Peggy Lee: Too Marvelous for Words

"Every musician in town wanted that gig... She got whoever she wanted, because she was so good." 

—pianist Lou Levy, as quoted by James Gavin in Is That All There Is?: The Strange Life of Peggy Lee (Atria Books, 2014)

Born Norma Deloris Egstrom in Jamestown, North Dakota, in 1920, Peggy Lee survived a harsh childhood through music. In 1936, she began singing on KOVC radio in Valley City, North Dakota. She later hosted her own 15-minute Saturday show on Fargo's Powers Hotel station—paid primarily in meals from the hotel coffee shop. In 1937, WDAY radio personality Ken Kennedy auditioned the 17-year-old and put her on air that same day, on the condition she change her name to Peggy Lee. By 1940, Lee had moved to Palm Springs, California, where a residency at The Doll House taught her that lowering her voice to a soft, seductive purr could silence noisy crowds, instinctively forging her trademark minimalist style.

Her national breakthrough came in 1941 when Benny Goodman hired her as lead vocalist, yielding the million-selling wartime hit "Why Don't You Do Right?" As a Capitol Records solo artist for decades, she transformed popular music with masterpieces like 1958's "Fever" and her haunting 1969 Grammy-winner "Is That All There Is?"

Lee was also an assertive, behind-the-scenes innovator. Long before the 1970s singer-songwriter movement, she co-wrote over 270 songs as a creative equal with Duke Ellington and Quincy Jones. She secured her multimedia visionary status in 1955, co-writing the score and voicing multiple characters for Disney's Lady and the Tramp while earning an Oscar nomination for her role in Pete Kelly's Blues.

This creative peak is captured on the archival release Too Marvelous for Words. The 49 tracks emerged from a unique mid-century industry framework: the radio transcription service. During February and August 1955, amid her Disney and Hollywood successes, Lee recorded material only for the World Broadcasting System, which supplied hundreds of local stations with high-quality music on oversized 16-inch discs, creating the illusion of live performances for hometown audiences.

The syndication format demanded efficiency: Lee recorded all 49 tracks across just four sessions, totaling 14 hours, capturing most songs in one or two takes with minimal post-production. Crucially, this removed the pressure to produce Billboard hits, granting her creative freedom unavailable on her retail LPs.

Treating the studio like an intimate jazz club, Lee fronted a seasoned West Coast ensemble featuring pianist Gene DiNovi and percussionist Jack Costanzo with relaxed, improvisational looseness. Half of these performances are the only studio recordings Lee ever made of those songs, making these sessions an essential, otherwise-lost chapter of her discography.

These uninhibited performances strip away the polished pop veneer to reveal Lee as an accomplished improviser. Like her contemporary Frank Sinatra, she was a "song stylist," capable of singing any genre effortlessly—a rare talent matched in modern times by artists like Van Morrison and Willie Nelson.

Freed from chart expectations, Lee treats every melody as an open-ended conversation with her band. On the title track "Too Marvelous for Words," she channels Billie Holiday's elastic phrasing, lagging behind the beat to refashion Johnny Mercer's lyric into a rhythmic dance with DiNovi—all in just 89 seconds. On "I Gotta Right to Sing the Blues," she trades big-band bombast for minimalist intimacy anchored by Bob Whitlock's subtle bass. Her "That Old Black Magic" strips away manic up-tempo arrangements for a humid, polyrhythmic groove courtesy of Costanzo, showcasing exceptional breath control and deceptive vocal restraint.

The compilation also illuminates historical rarities. "Autumn in New York" represents Lee's only studio recording of the Vernon Duke classic—stark and haunting without the cloying strings typical of 1950s interpretations. Her "Try a Little Tenderness" predates Otis Redding's soul anthem, treating the melody as an exercise in dynamic control, whispering verses with a vulnerability few contemporaries could capture unedited. A single take of Cole Porter's "What Is This Thing Called Love?" demonstrates the quartet's telepathy as Lee playfully alters harmonic structure, trusting her musicians to pivot instantly—a risky maneuver rarely attempted on her official albums.

The technical restoration matches the performance's brilliance. While bootlegs have circulated for decades, Too Marvelous for Words presents pristine transfers from the original 16-inch discs. Archival producer James Sáez—renowned for his work with Nat King Cole and Dean Martin—has restored all 49 tracks, removing surface crackle and tape hiss while preserving organic analog warmth. The soundstage reveals details previously unavailable: the snap of Bob Whitlock's bass strings, the metallic shimmer of Costanzo's percussion, and Lee's voice with a clear, present fidelity that collapses seven decades into an event horizon.

More than an archival curiosity, Too Marvelous for Words is essential to understanding Lee's legacy. Capturing her at the pinnacle of multimedia fame yet isolated from commercial machinery, it offers an unfiltered view of her pure jazz chops. This meticulous restoration makes the intimate, late-night sessions feel nakedly immediate, revealing a fearless artist who needed only her signature whisper, a tight band, and deep knowledge of the Great American Songbook to command a room.