those departments. And, in every other department, few ever came close.
For example, take scatting. Listening to any vocalist other than Ms Fitzgerald or Louis Armstrong in full, or even partial, scat, raises my feelings of embarrassment for the singer (always with the notable exception of Sarah Vaughan). Yet, when Ella (I can’t keep typing ‘Ms Fitzgerald’) did it, magic happened. Her time, pulse and phrasing were close to miraculous. Graduating from the Swing Era, she out-swung every other singer, ecstatic when surfing a riff with a big band, yet equally at ease as a saloon singer, confiding her emotions with only a lone pianist alongside (ever heard her Decca sides with Ellis Larkins?).
Her sound, which at the beginning of her career was an attractive little girl voice, matured into an instrument for which the adjectives ‘ravishing’ and ‘glorious’ were invented. She had the ability to switch her tone from liquid honey to a throat-ripping rasp within a hemi-demi-semiquaver. Her expressive range across every mood and every tempo remains unmatched. Downhearted or celebratory, she never sounded less than sincere.
Excessive overclaim? Not when you’ve heard this live album recorded on June 29, 1967 at the Oakland Coliseum accompanied by the full Duke Ellington Orchestra with pianist Jimmy Jones substituting for the Duke. Impresario Norman Granz, who shaped Ella’s career, taped the concert and we hear seven selections covering emotions from poignant dejection to unfettered exuberance. You know that phrase ‘on song’? This performance defines it.
After drummer Sam Woodyard splashes every cymbal within reach, she launches her set with Scott and Satterwhite’s up-tempo The Moment of Truth, a brash piece ostensibly written to open Las Vegas acts. Her version overcomes the brashness by stoking the excitement with intense swing, her virtuosity leaving few syllables unembellished.
Edgar Sampson and Mitchell Parrish wrote Don’t Be That Way and Benny Goodman made it famous. Ella decelerates the tempo previously set on the indispensable Ella & Louis Again album she made with Louis Armstrong, and, with superhuman breath control, sustains tones for longer than any normal singer would regard as dangerous. Backed by Duke’s pugnacious brass and a driving backbeat from Woodyard, she weaves fanciful melodic variations. The audience can hardly restrain its applause before the final note.
You’ve Changed, a ballad of lost love by Carl Fischer and Bill Care, was closely associated with Billie Holiday, but Ella assumes possession of the lyric when, over the tight trio harmonies of the Ellington trombone section, she invests the lyric with fresh pathos, expertly controlling her vibrato as she unwraps her luscious contralto register.
In its time, Cole Porter must have horrified puritans with his witty ditty Let’s Do It, possibly the raunchiest of all list songs. Ella seldom sings a written note, recasting the melody over and over again in live performance, risking liberties few other singers would consider, let alone attempt. Her vocal micro-acrobatics on the phrase ‘even baby jellyfish do it’ defy death.
Ray Henderson and Mort Dixon wrote Bye, Bye Blackbird around 1926 and jazz musicians have jammed on it ever since. Ella calls it ‘one of the old tunes’ and, over five minutes of leaning behind the rhythm section’s beat, subjects the melody to an exhaustive workout through every register. She has the facility to divide even a single syllable into multiple parts, assigning to a different note to each. In the third chorus, she starts by scatting over Bob Cranshaw’s supportive bass, then winding up to an uninhibited knockdown and drag-out finale.
As Jimmy Jones caresses the keyboard for a delicate intro to Burt Bacharach and Hal David’s Alfie, Ella can be heard stage-whispering an instruction to the wings: ‘sexy lights here’. The mood is restrained and she produces an intimate ballad sheen to smooth the extremes of the melody’s choppy form (by way of an unexpected detour to You’re Nobody Till Somebody Loves You). When she sings “I believe in love, Alfie”, we believe her. And we believe in her.
Duke Ellington wrote In A Mellow Tone and Milt Gabler added lyrics making it, in effect, a song about a song. By the second chorus, over the band’s insistent riffs, Ella is immersed in the beat, scatting, slurring, scooping pitch and swinging ferociously reminding us of the Duke’s alto saxophone star, Johnny Hodges (Charlie Parker called him ‘Lily Pons’, at the time a well-known opera singer). She holds onto the final word ‘tone’ for a long time, like someone who’s loath to leave the party.
Eager to demonstrate she was abreast of changing fashion, Ella chooses Music To Watch The Girls Go By, a big number in the 60s written by Sid Ramin, in an arrangement that has her switching rhythms, even interpolating Happy Talk from the long-running musical, ‘South Pacific’.
In 1928, Kurt Weill and Bertolt Brecht wrote Mack The Knife for ‘The Threepenny Opera’. During the 60s, now equipped with lyrics in English, it became a monster hit for both Bobby Darin and Louis Armstrong with Ella following third. Third, maybe, but she embraced Mack and made it her own, graciously adding references to the first two performers (including a witty representation of a Satchmo growl). This version, packed with passion, bounce, regular half-step modulations and the Ellington band in rocking form, prompts Ella to discard any vestige of vocal inhibition and let rip for the concert’s big finale.
So far, so brilliant. But here’s the mystery.
Why did it take 75 years for such artistry to surface? Only recently, we’re told in Will Friedwald’s informative sleeve notes, the tape boxes were discovered languishing in the late Norman Granz’s effects. Why didn’t he release them? Were they forgotten? Did he think they weren’t up to scratch? Or did they simply get lost, lodged invisibly between a couple of Granz’s original Picasso etchings?
Whatever the reason (and it’s unlikely to be lack of quality), we’re grateful that this evidence was found to reinforce Crosby’s belief: “…Ella is the greatest”.https://ukjazznews.com/ella-fitzgerald-the-moment-of-truth-ella-at-the-coliseum/
Shy and reticent when interviewed, Ella Fitzgerald morphed into an extrovert the moment she started singing. It’s often been argued that various other female jazz vocalists might have been more subtle, more profound, more dramatic or more seductive, but Ms Fitzgerald was hardly a klutz in any of those departments. And, in every other department, few ever came close.
For example, take scatting. Listening to any vocalist other than Ms Fitzgerald or Louis Armstrong in full, or even partial, scat, raises my feelings of embarrassment for the singer (always with the notable exception of Sarah Vaughan). Yet, when Ella (I can’t keep typing ‘Ms Fitzgerald’) did it, magic happened. Her time, pulse and phrasing were close to miraculous. Graduating from the Swing Era, she out-swung every other singer, ecstatic when surfing a riff with a big band, yet equally at ease as a saloon singer, confiding her emotions with only a lone pianist alongside (ever heard her Decca sides with Ellis Larkins?).
Her sound, which at the beginning of her career was an attractive little girl voice, matured into an instrument for which the adjectives ‘ravishing’ and ‘glorious’ were invented. She had the ability to switch her tone from liquid honey to a throat-ripping rasp within a hemi-demi-semiquaver. Her expressive range across every mood and every tempo remains unmatched. Downhearted or celebratory, she never sounded less than sincere.
Excessive overclaim? Not when you’ve heard this live album recorded on June 29, 1967 at the Oakland Coliseum accompanied by the full Duke Ellington Orchestra with pianist Jimmy Jones substituting for the Duke. Impresario Norman Granz, who shaped Ella’s career, taped the concert and we hear seven selections covering emotions from poignant dejection to unfettered exuberance. You know that phrase ‘on song’? This performance defines it.
After drummer Sam Woodyard splashes every cymbal within reach, she launches her set with Scott and Satterwhite’s up-tempo The Moment of Truth, a brash piece ostensibly written to open Las Vegas acts. Her version overcomes the brashness by stoking the excitement with intense swing, her virtuosity leaving few syllables unembellished.
Edgar Sampson and Mitchell Parrish wrote Don’t Be That Way and Benny Goodman made it famous. Ella decelerates the tempo previously set on the indispensable Ella & Louis Again album she made with Louis Armstrong, and, with superhuman breath control, sustains tones for longer than any normal singer would regard as dangerous. Backed by Duke’s pugnacious brass and a driving backbeat from Woodyard, she weaves fanciful melodic variations. The audience can hardly restrain its applause before the final note.
You’ve Changed, a ballad of lost love by Carl Fischer and Bill Care, was closely associated with Billie Holiday, but Ella assumes possession of the lyric when, over the tight trio harmonies of the Ellington trombone section, she invests the lyric with fresh pathos, expertly controlling her vibrato as she unwraps her luscious contralto register.
In its time, Cole Porter must have horrified puritans with his witty ditty Let’s Do It, possibly the raunchiest of all list songs. Ella seldom sings a written note, recasting the melody over and over again in live performance, risking liberties few other singers would consider, let alone attempt. Her vocal micro-acrobatics on the phrase ‘even baby jellyfish do it’ defy death.
Ray Henderson and Mort Dixon wrote Bye, Bye Blackbird around 1926 and jazz musicians have jammed on it ever since. Ella calls it ‘one of the old tunes’ and, over five minutes of leaning behind the rhythm section’s beat, subjects the melody to an exhaustive workout through every register. She has the facility to divide even a single syllable into multiple parts, assigning to a different note to each. In the third chorus, she starts by scatting over Bob Cranshaw’s supportive bass, then winding up to an uninhibited knockdown and drag-out finale.
As Jimmy Jones caresses the keyboard for a delicate intro to Burt Bacharach and Hal David’s Alfie, Ella can be heard stage-whispering an instruction to the wings: ‘sexy lights here’. The mood is restrained and she produces an intimate ballad sheen to smooth the extremes of the melody’s choppy form (by way of an unexpected detour to You’re Nobody Till Somebody Loves You). When she sings “I believe in love, Alfie”, we believe her. And we believe in her.
Duke Ellington wrote In A Mellow Tone and Milt Gabler added lyrics making it, in effect, a song about a song. By the second chorus, over the band’s insistent riffs, Ella is immersed in the beat, scatting, slurring, scooping pitch and swinging ferociously reminding us of the Duke’s alto saxophone star, Johnny Hodges (Charlie Parker called him ‘Lily Pons’, at the time a well-known opera singer). She holds onto the final word ‘tone’ for a long time, like someone who’s loath to leave the party.
Eager to demonstrate she was abreast of changing fashion, Ella chooses Music To Watch The Girls Go By, a big number in the 60s written by Sid Ramin, in an arrangement that has her switching rhythms, even interpolating Happy Talk from the long-running musical, ‘South Pacific’.
In 1928, Kurt Weill and Bertolt Brecht wrote Mack The Knife for ‘The Threepenny Opera’. During the 60s, now equipped with lyrics in English, it became a monster hit for both Bobby Darin and Louis Armstrong with Ella following third. Third, maybe, but she embraced Mack and made it her own, graciously adding references to the first two performers (including a witty representation of a Satchmo growl). This version, packed with passion, bounce, regular half-step modulations and the Ellington band in rocking form, prompts Ella to discard any vestige of vocal inhibition and let rip for the concert’s big finale.
So far, so brilliant. But here’s the mystery.
Why did it take 75 years for such artistry to surface? Only recently, we’re told in Will Friedwald’s informative sleeve notes, the tape boxes were discovered languishing in the late Norman Granz’s effects. Why didn’t he release them? Were they forgotten? Did he think they weren’t up to scratch? Or did they simply get lost, lodged invisibly between a couple of Granz’s original Picasso etchings?
Whatever the reason (and it’s unlikely to be lack of quality), we’re grateful that this evidence was found to reinforce Crosby’s belief: “…Ella is the greatest”.https://ukjazznews.com/ella-fitzgerald-the-moment-of-truth-ella-at-the-coliseum/
The Moment Of Truth: Ella At The Coliseum (Live)
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