The Story They Don't Tell about Bossa Nova with Ella Fitzgerald and Johnny Alf

On February 28th, the week closed on a golden note with the posthumous release of The Moment of Truth: Ella at the Coliseum, a collection of hidden gems from the First Lady of Song. As we near the 30th anniversary of her passing, Ella Fitzgerald’s legacy remains in the spotlight. Though she wasn’t widely recognized as an ambassador of bossa nova, her connection to the genre is worth revisiting—there’s a unique power in the nuances of these recordings.

In the 1950s, Rio de Janeiro became the birthplace of bossa nova, a burgeoning genre shaped by young musicians from the city’s middle-high class—ultimately becoming part of its cultural DNA. Their gatherings were marked by experimentation and innovation, blending samba with American jazz. Its stripped-down style mirrored Brazil’s urbanization and industrialization. João Gilberto cemented the genre in 1958 with his groundbreaking reinterpretation of Desafinado, introducing subtle yet transformative changes to its rhythm and beat. Tom Jobim, a classically trained musician, played a pivotal role in the movement, enriching it with sophisticated harmonies and co-composing Garota de Ipanema with Vinícius de Moraes in 1962. By the 1960s, bossa nova had been exported and was gaining worldwide recognition.

Ella Fitzgerald was the most popular female jazz singer in the United States for more than half a century. Her first foray into bossa nova came in 1961 with Stardust, arranged by Marty Paich, along with a rendition of Jobim's Desafinado. Two decades later, she released Ella Abraça Jobim, an album dedicated to the works of Brazilian composer Antônio Carlos Jobim (Tom Jobim), where she embraced the bossa nova style.

Despite bossa nova’s significance to Rio de Janeiro, it is important to acknowledge the controversies surrounding the genre. Many argue that it was an elitist, even racist, attempt to whitewash samba. In Brazil, poverty has a colour. As the last country in Latin America to abolish slavery in 1888—and with no real efforts toward integration—Brazil perpetuated a cycle of poverty and social marginalization.

Samba was a silent scream from the slaves. Its rhythms emerged from their cramped quarters, expressed through beats created by their feet and hands striking the floor or their own bodies, as musical instruments were scarce. After emancipation, many freed slaves migrated to Brazil's then-capital, Rio de Janeiro, in search of work. They carried with them a rich cultural heritage that crystallized into a distinct musical and dance form, eventually branching into various subgenres. This expression found a vibrant home in the slums, flourishing particularly in the homes of elderly Black women from Bahia, affectionately known as tias, and in terreiros—sacred spaces for Afro-Brazilian cultural practices. These gatherings, especially in public spaces, often drew police attention, as they were deemed suspicious under unjust laws rooted in veiled racism and biased perceptions.

It is worthwhile to mention Johnny Alf, who went against the flow. Despite being a pioneering figure and a father of bossa nova, he remains largely overlooked by the Brazilian media. He was constantly overshadowed by names like Tom Jobim, João Gilberto, Sergio Mendes, and Luiz Bonfá—despite the fact that his fingers had already mastered this sophisticated sound and musical format a decade before them. But Alf was Black, homosexual, of humble origins, and introspective. We can safely say that without Rapaz de Bem, the story of bossa nova would not be the same.

Johnny Alf challenged the status quo on race. His insistence on artistic autonomy and refusal to conform to industry expectations put him in direct opposition to a system that often-marginalized Black artists in Brazil—a quiet yet powerful form of resistance.

In contrast to Brazilian productions, which lean into this cultural dichotomy and reinforce social divides, non-Brazilian productions and cafés tend to overuse bossa nova. It is often reduced to a background element, used to create an atmosphere—whether of tranquillity, sophistication, or romance.

As an immigrant, I once heard someone dismiss bossa nova as "elevator music." There are so many layers of ignorance in that statement—it erases the deep cultural significance of a genre that is not only Brazil’s most exported but also a reflection of the country’s relationship with the world. In Rio de Janeiro, bossa nova played a profound role in shaping cultural identity—it was never just mood music or a decorative soundtrack. When a genre like bossa nova is reduced to background music, what does it say about the way we consume culture—and whose stories we choose to hear?

Ella Abraça Jobim received mixed reviews from both critics and listeners. While some appreciated the collaboration, others felt the album didn’t quite suit Fitzgerald’s style. In Brazil, however, it was received more positively. The fact that an international artist of Ella Fitzgerald’s caliber dedicated an entire album to Jobim’s compositions was seen as a powerful acknowledgment of Brazilian music’s global significance. The album was featured on radio programs and covered by specialized media, further reinforcing appreciation for both Jobim’s work and Fitzgerald’s interpretation.

When music transcends borders, does it lose its essence—or does it take on a new life shaped by those who listen?

If even a legend like Ella Fitzgerald faced scepticism when embracing bossa nova, how many other cultural exchanges have been overlooked, misinterpreted, or dismissed—simply because they don’t fit neatly into the narratives we expect?