I Did It My Way!

Frank Sinatra was born on December 12, 1915. My favorite Sinatra song was written by Paul Anka, but immortalized by Frank Sinatra: "My Way."

And now, the end is near;
And so I face the final curtain.
My friend, I'll say it clear,
I'll state my case, of which I'm certain.

I've lived a life that's full.
I've traveled each and ev'ry highway;
But more, much more than this,
I did it my way.

Regrets, I've had a few;
But then again, too few to mention.
I did what I had to do
And saw it through without exemption.

I planned each charted course;
Each careful step along the byway,
But more, much more than this,
I did it my way.

Yes, there were times, I'm sure you knew
When I bit off more than I could chew.
But through it all, when there was doubt,
I ate it up and spit it out.
I faced it all and I stood tall;
And did it my way.

I've loved, I've laughed and cried.
I've had my fill; my share of losing.
And now, as tears subside,
I find it all so amusing.

To think I did all that;
And may I say - not in a shy way,
"No, oh no not me,
I did it my way".

For what is a man, what has he got?
If not himself, then he has naught.
To say the things he truly feels;
And not the words of one who kneels.
The record shows I took the blows -
And did it my way!

What a great song to be sung at my funeral! If this is (fair & balanced) weepy nostalgia, so be it.

[x http://www.educatetheusa.com/newjersey/]
Frankie Goes to Heaven: The Legacy of Francis Albert Sinatra
by Tom Fredrickson

Frank Sinatra was to his era of American entertainment what Michael Jordan is to his era of sport: So good, so dominant, so competitive that he tempts you to forget about, dismiss other talented performers; they both transcend their eras and their immediate domains. Just as folks who could care less about basketball can't help but know of MJ, FS is known (and hated or admired or belittled) by those who couldn't tell a big band from the big bang. That type of dominance can be off-putting if you're not a fan or are not interested in the particular art each practices. (It will be interesting to see how Michael's ego reacts as he ages, with his greatest achievements anchored firmly in the past--will there be the awkward stabs at self-aggrandizement that dotted Frank's last decades.) Think about: The type of music that Frank made stopped being of the moment in 1956--it has been more than 40 years since his peak. This either made him, depending on your point of view, an embarrassing anachronism or an artist devotedly practicing his craft regardless of the winds fashion. In fact, he was both, sometimes at the same time.

In some ways, the passing of the man will make it easier to hear and understand Sinatra's art. When all of the rumors, ugly press clippings, self-serving talk show appearances have faded into the dust of the media age, all that will remain will be the music (and a few accomplished screen performances: The Man with the Golden Arm; The Manchurian Candidate). It is hard to feel sadness at the passing of a person who so thoroughly and successfully explored his own talents in so many different eras and media.

Like MJ, Frank Sinatra--either because he designed it or because he could do it no other way--lifted his game to a whole new level. Bing Crosby, only a decade or so Frank's senior, is a quaint curiosity to our ears. I suspect that the best of Frank will always sound modern because he was one of the first (if not the first) singer to see that pop songs could be something other than novelties or monotony-breaking ditties on stage or screen. Frank believed songs by the Gershwins, Cole Porter, et al were art; more significantly, he believed that recordings of those songs--the vocal performance, the sonic quality of the recording, the musicianship, the arrangement--should be art as well. If other singers conceived of their work in the same terms, few had the clout to guarantee that all the pieces were in place to pull it off.

Billie Holiday and Ella Fitzgerald, for example, are two singers who, in different ways, approach and perhaps by some measures surpass FS; as black women, they were never given the clout that Frank had and, therefore, never had the control over their product that he did. One measure of Frank's musical broadmindedness is that he studied and allowed himself to be influenced by the best black female singers of the day--especially Holiday and Mabel Mercer--and the great instrumentalists of the big bands at a time when his peers were content to sound like the new, irredeemably white, Bing Crosby. His musical imagination thus broadened by these disparate examples, he approached songs the way no other white male singer at the time did: from the inside, as an actor, rather than merely a crooner.

It took time for him to put all this together: About 15 years after he launched his career he finally started doing the things that he will be remembered for: a series of albums for Capitol Records that were not merely collections of individual performances but whole albums united by theme, mood, and instrumentation. By selecting and sequencing great songs he was in effect creating song cycles that were at once highly personal and universal in appeal. Whether the albums were upbeat summings up of the big band sound (Songs for Swinging Lovers, A Swinging Affair) or classically orchestrated ballad albums (In the Wee Small Hours, Only the Lonely), these albums allowed him and his audiences to discover new things in these songs. Only the Lonely was a peak--arguably his best, he was never again quite so engaged in the concept of concept albums. There would be enjoyable, sometimes great albums and many outstanding individual performances, but none had quite the Olympian perfection of the mid-fifties albums.

After the fifties, Frank remained interesting--he was as rich and as powerful as any Hollywood mogul could desire; he started his own record label; his film career was thriving--but he had trouble remaining interested: A classic problem for any artist, but worse for an interpretive one, especially when quality sources of material are drying up. With few exceptions, the remainder of his career was a set of variations on previous successes, some exceptional, some woeful. There was a powerful sense of him coasting through his last decades. What one looks for then, just as in an aging athlete whose powers are waning, is a hint of the old magic, a triumph of spirit or will over fading abilities and failing flesh. It is a testament to his talent that more often than not Frank delivered some of the old magic when others would have quietly retired (as he once tried to do).

Like I say, all that's left now is the music. The best of it follows:

Songs for Swingin' Lovers (1956)/A Swingin' Affair (1957): Lightning strikes twice. Two albums of nearly identical virtues: smart songs; sharp, upbeat performances. Urban hang suites of a more genteel era.

In the Wee Small Hours (1954)/Only the Lonely (1958): The flip side. Two albums about the loss of love--the former melancholy, monochrome, and resigned, the latter nearly suicidal and in Technicolor. Only the Ravel and Rachmaninoff-like orchestrations of Only the Lonely give you any hope that the grief described in the album will pass.

Swing Easy/Songs for Young Lovers (1953): Chamber jazz, featuring Frank on the cusp of becoming fully Frank. A more intimate mood on what was originally two 10-inch albums. The songs are unmatched: "A Foggy Day", "Funny Valentine," "Just One of Those Things." It's a primer of American popular song.

Francis Albert Sinatra/Antonio Carlos Jobim (1967): What might have seemed a trendy leap onto the bossa nova bandwagon turned out to be the best FS album of the sixties. His respect for great songs was never more evident, and the slightly unfamiliar mood and setting of the music engages him fully. For anyone with a bent towards bossa or neolounge, this is the place to meet Frank.

She Shot Me Down (1983): The last great album. Another song cycle on loss, but here the grief is so intense, and the cracks in Franks ravaged voice so human, that it seems to be about not merely love but the passing of life itself.

Copyright © 2004 Tom Fredrickson