Frank Sinatra
Given the way the Grim
Reaper has been picking off celebrities recently, Frank Sinatra should probably
dry-clean his tux, polish his Guccis, and get ready for his limo ride to the
Big Casino. The 81-year-old singer's weak heart has sent him to the hospital
twice in the past year, and there are rumors of Alzheimer's disease and cancer.
His children and current wife (No. 4), Barbara, are already feuding over who
controls his empire, while networks, magazines, and newspapers have put the
finishing touches on their Sinatra tributes.
Sinatra
has always said that "dyin' is a pain in the ass," but it may not be so bad.
Dying, as living, the Chairman of the Board is right where he's always liked to
be: at the center of attention. Unlike fellow crooners (notably MTV hunk Tony
Bennett), Sinatra has transcended irony and avoided kitsch. Music critics and
the record-buying public, who don't agree about much, agree that Sinatra is the
greatest popular singer in American history.
And, as the media report every few days, Sinatra is cool
again. His 1993 Duets album--in which he sings his greatest hits with
pop stars such as Luther Vandross and U2's Bono (click to hear Sinatra and Bono
tackle "I've Got You Under My Skin")--has sold 3 million copies in the United
States, far more than any of his earlier recordings. The hit movie
Swingers paid slavish tribute to Sinatra lounge culture. Recent articles
in Vanity Fair and elsewhere have depicted Sinatra and the Rat Pack as
the acme of American cool.
Sinatraism
has become the house religion at men's magazines such as Details and
Esquire . Later this fall, Esquire writer Bill Zehme will release
The Way You Wear Your Hat: Frank Sinatra and the Lost Art of Livin' (his
apostrophe), a 245-page guide to Frankness. Zehme instructs on swaggers,
cocktails, $100 tips, street fights, and seductions. (All should be frequent.)
This Sinatra is a Sinatra for the sleek, prosperous, cigar-swilling,
martini-puffing '90s, a tonic for political correctness. His misogyny and
promiscuity have been recast as healthy libido, his Mafia ties and thuggery as
macho. He's a man's man. How could you not admire a fellow who bedded Lana
Turner, Ava Gardner, Mia Farrow, Anita Ekberg, Marlene Dietrich, and
Marilyn Monroe?
So Frank Sinatra is cool again. Well, Frank
Sinatra has always been "cool again." Sinatra rose and fell as a teen
idol in the '40s, then returned to stardom in the early '50s. Between 1953 and
the mid-'60s, he made his best records, scored most of his biggest
Billboard hits, gave his finest film performances ( The Manchurian
Candidate and From Here to Eternity , for which he won an Academy
Award), and exerted the greatest political and cultural influence. (Some
particularly enthusiastic, daft Sinatra fans credit him with Kennedy's 1960
election victory, claiming that Sinatra helped line up the Mob behind JFK.)
Since
that peak, Sinatra nostalgia has been a cottage industry of American culture.
Every few years, Sinatra is "rediscovered." Sinatra himself doesn't change;
what changes is the way we choose to perceive him. He's a national Rorschach
test: America periodically concocts a new Sinatra to fit the
Zeitgeist .
Consider Sinatra's rebirth as "cool" in the early '70s. He
came back as a Me Generation icon, the Rat Packer reincarnated as an
individualist. His late '60s albums, dismissed as lame attempts to ape rock
when they debuted, were now applauded for their courageous, free-spirit
experimentalism. Critics harked back to his original popularity in the '40s,
noting that Sinatra had helped to end the Big Band era and usher in the age of
the individual star. His signature song, after all, was "My Way." (Click to
hear him sing it.)
When punk
broke in the late '70s, Sinatra was reborn again--this time as Proto-Punk,
popular music's first great rebel. Sinatra had been one of the first artists to
start his own record label (Reprise, in 1961): This was recognized in the late
'70s as proof of his artistic integrity and a kick in the smug face of
corporate music. His brawling and boozing in the '50s presaged the punks'
brawling and boozing in the '70s. Even Sinatra's Mob ties supposedly
demonstrated his flouting of authority. The Sex Pistols' Sid Vicious recorded
"My Way," a bizarre combination of homage and scorn.
His next incarnation: Reaganite. Through the
'80s, Sinatra palled around with Ron, Nancy, and his usual crew of . The punk
became Ol' Blue Eyes. For Reaganites, Sinatra symbolized all that was once
right about America (and would be again after a few years of supply-side
economics): classy music, machismo, bonhomie, and good times. (The right's
embrace of Sinatra inspired the oddest chapter in the Sinatra cycle: a
counterclaim by the left. The New Republic and others tried to redeem
Sinatra for liberals, advertising his early support of civil rights, his
assistance to black musicians before such help became fashionable, his
opposition to McCarthyism, and his failed attempt to break the Hollywood
Communist blacklist.)
There's one other Sinatra
phenomenon that keeps repeating itself: dirt. In the '60s and '70s, rumors of
Sinatra's Mob ties were family entertainment. In 1986, Kitty Kelley's dishy
biography, His Way , confirmed most of the nasty gossip about his love
life. Later this month, Sinatra: Behind the Legend , a new warts-and-all
(and-more-warts) biography, will hit bookstores. Author J. Randy Taraborrelli
has been somewhat cagey, but early reports suggest that the book will be full
of salacious details about Frank's seven-year affair with Monroe, other
extracurricular activities, and an aborted Mob hit on him. Mafia boss Sam
Giancana allegedly canceled the hit after hearing a Sinatra album.
