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SINATRA
The Music Will Never Die
From The Frank Sinatra Reader edited by Steven Petkov and Leonard Mustazza "Singing and Swinging by the sea"

BY DON BRENNAN

Francis Albert Sinatra, who died Thursday at age 82, was the greatest American pop vocalist of all time.

They say there's something about this town when he's here, and maybe they're right. A giddy anticipation, like butterflies before a Saturday morning neighborhood football game; nostalgia dripping from stories told by old men with young women on their arms; clubs and lounges in the wee small hours of the morning where the Goodfellas in High-Boy collars and leather wing tips light their cigars with rolled $100 bills.

Atlantic City, New Jersey, despite its sins, possessors the spiritual lure of the ocean. There is something indescribable about this magnetism; it possesses the power to grasp, to hold, to keep. It sets to flames the horror stories of syringes and vials of blood washed ashore. No. There is more to the ocean than just water. Even the pretenders at the clubs know the name of that tune.

So, it is here that he brings his immeasurable talents and baggage lumpy with his ego, his commanding, demanding personality; the streets of dreams that race through this golden ghetto of a neon city are alive with the past. And there is good reason for that. He is no longer just an entertainer, or a singer, or even a folk hero. Somehow, he has become much more than that; he is the event. Even the darkest corners of this town are illuminated by snapshots from the mind's eye.

Who is Sitting in Judgement?

He will come and he will sing and he will not disappoint. After all, who is sitting in judgement? The verdict had been reached long before he grasps the microphone tonight. You see, one does not pay $100 for a ticket to see Francis Albert Sinatra and come away with a shrug of the shoulders. Those who have doubts - and the rest who have long buried him - do not come. The faithful remain to witness, pay homage, give testimony. For us, the legend remains in motion.

The Copa Room inside the Sands Hotel and Casino is, perhaps, the single most appropriate stage upon which Frank Sinatra performs. This is a man who sings and swings like no other, yet, too, enjoys the drama of saloon singing. "Angel Eyes" doesn't sound quite the same in an outdoor stadium. Here, the intimacy of the Copa Room rises to the occasion.

He walks on stage two months before his seventy-fifth birthday, taking long slow careful steps, his body bent forward just a bit, his face less puffy than in recent years. Immediately it is evident that he looks and sounds so much better than the recent tours with Liza and Sammy. (His performance during most of the last year's pay-per-view special was embarrassing to even his most adoring fans.)

Appropriately, the thirty-two piece orchestra led by pianist and friend (and butt of Sinatra's jokes) Bill Miller strikes up "You Make Me Feel So Young." Collectively, the audience listens to Old Blue Eyes, seasoned from centuries of this type of work, snap off the lyrics. It is reminiscent of those rowdy nights in the Las Vegas desert twenty-five years ago when Frank Sinatra owned the turf he romped on - usually with three hours sleep. If it was Spencer Tracy who preached to him about the benefits of sleepless nights, and Joe E. Lewis who prescribed Scotch whiskey for his every ailment, who taught Sinatra how to interpret music like this? Tommy Dorsey? Maybe. But this is more than just holding notes. Bing Crosby? Perhaps. Wasn't it Bing who lamented that a voice like Sinatra's comes just once in a lifetime, but why did it have to be in his lifetime?

With Hip, Swaggering Bravado

This performance, one of five sold-out shows over the recent Columbus Day weekend, is vintage Sinatra. A greatest-hits set complete with hip, swaggering bravado and the trademark jab at the air to accentuate the notes. Sinatra's renditions of "Where or When," "The Best Is Yet to Come," and "Rain or Shine" are clearly the highlights. The rumors of his demise were premature.

In fact, his third version of "Where or When," a cool, punchy, titillating arrangement (this is even better than the one sung with Count Basie twenty years ago) is more than ample proof that Joe E. Lewis and those filterless Camels didn't corrode all of Sinatra's pipes.

Of course, with roses come thorns. The ballads and the monologues that precede them are dated and predictable: if I "assume the position of a bartender" one more time, I'm asking for a paycheck. And why did Sinatra drop the Jobim songs which fit so tenderly into his performances during the early 80s? Given both his narrowing range and the dramatic experiences of his life itself, who better to breathe Jobim's haunting, perplexing Lyrics? You might call it Saloon Songs Samba. Accompanied by the brilliant guitarist Tony Mottola, they were a wonderful segment. Bring them back, Francis.

But, Sinatra did sing the two crowd favorites, "My Way" and "New York, New York," the latter a triumphant curtain closing rendition complete with all the glamour and glitter that naturally comes with this song. And, he performed his least favorite hit, "Strangers in the Night" (without the sarcastic "DoBeeDoBeeDo" at the end), and his favorite, "Summer Wind." Here, the Chairman was in board room form.

Now the End is Near

When it was over, when the crowds moved in pursuit of their other lives, now out of the long shadow of this man, this event, outside in the theater lobby two large display cases stood filled with Sinatra memorabilia. It was a remarkable sight.

Behind the glass . . . the war years and the music of TD and the Pied Pipers; the bobby soxers at the Paramount Theater, crying and fainting long before anyone heard of a gospel swinger named Elvis Aron Presley; clowning with Harry James after the first, dramatic recording of "All or Nothing at All"; working with arrangers Axel Stordahl, Gordon Jenkins, Nelson Riddle, Billy May, and great Don Costa; the long, long days before From Here to Eternity, when Mitch Miller mortally wounded him with "Mama Will Bark," a recording for which Sinatra never forgave; the passion for Ava Gardner.

The classic Capitol years, followed by the Ring-A-Ding-Ding of his own Reprise label; the Rat Pack with Sammy and Dino and Joey and Peter Lawford, whose Kennedy connection made him oh, so valuable; the sixties and Strings and Costa's lush arrangements; love beads, a goatee and a flower child named Mia Farrow; retirement, followed by a comeback and the recording of "Old Blue Eyes Is Back" in Los Angeles on a day when it was 106 degrees outside, and even hotter in the air-conditioned studio; days and nights with pianist Vincent Falcone, casino mogul Steve Wynn, car dealer Lee Iacocca; the shortlived reunion with Sammy and Dino, followed by the faded, jaded tours with Sammy and Liza when the air had long left the balloon; and, now, in the September of his years, there's pasta sauce and performances again worth framing.

This is the real Francis Albert Sinatra, bouncing his way through a chart, changing the Lyrics, keeping time better than any vocalist in history. And now that he's reunited with the Sands and singing by the sea, the thundering applause you hear comes not only from the masses but from the roar of the ocean waves.

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