Special Guest Blogger: Cleo Laine

Let’s start at the beginning. I was born Clementine Dinah Hitching from South Ruislip. Not exactly the stuff of dramatic movie openings, is it? No lightning storm, no jazz band playing in the background. Just a midwife saying, 'Ooh, she’s got a set of lungs on her!' and me immediately replying in full scat, Doo-wop bap, za-za-ding! Probably.
I didn’t choose jazz. Jazz chose me. Or possibly just followed me home like a stray cat after I belted out 'Summertime' at a village hall fundraiser. I was supposed to sing Danny Boy, but halfway through, I jazzed it up so much the vicar crossed himself and the tea urn exploded. That’s when I knew I was dangerous. And fabulous.
Now, let’s talk about fame. Oh, that lovely, fickle beast. One minute you’re performing at the Royal Albert Hall, the next you’re on a three-day tussle with autocue at This Is Your Life, trying not to look shocked that anyone remembered your name. Mind you, I did look shocked. I was mid-singing 'You Go to My Head' and suddenly there’s Eamonn Andrews waving a big red book like it’s the Gospel According to Showbiz.
And the titles? Don’t get me started. First Lady of Jazz. Dame Commander of the British Empire. That woman who vibrates when she sings. All accurate. I particularly love the DBE, though I did keep forgetting I was supposed to be Dame Cleo.
I like to think I’ve left behind three things: jazz, joy, and a very confused set of grandchildren.
You see, my little darlings, yes, to me you’re all little, even if you’re 60 and balding, music wasn’t about being perfect. It was about being alive. If you’re not slightly out of breath by the end of a song, you didn’t mean it. If you haven’t scared a parrot into silence, you haven’t belted it out. And if you haven’t been told to tone it down because , the candelabra’s shaking, then frankly, what’s the point?
I’ve sung with legends. Oscar Peterson, Dizzy Gillespie, even a very confused Elton John but my greatest collaboration? John Dankworth. My husband. My love. My personal sound engineer, therapist, and human earplug.
John was the yin to my yowl. Where I’d be screeching like a pterodactyl in heat, he’d be there with a baton and a raised eyebrow, conducting with the calm of a man who knew I’d eat all the cheese at the interval. We were the odd couple of jazz, me, the Welsh whirlwind and him, the posh saxophonist who once corrected my grammar during a performance. Honestly, John, I was improvising! You don’t fact-check scat!
But in all seriousness my greatest achievement wasn’t the awards, the performances, or the time I sang for the Queen and she actually nodded along. It was making people feel something. Joy, awe, confusion, mild hearing loss but it doesn’t matter. As long as they felt it.
And if they’re still humming a tune of mine while doing the washing-up in 100 years’ time, then mission accomplished. Even better if they’re belting it out off-key. That’s when you know you’ve made it, when ordinary people butcher your songs in kitchens across the land.