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By Root 1807 0

He said he wasn’t getting the recognition he deserved. He had made only a few recordings with the band, and one of them, “All or Nothing at All,” sold a dismal eight thousand copies. (Four years later, a reissue of that same record would sell more than a million.) And the recordings he had made received little air time because of the radio ban on all ASCAP (American Society of Composers, Authors, and Publishers) music. In an effort to counter the Musician’s Union’s demands for royalties for bands and orchestras whose records were played on the radio, ASCAP banned radio performance of any song licensed by that society—and ASCAP controlled most U.S. music. The ban lasted until 1944.

Frank was also frustrated that Harry’s band wasn’t streaking toward the great success he thought he was due. Restless and dissatisfied, he considered quitting, but Hank Sanicola persuaded him to hang on for a few more months. In September 1939, George T. Simon of Metronome went to Roseland to hear the band, and as he was leaving he was approached by the band’s road manager, Jerry Barrett.

“Please give the new boy singer a good write-up because he wants it more than anybody I’ve ever seen, and we want to keep him happy,” said Barrett.

In his review, Simon raved about Harry James and “his sensational, intense style,” complimented the drummer Ralph Hawkins, saluted Dave Matthews on the saxophone, and praised the arrangements of Andy Gibson. Then he mentioned the “pleasing vocals of Frank Sinatra, whose easy phrasing is especially commendable.”

That wasn’t good enough for Frank. He needed raves to get where he was going. Pleasing vocals and commendable phrasing would never catapult him to stardom.

And yet in 1939 the voice that would become one of the most exceptional in popular music was untrained. Frank sang uncertainly, hesitantly, and without the self-confidence he later exuded. His voice was pitched two tones higher than normal. Yet. even then, he displayed a natural way of phrasing that was distinctive and extremely musical.

By now, his repertoire included “My Buddy,” “Willow Weep for Me,” “It’s Funny to Everyone but Me,” “Here Gomes the Night,” “On a Little Street in Singapore,” “Ciribiribin,” and “Every Day of My Life.”

The next month the band played the Hotel Sherman in Chicago, where Billboard mentioned the twenty-four-year-old vocalist who sang “the torchy ballads in a pleasing way in good voice. [His] only blemish is that he touches the songs with a little too much pash, which is not all convincing. …” Frank was incensed, and Harry James, who was voted the number-one trumpeter in the nation by Downbeat, was astounded by his arrogance.

A few nights later, a reporter asked the bandleader about the skinny little singer who slicked his hair back in a big pompadour and acted like a matinee idol at the microphone.

“Not so loud,” said Harry James. “The kid’s name is Sinatra. He considers himself the greatest vocalist in the business. Get that! No one ever heard of him. He’s never had a hit record. He looks like a wet rag. But he says he is the greatest. If he hears you compliment him, he’ll demand a raise tonight.…”

The public response to Harry James and his Music Makers was improving, but only slightly. The most dedicated swing fans preferred the established bands of Benny Goodman, Artie Shaw, Tommy Dorsey, Bob Crosby, Glenn Miller, Count Basie, Jimmy Dorsey, Duke Ellington, and Jimmie Lunceford. Harry’s fledgling band was discouraged until they landed a choice booking at the Palomar Ballroom in Hollywood; then their spirits soared. “We felt sure that a successful engagement at the Palomar was all we needed to put us up on top,” said Frank.

By the time the band bus had reached Denver, though, their spirits had plummeted. The Palomar had burned to the ground. Harry James wired his agent at MCA and was quickly booked into Victor Hugo’s in Beverly Hills, an establishment more used to the sweet sounds of Guy Lombardo. The owner was flabbergasted when he first heard the hard-driving beat of Harry James and his swinging sidemen.

“He kept