From Holiday to Krall: It Isn’t Such a Giant Leap

Album releases are about to arrive from two important jazz singing artists. Separated in time by decades, different in style and manner, they represent the complete historical arc reaching from the emergence of jazz vocalizing in the ‘30s to its present manifestation.

It will, no doubt, bother some when I say that the names of those two artists are Billie Holiday and Diana Krall. How, they will ask, can I possibly mention them in the same sentence, much less view them from a similar reference point?

For many, Holiday is the ultimate jazz vocalist, and, after Louis Armstrong, the definitive influence on virtually every singer who followed. Uninterested in scatting, a primary characteristic in Ella Fitzgerald’s style, or in the sort of tonal grandeur one associates with Sarah Vaughan, Holiday defined jazz singing in her own fashion. In her renderings, it was an expression based on several factors: her inventive but subtle turns of phrase and a highly personal style of syllable articulation; the emotional effect of slight shifts of timbre and tone; and the ability to invest the rhythmic current of her line with a floating sense of buoyancy around the beat.

Krall, her maturity as an interpretive vocal artist growing with each new release, displays some surprisingly similar characteristics. Despite the obvious differences in timbre and phrasing, she too tends to avoid scat singing and expresses no interest in Vaughan-like vocalisms, emphasizing instead the intimate connection between words and music, singing with a similarly understated, Holiday-like rhythmic propulsion.

Many of these elusive similarities are present in the new releases from Holiday and Krall.

“Lady Day: The Complete Billie Holiday on Columbia (1933-1944)” (* * * * Columbia Legacy) is an elaborate, 10-CD boxed set of Holiday performances covering her output on the Columbia, Brunswick, Vocalion, Okeh and Harmony labels (with the exception of the 1958 album “Lady in Satin”). The 230 songs include 150 numbers, dating from her first recordings with Benny Goodman in 1933 to her last Columbia studio date in 1942, as well as 80 alternate sides, radio broadcast air checks and other rarities. Thirty-five of the tracks are available for the first time in the U.S.

One glance at the list of players moving through many of the Holiday songs--Lester Young, Teddy Wilson, Roy Eldridge, Johnny Hodges, Ben Webster, Jack Teagarden and dozens of others--immediately underscores the potent jazz atmosphere that was present even in the recordings of the numerous trivial pop items that she was obliged to sing, especially in her earlier years. (It isn’t until 1936, in a Wilson session that included Hodges--playing succulent saxophone fills behind her vocal--Jonah Jones and Harry Carney, that she is given tunes such as “These Foolish Things” and “I Cried for You”). Holiday never fully escaped the need to record forgettable material. She was, after all, making records at a time when the distinctions between jazz and popular music were virtually nonexistent, as were albums, per se. Recordings were made for release as 78 rpm singles, imparting tremendous power to individual songs and to the song pluggers who saved their better items for top stars.

Still, amid all the chaff, Holiday managed to record some first-rate songs while they were still brand-new, by the Gershwins (“Let’s Call the Whole Thing Off,” “They Can’t Take That Away From Me,” “The Man I Love”), Jerome Kern (“A Fine Romance,” “Why Was I Born?”) and Cole Porter (“Let’s Do It,” “Night and Day”). And throughout every track, from the enthusiastic but raggedy early tunes to the consummate self-confidence of the later offerings, the music is galvanized by an inner confidence, by what can only be described as sheer creative energy. It is not a quality that was always present in Holiday’s later years, but it is an utterly irresistible element in this marvelous collection. Yes, the set, which will be in stores Oct. 2, represents a considerable investment. But the hours of music, most of it demanding repeated listening, more than justify the cost.

“The Look of Love” (* * * 1/2 Verve), the much-awaited new Krall release, positions her, as with her previous, multimillion-selling “When I Look in Your Eyes,” in orchestral settings. In this case, the orchestrations are provided by the veteran, highly regarded European composer-arranger Claus Ogerman. The combination, in fact, of Ogerman, producer Tommy LiPuma and engineer Al Schmidt represents one of the most accomplished and successful production partnerships of the past few decades--an association with tons of hits to its credit.

The results are sonically gorgeous, especially in the tracks recorded with the London Symphony Orchestra. And the songs, many of them chosen because of their Frank Sinatra association, perfectly portray the late-night ballad mood that was a goal of the recording from the very beginning.

In Krall’s early work, her vocals often seemed to flow from her superb piano solos--rhythmic and melodic extensions of her improvisations. Here, even more than in the Grammy-winning “When I Look In Your Eyes,” the reverse seems true, with piano solos such as the suspended-in-space chorus on “Love Letters” continuing the thread of her vocal rendering.

As with her ambitious decision in an earlier album to sing “I’ve Got You Under My Skin” as a bossa nova (in contrast to the locked-in, up-tempo Frank Sinatra approach), she has taken on standards such as the title track, “Cry Me a River,” “I Get Along Without You Very Well” and “‘S Wonderful” and invested them with the insinuating sound of her honey-and-bourbon voice, telling their stories with epigrammatic, Lester Young-reminiscent economy. At her best, as in the deceptively laid-back but gripping emotional reserve she brings to “I Get Along Without You Very Well,” Krall affirms her ascendancy as an important interpretive vocal artist.

She does so, singing exquisitely throughout, despite surroundings that--regardless of their richly layered tone qualities--do not necessarily allow her much room for musical maneuvering. Ogerman was clearly given a great deal of latitude in terms of sheer sound density as well as the length of instrumental openings and closings. And there are, consequently, a number of passages (the ending of “Dancing in the Dark,” for example) in which Krall is missing from the mix for far too long.

Does “The Look of Love” imply that Krall has now entered a portion of her career in which she will most often be heard in thick-textured surroundings? That, of course, remains to be seen. But it would be a shame if the spontaneous qualities of her live performances--with their spirited effervescence, coltish enthusiasm and sensual, breathing-in-your-ear intimacy--were not given full opportunity to blossom. One hopes that Krall’s next outing will be framed in a setting that allows her spontaneous attributes to remain more fully in the spotlight. *