It’s Frank’s World, We Just Live in It.
Over on Eater I read a nice piece on a restaurant called Gino, on Lexington Avenue near Bloomingdale’s, which I went to once, the day after Frank Sinatra died.
Why? I’d read that Frank hung out there, and wanted to go there because of that. Didn’t know if it was true, but went anyways. Turned out that the bartender had seen him there, once, about three years earlier. He was a *big* fan. He told me he had 130 Sinatra albums. And he also told me that his wife woke up the night it happened, to “go to the ladies’ room” and had the radio on when she went. She heard the news. Came back to bed. Kissed him on the cheek and woke him up. “After 42 years…” he said. And she told him that Frank had died. And he cried. His name was Bobby. He really loves Frank. Born and raised in Manhattan. Said he saw Frank live maybe a dozen times. He was going to retire the next week. His favorite album is “Watertown.” He told me about the last song, when the woman who’s supposed to be coming back is not on the train. A couple of times he even got misty-eyed. And I asked him if anyone else had come in there that night just because Frank had gone there, and he told me no one else had. He also told me that the one time he’d been there that Frank had come in, he’d ordered an Absolut on the rocks before dinner, and Bobby poured one for himself right after, just so he could know he’d drunk out of the same bottle. Sadly, he didn’t keep the bottle. But he loved Frank so much, and he was so happy (even though he tried not to show it) to see someone as young as I love Frank too. And when I made a mean comment about the three assholes who were at the bar, he agreed but quietly enough not to offend said assholes. And, before I left, gave me his number and told me to call him so we could get together and talk about Frank.
I really could not have imagined a better way to celebrate Frank, and I only wish You People <tm> could have been there with me.
I gave Bobby my then-only copy (on tape) of Sinatra at The Sands, which for some reason he’d never heard. I’m sure he loved it.
The first Frank I ever bought was a cheap cassette copy of his “greatest hits.” I didn’t really like Frank at the time, but I needed to have a copy of “My Way” for a lip-synch contest at school.
I’d gotten in trouble with the dean, again. Though that time I wasn’t guilty of whatever infraction I had been hauled in and accused of having committed. Anyways, the night of the contest I put on a tux jacket and shirt, with bow tie, and carried a pipe, and looked directly at the dean (who was one of the judges) during my entire performance. It wasn’t any great love for Frank or the song; I was more familiar with Sid Vicious’s version and liked that one better. But I figured doing Frank’s version would be an even funnier joke.
Otherwise, I pretty much ignored Frank. I’d heard “New York, New York” and all those other later hits too many times, and they got on my nerves.
After I joined an online community, though, I read the words of folks whose opinions I respected, and whose taste I liked, and they liked Frank. A lot. So, I dipped my toe in the waters, and found how much there was to his music. More than I’d ever imagined.
I was out for lunch, sitting in front of the building, smoking and listening to Frank on the radio. Right when I was being stunned by “April in Paris,” I saw a friend across the street. She’s one of the people I have to thank for having led me to Frank, and seeing her there during that song was appropriate, somehow.
Well, I sat some more, and I thought of how in a measly three or four years Frank’s music had seen me through so much.
I can remember dancing to one of his songs in a bar on my birthday, the first time in my life, possibly, I’d felt so little discomfort and self-consciousness about dancing in public. I was surrounded by so many friends, and it was such a great night.
And I thought about one night when I’d been miserably depressed. I’d already listened to “Blood on the Tracks” at least 10 times through, and the downhill slide led to “In the Wee Small Hours,” also on repeat, and a teary phone call at maybe 2 A.M. to one of my closest friends in the world.
I got to introduce that friend and my other best friend to “Frank! Live at the Sands!” during a holiday visit. We were driving somewhere, just listening to Frank and Duke Ellington tear the roof off-a that dump.
I thought of being the last of the dregs at a post-moving party, and hearing “Come Dance With Me” and “A Swingin’ Affair” for the first time, and having the top of my head blown off by the sheer maniacal joy of some of those tunes. I felt that same joy in days of mad crushes, when Frank’s music fueled my own delirious glee. The stuff was pure adrenaline.
I mean, so many moods, from the worst of despair to out-of-control mania. Always there was a song, if not a dozen, of Frank’s that fit. That helped, in some way.
I know people have their opinions of Frank. Some worship him, some hate him, some are indifferent. It’s the same with Dylan. Now Frank is dead, and I wish I had paid closer attention to him earlier in my life. But I still have his music. And there’s a lot of it I still haven’t heard yet. I’m glad I’ll have that, at least.
I put on no other music except for Frank’s after I heard the news. I’d been in a few stores, bars and restaurants where I heard other music, but otherwise — when it was under my control — it was nothing but him.
It’s so odd to me, because the last time I indulged that deeply was during his 80th-birthday, when a local station held a Sinatra marathon. But then he was still here, and there was the hope (deluded and in denial, perhaps) that he’d be around forever.
Now, though, every song I hear, it sounds a little different. There’s that knowledge there, in the back of my head, that’s he’s dead. When he was alive, even these last bunch of years when he didn’t do concerts and wasn’t even seen in public, there was always that part of me listening to his music that knew he was still around, the voice that had done such phenomenal things might not be singing or recording anymore, but someone somewhere was hearing it, even if it was only silly chitchat.
But he’s gone now, really gone, and who’s left to take his place? What singer covered as much territory and sang with such mastery and feeling? At least, who’s still around. (Yeah, maybe Dylan, but I’ll spare you. Then again, I’m sure anyone who didn’t like Frank also doesn’t like Dylan.)
He might not have been the greatest guy, but, man, his life. He came up quick and lost it all and came back so many times. It’s amazing to me. He reinvented himself so often and so completely. There’ve been few like him, and probably no more like him again.
Frankly [sic], I’m surprised there wasn’t more reaction to his death. He was original, often brilliant and often not. But when he was on, he could make you laugh, cry, dance, *feel*.
May I live to be 100, and may the last voice I hear be his.