As we walked our prom dates back to the car, Emmett seemed to glide along beside me, holding hands with the French exchange student he’d fumbled his way through asking to the dance. I walked alongside my then-girlfriend, trying to pull my car keys out of my pocket. Everything had been right for us that night and we were feeling quite fancy. Thanks to dapper suits, dishy dates and a hotel ballroom all to ourselves (and 200 of our classmates), we were feeling pretty upscale for teens who went to school next to dairy farms.
And then it happened. Emmett started singing, “Come fly with me, let’s fly, let’s fly away,” as he looked deep into his plus-one’s eyes with a mischievous grin.
I wanted to punch him square in the mouth.
A bit of an overreaction? Definitely. But anyone singing songs that Frank Sinatra made popular sets off a special sort of madness in my soul. I do not claim to have any particularly special knowledge of ol’ Blue Eyes himself, nor do I possess the necessary musical knowledge to really expound upon his virtues. Even so, I certainly seem to be able to contextualize him at an above-average level. I might be the one kid my age who remembers that while ‘ol Blue Eyes was one hell of a crooner, he was also a colossal jerk. Invoking his name should conjure not only the mystique, but also the madness.
Take his acting career for example. Yeah, you read that right: Sinatra’s acting career. I know I’m throwing you fairweather fans for a loop here. Sinatra was cast as gambling goon Nathan Detroit in Guys and Dolls, which would have been totally fine had high-profile heartthrob Marlon Brando not been cast as romantic lead Sky Masterson. Sinatra felt like he was being upstaged, and as a result was a pissant the entire shoot. He was continually trying to out sing Brando and talking behind his back to anyone on the crew who would listen. Brando didn’t take this lying down: the crooner was notorious for disliking reshooting scenes, so Brando would intentionally screw up shots in order to infuriate the singer.
That’s a relatively tame example of Sinatra’s shadowy character. If you’re looking for something really juicy, put on your best black suit, light up a cig, and step into the world of the mafia. Sinatra certainly did. His connections to the Italian underworld are legendary. Aside from the Rat Pack, he was also extremely close with prominent mobsters Carlos Gambino and Sam Giancana. He even supposedly acted as a liaison between the Kennedy’s and the mob. We’ve glorified these organized crime syndicates in movies like The Godfather and Goodfellas, but the reality of such groups is far more terrifying than the big screen makes them out to be. That such a high profile musician could have virtually overt relations with the mafia is disturbing.
The point is, no one wants to acknowledge the bad that goes along with the good. In fact, few even really appreciate the good. Sinatra was an almost flawless crooner. His tone was immaculate, his control was precise, and he incorporated slides between notes into his style in such a way that would melt even the most highly-strung voice instructor.
People don’t want to invoke Frank for what he was, but rather what he represents in their minds. It’s the aura that surrounds him that’s so appealing, even sexy. Sinatra took girls on dates, not just on hangouts. Sinatra was always dressed to the nines, and never showed up to 8 a.m. class in sweatpants. Sinatra was a man’s man, and not a college kid scared out of his ever-lovin’ mind. He’s a marker, a herald of a golden age of sophistication that people are desperate to identify with.
I have nothing against Sinatra’s music. Hell, I’m guilty of jamming out to “I’ve Got You Under My Skin” any time it comes on. I think he’s a great singer. I just absolutely despise the pretentious airs put on by those who conveniently overlook just how much of an ass this guy was.
I get it. You listen to Sinatra. You’re on a whole other level. When you’re ready to come slumming with me, study up and understand what you’re truly representing when you align yourself with the Sultan of Swoon.
I despise Frank Sinatra, and hate his ‘singing’ as well. Bobby Darrin, Tony Bennett, and Dean Martin have much more talent, charisma, and style than the ‘Hoboken Hack’ ever did. He is awful.
Bobby Darrin was superb. Van Morrison is still “theMan”