In February 1956, a woman walked into the Capitol Records studio in Hollywood and basically changed the trajectory of American music. It sounds like hyperbole. It isn't. That woman was Ella Fitzgerald, and the project was Ella Fitzgerald Sings the Cole Porter Songbook.
Before this, Ella was already the "First Lady of Song," but she was sort of boxed in. She was a jazz singer, a bebop master, a scatting virtuoso. But she wasn't necessarily a "prestige" pop icon. Norman Granz, her manager and the founder of the newly formed Verve Records, had a different vision. He wanted her to move past the novelty hits like "A-Tisket, A-Tasket" and the heavy bebop sessions. He wanted her to own the Great American Songbook.
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The Risky Bet on Cole Porter
Honestly, people forget how much of a gamble this was. At the time, Decca Records—Ella's previous label—refused to let her record a Porter-specific project. They didn't think she was "that kind of singer." They thought she lacked the sophisticated, high-society "polish" required for Cole Porter’s witty, often naughty lyrics.
They were wrong.
Granz didn't just want a jazz record; he wanted a definitive document. He paired Ella with a 24-year-old arranger named Buddy Bregman. It was an odd choice. Bregman was young, and Granz actually wanted Nelson Riddle (who was busy with Frank Sinatra). But the chemistry worked. They recorded 32 tracks in just three days. Think about that. Thirty-two masterpieces in 72 hours.
The Sound of Ella Fitzgerald Sings the Cole Porter Songbook
What makes this album feel so different from other vocal jazz records of the 50s? It’s the approach to the lyric. On Ella Fitzgerald Sings the Cole Porter Songbook, Ella does something revolutionary: she gets out of the way of the song.
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In her earlier jazz work, the melody was a playground for improvisation. Here, she treats Porter’s words like scripture. Her diction is terrifyingly perfect. When she sings "Miss Otis Regrets," there’s no unnecessary scatting. It’s just a heartbreaking story told with crystal-clear precision.
Why the Double Album Was a Big Deal
Back then, the 12-inch LP was still relatively new. Most artists were focused on 45-rpm singles—the TikTok hits of the 1950s. Granz insisted on a double album. He sold it for $9.96, which was a small fortune in 1956. He even used marketing tactics usually reserved for classical music, running ads in The New Yorker and Esquire.
He was selling "prestige." And it worked.
The album didn't just sell; it dominated. By the end of 1956, it was the 18th best-selling album of the year, competing with massive movie soundtracks. It proved that a Black woman could be the face of sophisticated, high-brow American culture. It broke down racial and musical barriers simultaneously.
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Breaking Down the Tracklist
You’ve got the heavy hitters, of course. "Anything Goes," "Night and Day," and "I Get a Kick Out of You" are all there. But the real magic is in the deep cuts.
- "Love for Sale": A song about a prostitute that was banned from many radio stations. Ella sings it with a matter-of-fact dignity that makes it even more haunting.
- "Too Darn Hot": Bregman’s arrangement here is pure fire. It captures that sweltering, restless energy that Porter intended for Kiss Me, Kate.
- "Ev'ry Time We Say Goodbye": If you don't get a lump in your throat when she hits the minor-to-major change on the word "change," you might be a robot.
The session musicians were the "cream of the crop" from the West Coast scene. We’re talking about Harry "Sweets" Edison on trumpet and Barney Kessel on guitar. These guys provided a "cushion" for Ella’s voice. It wasn't about the band showing off; it was about framing the most perfect voice of the 20th century.
The Technical Weirdness
If you’re a vinyl nerd, there’s some drama here. Shortly after the original 1956 run, Verve redubbed the tapes at Radio Recorders using something called "Cinema EQ." Basically, they messed with the sound, cutting the bass and boosting the highs. Audiophiles spend their lives hunting for the original "Red Label" pressings with the Hollywood "H" stamp because they have a warmth that later reissues often lost.
What Most People Get Wrong
A common critique is that Buddy Bregman’s arrangements aren't as "hip" as the ones Nelson Riddle did for her later songbooks (like the Gershwin or Irving Berlin sets).
Sure, maybe they’re a bit more "pop." But that’s the point.
Ella Fitzgerald Sings the Cole Porter Songbook was designed to bridge the gap. It needed to be accessible. It was a bridge between the jazz clubs and the suburban living rooms of America. Without the massive success of this specific record, the rest of the Songbook series—now considered the gold standard of American vocal music—might never have happened.
Actionable Insights for Music Lovers
If you want to truly appreciate this landmark recording, don't just put it on as background music while you wash dishes. It’s too good for that.
- Listen for the Verses: In the 50s, most singers skipped the "introductory verses" of Broadway songs to get straight to the chorus. Ella sings them all. It adds a whole layer of storytelling you usually miss.
- Compare and Contrast: Listen to Frank Sinatra’s version of "I've Got You Under My Skin" and then Ella’s. Sinatra’s is a dramatic, build-up-to-a-crescendo masterpiece. Ella’s is a cool, effortless glide. It’s a masterclass in two different ways to approach the same genius material.
- Check the Credits: Look up the musicians. When you hear that trumpet solo on "Always True to You in My Fashion," know that you're listening to the same guys who defined the "cool jazz" sound of the era.
- Find the Mono Mix: If you can, listen to the original mono versions. The "mock stereo" versions from the 60s often sound muddy. The mono mix puts Ella right in the center of the room, exactly where she belongs.
This album wasn't just a career move; it was a cultural shift. It took a songwriter from the 1920s and 30s and a singer from the 40s and made them both timeless. Ella Fitzgerald Sings the Cole Porter Songbook remains the blueprint for the "concept album" and the definitive proof that Ella Fitzgerald could—and did—sing everything better than everyone else.