The Saints of Jazz
(excerpt)
Ella Fitzgerald (April 25, 1917 – June 15, 1996)
A brown eyed girl. Notoriously shy.
Sitting on a lonely window sill. Knees under her chin. Poison heartache.
Strumming the pain with her nails. The heat pipes are growling. Her
stomach. Harmonizing. Outside the drunken sun has stumbled. Into an
alley. Looking for someone to blame.Night. Juiced up. Dressed up like a paramour. Wooing the ladies. Who have their hands in his pocket. And their knees on the floor. Little Ella worked the horror show. Ran numbers for her uncles. Rumble in the alley. She could hardly breathe. With the joy. In her voice.
Ella’s mother died. Automobile accident. Ella was left unharmed. Charmed. Her living room was the street. Her bedroom. Was her lover’s arms. Kidnapped. By the Sisters of Mercy. Holed up in the Colored Orphan Asylum. No one knew Ella’s name. But they beat her just the same.
Stumbled. Into the Apollo Theatre. That low road that simple strife. Where she stole notes from the birds. And sang for her life. No one knew. If she was happy or sad. Someone said if she knew. She kept it to herself.
There are days. When it seems that darkness. Keeps you sane. Keeps you from seeing the thief. That steals your time. But when Ella hit a note. Opened up her soul. It seemed. The sun has been laughing. All afternoon.
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