Men, women, and girl singers - of the three kinds of humans you were the last. You loved jazz and the smoky little rooms where the tunes got played. They took note of your crusade, your scat without scatting, your vibrato-less gee-whizzy Fifties cool, plus this pluperfect female shape even George Shearing could see. But they kept listening because of your uninhibited phrasing, your mad human offerings of punctuation: semicolons where men could breathe, commas to put women at ease, parentheses that gave girl singers courage. That you always sang haunted was widely-felt, but the ghosts were only known by a few. Born to be blue was always more than a song. Then rock-n-roll invaded our land and the loud was too much, so you made yourself silent, an esoteric casualty of war. There will never be another you is more than a song.