Gheorghemas: Day Four

On the fourth day of Gheorghemas, Big Gheorghe gave to me: 

Four songs by "the Chairman of the Board" on his birthday. 

Three Beauties

Two Types of Stories

A Bald Guy with Two Pupp-ies

One hundred ten years ago on this date, Italian immigrants Antonino Martino "Marty" Sinatra and Natalia "Dolly" Garavente welcomed their only child into their adopted hometown of Hoboken, N.J. Francis Albert Sinatra, through talent and force of will fashioned an enormous life that almost pales in its telling. 

Sinatra was one of the most influential figures of the 20th century, a giant in music and style whose work spanned generations and will endure well into the future. He was gifted, smart, genial and gracious. He was also petty, vindictive, combative and temperamental. He sang achingly beautiful ballads and jaunty, swinging melodies. He was married four times and fathered three children. His boozing and carousing were the stuff of legend. His ties to the Mob were never far from the surface. 

Some view him as a genius, others as a thug with a voice. After he died on May 14, 1998, many of the obituaries included his remark, “Being an eighteen-karat manic-depressive and having lived a life of violent emotional contradictions, I have perhaps an overacute capacity for sadness and elation.” 

There are dozens of Sinatra biographies, ranging from shallow, warmed over accounts and glorified discographies to insider tales from family and associates to deep dives from reporters and journalists. Noted biographer James Kaplan produced maybe the most comprehensive, even-handed treatment, a two-volume set titled “The Voice” and “The Chairman,” each checking in at more than 800 pages. 

One interesting look at Sinatra is “Why Sinatra Matters” by longtime New York newspaper columnist and author Pete Hamill. The two were friendly – Hamill clarifies that they were not friends, they enjoyed each other’s company – and Sinatra discussed having Hamill write his biography, though it never came to pass. But they spent many hours together, and Hamill’s book, a comparatively thin work that's still rich in descriptions and memories, weaves Sinatra’s personal story with the nation’s immigrant and cultural stories. Hamill writes that he didn’t intend to produce anything like a definitive biography, more a snapshot of the man and his times.

 Sinatra had at least three stages in his career. First, as a young, skinny Big Band crooner in the 1930s and ‘40s. The second, after a career lull following World War II and into the early ‘50s, saw him become a more mature singer and craftsman and even actor (he won an Oscar for a supporting role in the WW2-themed film “From Here to Eternity") and embodied cool with his Las Vegas residency and Rat Pack association. 

Third, as a kind of elder statesman of old school popular music after rock ‘n roll marginalized his preferred form. Sinatra’s catalog continues to be mined and refined. For example, the famous jazz label Blue Note Records recently remastered and released the groundbreaking album “In The Wee Small Hours,” to mark the 70th anniversary of its initial release in 1955. It’s considered a masterpiece of lost love and heartbreak, and was one of the first “concept” albums, a collection of themed songs rather than a group of singles. 

He founded Reprise Records in the early 1960s as a label that would give artists greater freedom over their work, in response to what he felt was at-times stifling control at Capitol and other record companies. That effort earned him the nickname “Chairman of the Board,” bestowed on him by well known New York DJ William B. Williams. 

The music sales tracking site Chartmasters said last month that Sinatra has sold more than 50 million albums worldwide, and his songs have been streamed on Spotify more than six million times. The satellite music channel Siriusly Sinatra (Ch. 70) is a staple on Sirius XM radio. 

Give Hamill the last word: “His turbulent personality, often overshadowed by notoriety, seemed inseparable from the style and originality of his art and gave him an essential place on the public stage of the American century. Now Sinatra is gone, taking with him all his anger, cruelty, generosity, and personal style. The music remains. In times to come, that music will continue to matter, whatever happens to our evolving popular culture. The world of my grandchildren will not listen to Sinatra in the way four generations of Americans have listened to him. But high art always survives. Long after his death, Charlie Parker still plays his version of the urban blues. Billie Holiday still whispers her anguish. Mozart still erupts in joy. Every day, in cities and towns all over the planet, someone discovers them for the first time and finds in their art the mysterious quality that makes the listener more human. In their work all great artists help transcend the solitude of individuals; they relieve the ache of loneliness; they supply a partial response to the urging of writer E.M. Forster: ‘Only connect.’ In their ultimate triumph over the banality of death, such artists continue to matter. So will Frank Sinatra.”