| [ |
mood |
| |
 amused |
] |
Frank never did like rock and roll. He's not crazy about guys wearing earrings either, but he doesn't hold it against me and, anyway, the feeling is not mutual. Rock and roll people love Frank Sinatra because Frank Sinatra's got what we want: swagger and attitude. He's big on attitude, serious attitude, bad attitude. Frank's "Chairman of the Bad." Rock and roll plays at being tough, but this guy, well, he's the Boss. The Boss of Bosses. The Man. The Big Bang of Pop. I'm not gonna mess with him, are you?
Who's this guy that every city in America wants to claim as their own? This painter who lives in the desert? This first-rate, first-take actor? This singer who makes other men poets, boxing clever with every word, talking like America: fast, straight-up, in headlines, coming through with the big schtick, the asides, the quiet compliments, good cop/bad cop all in the same breath? You know his story 'cause it's your story. Frank walks like America: cocksure.
It's 1945 and the US cavalry are trying to get their asses out of Europe, but they never really do. They're part of another kind of invasion: AF, or American Forces Radio, broadcasting a type of music that will curl the stiff upper lip of England and the rest of the world, paving the way for rock and roll with jazz, Duke Ellington, the big band, Tommy Dorsey, and right out in front, Frank Sinatra, his voice tight as a fist opening at the end of a bar, not on the beat, over it, playing with it, splitting it like a jazz man, like Miles Davis, turning on the right phrase in the right song, which is where he lives, where he lets go, where he reveals himself. His songs are his home, and he lets you in.
But, you know, to sing like that you've got to have lost a couple fights. To know tenderness and romance, you've got to have had your heart broken. People say Frank hasn't talked to the press. They want to know how he is, what's on his mind. But, you know, Sinatra's out there more nights than most punk bands, selling his story through his songs, telling and articulate in the choice of those songs, private thoughts on a public address system, generous.
This is the conundrum of Frank Sinatra. Left and right brain hardly talking. Boxer and painter. Actor and singer. Lover and father. Band man and loner. Trouble shooter and trouble maker. The champ who would rather show you his scars than his medals. He may be putty in Barbara's hands, but I'm not gonna mess with him. Are you?
Ladies and gentlemen, are you ready to welcome a man heavier than the Empire State, more connected than the Twin Towers, as recognizable as the Statue of Liberty, and living proof that God is a Catholic? Will you welcome the King of New York City, Francis Albert Sinatra!
|
devious
hungry
annoyed
bouncy