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MIDNIGHT SUN She first sang a tisket, a tasket, a verdant, sunshine basket, and jazz lovers heard her magical worth. Recorded decades before my birth but hearing the call of her voice in my repressed adolescence, I was enthralled. She crooned scat into an art form and others attuned to her storm and fire were inspired. When she sang "Midnight Sun" by Lionel Hampton, I was stunned. Had ever a lucid, pellucid sound resounded as hers? God gave a gift of round, pearled tones and she unsparingly shared her riffs with the world. At eighteen, a starving student, I skipped meals to save money to hear the honeyed swell of her melody at the Hilton Hotel. I sat at a tiny table able to accomodate a stunted runt but located up front. Addled by anticipation, awaiting her first sound, I felt a soft touch on my shoulder, turned around, and the older, nobler Ella smiled at me as she slowly strolled to the stage. A night preserved in my memory, a sight and a sound I savor when in disfavor with fate. My coming of age. She died five years later and I lost my breath at the death of her lyrical, miracle, reaching tones. Now I feel that with a golden microphone, she's teaching empyrean angels with azure wings the pure, ringing peals of singing that scat. |
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