These days it's a given that Frank
Sinatra could turn a phrase. He gave flouncy words meaning and
this served him to end. With his final utterance, Sinatra summed
it all up, two little words more succinct than I or any other
writer composing rhapsodies to him could ever put down.
"I'm losing."
A valid summation to a lifetime of unbearable subtext, masked
by great taste in hat bands. "Life is tough" reads
the thread through Sinatra's work and it all ends with the assurance
that death ain't so hot either. And if the major theme in Sinatra's
work is that of aging and the regret that accompanies such deceptively
perpetual motion, then "I'm losing" is really the only
logical conclusion.
I, like anyone else who didn't experience the war years or
the fifties boom and boredom era, have a tendency to confuse
the symptoms with the disease. His brashness, his ring-a-ding-dingness,
his drinking, his swinging, his suits, the Rat Pack circus, and
every other aspect of Sinatra that makes him a desperate hipster's
poster boy for irresponsible glibness, these are all symptoms.
You could get the same stuff from Peter Lawford if you wanted,
though I understand preferring not. Lawford wasn't stricken with
the disease, nor was Dean Martin, nor Sammy Davis, Jr., nor,
big surprise, was Joey Bishop. The disease was some enduring
malaise within, manifested with sincerity and regret, energy
and exhaustion, through smart musical instinct and that voice.
In other words, to all of us, the disease looked like a song.
Popular music is filled with liars who tell you that love
is a bright new tomorrow or that youth is the ideal time or that
any given dance or style or decadence is the focal point of your
lifestyle. But Sinatra knew that love was just a last chance
to stop a string of bad luck and that youth is a lost moment
and that any given dance or style or decadence was just something
to make you forget Sinatra knew that life is tough and you do the
things you must to get through it.
And the guy did that. He would've dropped on stage if he had
his choice, perpetually going through the grind because that's
what got him through life. That and the music.
The second time I saw Sinatra was at the Worcester Centrum,
1992 (the first time was Cincinnati, 1976). During Shirley MacLaine's
opening act, a gang of college frat yahoos started with the raspberries
and the guffaws and the on and on. Admittedly, I might not have
been so forgiving of Shirley MacLaine's act if it had been done
by Leslie Uggams or Vikki Carr or someone like that, since the
"act" was really just one very long medley, straining
the credibility of such a form. But Shirley had the patter going
on between songs and, Jesus, didn't these guys see this woman's
legs? She was what, 70, and still had better legs than most the
girls these yahoos tried to get drunk! They continued with their
disruption and no one was very happy - the audience was filled
with nice old people, all done up for an evening out. I decided
I would have a word with them.
"If you guys don't want to watch this," I offered,
"why don't you go have a couple beers and come back when
Sinatra's on?"
They looked at me curiously for a moment and then proved my
inherent ineffectiveness by continuing on. The dorky guy next
to me showed his admiration by handing me his program to look
at. Still, the yahoos continued. And continued. And continued.
Right through Shirley singing "Promises, Promises"
and right through the monologue sneering at Madonna. Finally,
right there in the middle of the Worcester Centrum, my wife could
take it no longer, and with her blond hair attractively pulled
back and her nice black velvet sleeveless number and her general
femininity, she turned around and pointed to all the yahoos with
an angry growl and there, THERE before all the old people, and
that includes little old ladies, all done up for a nice evening
out, my wife yelled "Will you people shut the fuck up or
what?!"
The yahoos were stunned at the sight of the pretty blonde
in the velvet dress confronting them - the little old ladies
hushed at THE WORD. The entire Centrum seemed icily still, but
Shirley MacLaine kept right on.
The yahoos mumbled for awhile, but by the time Sinatra came
on to belt out "You Make Me Feel So Young," they were
back again. Their hooliganism rose to the top with chants of
"Frank Frank Frank Frank Frank" as the program progressed.
They were, at this point, actually interfering with the show.
And then it happened.
Put in perspective, this was at a time when Sinatra was touring
profusely. Everyone made fun of him because he was, supposedly,
a tired old man. The voice wasn't what it once was. He was reading
lyrics off teleprompters! Ironically, Lou Reed was reading lyrics
off teleprompters also at the very same point in time, but somehow
it was more acceptable to make fun of an old man with failing
eyesight reading off "dooby dooby doo" than of an over-rated
60's artsifart icon Warhol hanger-on reading "doo doo doo"
off the teleprompter so he can deliver "Walk On The Wild
Side" properly.
It was this weak, old, frail, weepy, beaten Sinatra who turned
to our direction, fixed his gaze upwards to our section and pointed.
Amidst the soccer thug bellow, he spoke.
"Cool it, Charley!" he directed.
And Charley cooled it for the rest of the damned show and,
I'm certain, all the way home and into bed and at his early morning
class. And so did my wife and I, for that matter.
Lou Reed might be able to read his "doo doo doo's"
off a teleprompter, but he couldn't do that. And his "doo
doo doo's" were hardly dynamic,either.
You see, after he calmed the joint, that 77 year old, weak,
frail, weepy, beaten man belted out one of the liveliest versions
of "Mack The Knife" that I and anyone else in the Centrum
that night had ever heard. He followed by snarling "The
Best Is Yet To Come." The voice was rough, but evocative.
The guy had no choice. He had to be on stage singing - it was
in song that he was at his most eloquent and he liked that. Meanwhile,
he occasionally had to cool the Charleys of America to make them
focus on the important thing. His stage schtick has always contained
a toast with the wish that the last voice we hear be his. Sinatra
knew it was all about the music, not the man. The man was just
a stooge for the music.
But who am I or anyone else to sum him up? He did it better
than any of us court jesters, undercutting the glibness of his
image in a manner that fits the task.
"I'm losing."
The guy was just cooling more Charleys.