JAZZ REVIEW : SAY ‘ELLA’ AND YOU’VE SAID IT ALL

Why bother with the cold definition of “singer” that you find in the office dictionary: “someone who produces musical sounds or notes with the voice . . . in a connected series”?

A shorter, more fitting entry would be simply: Ella Fitzgerald.

Fitzgerald has been singing professionally for more than 50 years, and I’m sure she once exhibited greater purity and control than she did Wednesday night at the Westwood Playhouse. But there were moments during the generous, two-hour show when she both defined the art of singing and displayed the greatness that has long been attributed to her.

Ira Gershwin once paid her the supreme compliment: “I never knew how good our songs were until Ella Fitzgerald sang them.”

She still inspires that kind of awe.

Only Frank Sinatra, of her living contemporaries, has enjoyed such respect from critics and musicians.

Don’t, however, expect Fitzgerald to command the stage the way Sinatra does.

Indeed, she appeared uncomfortable--a bit shy and nervous--when she walked out at the start of the show to join the Paul Smith Trio, clutching her trademark handkerchief in her right hand. The opening numbers seemed rushed--as if she were just warming up.

Though she never achieved Sinatra’s sense of theater, she did gradually relax. She made playful asides to the audience between songs and, more importantly, asserted greater vocal authority as she moved through tunes by some classic songwriters--Porter, Ellington, the Gershwins.

On these numbers, she exhibited an invention of phrasing that was surprising to anyone who knew her only from her records. After years of listening to what are definitive versions of some of these songs, you think of the arrangements as frozen--like museum pieces, not to be tampered with. But Fitzgerald obviously doesn’t think of these tunes that way. She’s too much a jazz artist to stick with a single interpretation.

The show’s second half, however, was even more of a revelation as Fitzgerald, dueting with guitarist Joe Pass, moved closer to her jazz roots on several free-flowing scat numbers that were as lively and invigorating as anything you’d expect from the hottest new kid on the block. She ended with a scorching blues excursion, backed vigorously by both Pass (who opened the second half with a 20-minute solo stint) and the trio.

Even if Fitzgerald isn’t an actress who sells a song physically a la Garland or Streisand, she is far from a cold technician like Cleo Laine. There is a constant sense of individuality and character to her singing, much of which continues to express a youthful idealism and desire that brightens even the darkest lyric. It’s this radiant, slightly innocent manner that gives her an added winning quality of being “forever young.”

Fitzgerald still makes frequent concert visits here, but they are usually at large sites like Hollywood Bowl and the Universal Amphitheatre. The rare chance to see this great artist in the intimacy of the playhouse (fewer than 500 seats) is a treat you owe yourself. She’ll be there through Feb. 2.