I also met, early on Ella Fitzgerald. Her songbooks are some of

Host: The record store was nearly empty, tucked between a laundromat and a flower shop, its windows fogged from the rain outside. The air carried the faint crackle of vinyl, the scent of cardboard sleeves and time. The neon sign in the window buzzed — Needle & Groove — its light pulsing like a slow heartbeat.

In the jazz section, the turntable spun, letting Ella Fitzgerald’s voice drift through the room — liquid, eternal, velvet and smoke. The kind of voice that could melt the years between now and forever.

Jeeny stood beside the speaker, her fingers resting lightly on a record sleeve. Jack was flipping through bins of old albums, his brow furrowed, his grey eyes alive with that mix of cynicism and quiet reverence that only music seemed to draw from him.

Jeeny: “Johnny Mathis once said, ‘I also met, early on, Ella Fitzgerald. Her songbooks are some of the most amazing bodies of work.’”

Jack: (pausing, half-smiling) “He’s right. The Ella Fitzgerald Songbooks — they’re like holy scripture for the human voice.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Every phrase she sang felt inevitable, like it was always meant to exist. Mathis understood that — the craftsmanship, the discipline beneath the beauty.”

Jack: “Discipline… that’s what people forget about jazz. Everyone hears freedom, but no one hears the control it takes to sound effortless.”

Jeeny: “That’s what amazes me about her — she never pushed. She floated. She made perfection sound accidental.”

Host: Jack pulled out a record — Ella Fitzgerald Sings the Cole Porter Songbook. The cover, slightly faded, still shimmered under the neon. He held it like a relic.

Jack: “You know, I read once that when Ella sang the Gershwin Songbook live, Gershwin’s own sister cried in the audience. Not because she missed him, but because she said it was the first time she’d heard his music.”

Jeeny: (softly) “That’s what art does when it’s real. It resurrects the person who wrote it — and sometimes the one who listens.”

Host: The rain tapped gently on the window. The song shifted — “Misty,” that slow, aching melody, now playing through the small speaker. The sound wrapped around the space like a whisper from another century.

Jack: “You can hear the lineage there, can’t you? Mathis learned phrasing from her — that way of holding a note just past reason. He’s not copying her, but he’s… carrying her.”

Jeeny: “Yes. It’s like legacy as a form of echo. One singer picks up where another’s breath left off.”

Jack: “And that’s why he called her songbooks ‘bodies of work.’ Because they’re not just albums — they’re anatomy. Flesh, heart, breath.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. She built a library of emotion. Every songbook — Gershwin, Ellington, Porter — is a different continent of feeling.”

Host: Jeeny set the record down, eyes closed for a moment, listening to Ella’s voice rise — soft, strong, unhurried.

Jeeny: “I think that’s what Mathis meant by amazing. Not just talent. Integrity. She didn’t sing to impress. She sang to preserve. To honor the song more than herself.”

Jack: “That’s rare. Most performers today sing to be heard. Ella sang so the song could live longer than her.”

Jeeny: “That’s the highest kind of artistry — disappearing into your craft until the art is the only thing left.”

Host: Jack chuckled quietly, though his eyes softened.

Jack: “You’re describing sainthood again. You do that a lot when you talk about music.”

Jeeny: “Because the great ones — Ella, Mathis, Coltrane — they practiced devotion, not just talent. You can’t fake devotion.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s why we call it soul music, even when it’s jazz.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because the soul has a tone. And hers was keyless — infinite.”

Host: The record popped, that tiny sound that feels like nostalgia itself. Jack walked to the counter, setting the album down, tracing the edge of the cover with his thumb.

Jack: “You know what’s wild? Mathis met her early in his career, and you can tell that encounter stayed with him forever. You can hear it in the way he sings — that clean humility, that reverence for melody. It’s like he kept a piece of her discipline in his breath.”

Jeeny: “When you meet someone like that, it rewires you. They remind you what’s possible when you dedicate your life to sound instead of self.”

Jack: “Sound instead of self…” (pausing) “You think that’s even possible anymore?”

Jeeny: “It has to be. Otherwise, all we have left is noise.”

Host: The song faded, leaving behind a hush so pure it almost hurt. Jack lifted the record, studying Ella’s face on the cover — calm, joyful, grounded.

Jack: “You know, I think that’s why her voice still sounds new. Because it’s not chasing time. It’s anchored in it.”

Jeeny: “Right. Mathis didn’t call her timeless — he called her amazing. There’s a difference. Amazing isn’t about duration; it’s about depth. It’s that moment of awe that never gets old.”

Jack: “You talk about her like she’s still alive.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Maybe she is. Every time a note hits right — every time someone sings without ego — that’s Ella still echoing.”

Host: The lights dimmed, the store glowing with only the neon reflection and the faint pulse of sound. The world outside had gone quiet.

Jeeny: “You see, Jack, that’s what Mathis was grateful for — to have met the source. To have seen, even once, what unfiltered artistry looks like. He didn’t just admire her voice; he admired the honesty behind it.”

Jack: “The kind of honesty that turns a melody into memory.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The camera pulled back, catching them in that small, sacred place — two silhouettes surrounded by vinyl sleeves and the ghosts of melodies that refuse to die.

The rain outside softened into mist, and the faint echo of “Summertime” played somewhere deep in the background.

In that moment, Johnny Mathis’s words rang truer than ever — not as nostalgia, but as testimony:

That to witness an artist like Ella Fitzgerald
is to glimpse eternity disguised as breath —

and to realize that some voices don’t merely sing songs;
they build worlds —
and invite us, humbly, beautifully,
to forget where we end and the music begins.