Frank_ The Voice - James Kaplan [135]
“Always” is fine: Sinatra is in good voice, and it would be hard for him not to do a good job on the great standard. At the same time, there’s something slightly stilted and airless about his rendition: he’s articulating beautifully, yet doesn’t convey the song’s passion. The problem is compounded on “I Want to Thank Your Folks,” which, with its unexceptional tune and dreary lyrics (“I want to thank your folks for making you as sweet as you are/How else can I express how I feel, confess and reveal my love?”), against the sound of a sappily tinkling celeste, is the kind of schmaltz that gives 1940s music a bad name.
The recording session changes dramatically once the classical musicians have packed up their instruments, put on their scarves and overcoats, and bustled out of Liederkranz Hall. Axel and Manie have also left the building. Now that Frank is alone with the jazz guys (the trio’s guitarist was the great Al Viola, who would continue playing for Sinatra for many years), the atmosphere shifts. With “Always” and “I Want to Thank Your Folks,” Avakian recalls, Frank “was relatively tense because they were ballads. The other two songs were just pleasant throwaways. He’s taking a drink and singing the song without worrying about it.”
The results show. “That’s How Much I Love You” and “You Can Take My Word for It, Baby” are hardly classics, but Sinatra’s singing on the two jazz numbers is relaxed and good-humored and completely charming. He was especially relaxed at a one-off session he did two days later, a glorious recording of “Sweet Lorraine” with the Metronome All-Stars, including Johnny Hodges, Coleman Hawkins, Harry Carney, Charlie Shavers, Lawrence Brown, Nat “King” Cole, and, lo and behold, Buddy Rich. Many serious music commentators, George Avakian among them, have asserted that Sinatra never truly swings. They should redirect their attention to this “Sweet Lorraine.” Maybe it all depended on the context.2
Avakian, who produced records for many musical giants, from Louis Armstrong and Duke Ellington to Miles Davis, disliked Sinatra from the moment he first saw the singer get off the elevator at Columbia’s Seventh Avenue offices, flanked by four bodyguards.3 “He used to call me ‘kid’ because he didn’t know my name,” Avakian said. “He gave off the feeling that, ‘Listen, I’m a big man and you’re unimportant, and I’m putting up with your presence.’ ” On the first Sinatra recording sessions the producer witnessed, “everybody was sort of like, ‘Oh, Sinatra is very tough—you have to be careful. Don’t cross him; don’t argue with him.’ ”
Yet to Avakian’s surprise, Sinatra was loose and easy on the two trio numbers the young producer supervised. “He did them very quickly, two takes of each one,” Avakian recalled. “I thought, ‘Gee, if only he could do this all the time, he’s somebody I could enjoy working with.’ ”
Frank couldn’t do it all the time, of course. He was simply too important a personage to let his hair down (even while he still had it in abundance). He knew exactly how miraculous a singer he was, but he also knew how delicate his voice was—and how fickle public regard. He was protecting his position as America’s most important ballad singer, and the effort made him tense.
Frank’s entire life seemed to be based on the building and the release of tension. When the release came in the form of singing, it was gorgeous; when it took the form of fury, it was terrible. But release was important and constantly needed. “Hard work and extended play, I mean after hours, never hurt Frank,” George Evans said, not entirely accurately. “But emotional tension absolutely destroyed him. You could always tell when he was troubled. He came down with a bad throat. Germs were never the cause unless there are guilt germs.”
To some degree, this was wishful thinking on Evans’s part. Guilt, with Sinatra, was as transitory as his other emotions. His mercurial nature, as we