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When it comes to jazz, I tend to prefer instrumentals to vocals, which is a shame in that it cuts me off from women’s biggest contribution to the genre.

That said, I do have a couple of the greats in my collection. Not long ago I was listening to a Jazz at the Philharmonic record that has Ella Fitzgerald on it. My eleven-year-old daughter heard her singing and said, “Ella’s cool.”

I said, “Have you heard any Billie Holiday?” She shook her head, so I put on one of Holiday’s records next. My daughter listened to the first two songs and said, “I like her voice. She sounds kind of like a woman and a little girl at the same time.” A moment later, she added, “She sounds kind of like she’s singing the words but her mind is on something else.” A future critic, that one.

A short time later I was painting while listening to my new iPod. (See my thoughts on the iPod two posts back.) I had it on Shuffle, and a Billie Holiday song came up. And that’s when I discovered the perfect time to listen to her. If I have on instrumental jazz while painting, I find I’m concentrating too hard on what I’m doing to take in the intricacies of the music, but I can listen to Lady Day and paint at the same time. That is not to put down her artistry; if anything, it is a testament to her forcefulness. That voice of hers, at once tinny and grainy, could bend a note like nobody’s business; and when she is backed up on tenor sax by the gossamer tones of Lester Young (she’s the one who gave him his nickname, The President, or Pres), you’re hearing one of the greatest pairings in all of jazz. Check out the album A Musical Romance.

So: who else should I listen to as I paint? Which jazz/blues divas do YOU like? And which of their records?

While I await your answer, I’ll keep listening to Ms. Holiday.

I won’t, of course, be sending my daughters to her records for guidance on relationships. (If I’m beat up by my poppa / I ain’t gonna call no copper . . . Wooogh.) But man, what her voice could do with lyrics like: Now, love is like a faucet / It turns off and on / I say love is like a faucet / It turns off and on / But when you think it’s on baby / It’s turned off and gone . . .