Lady Blue Eyes_ My Life With Frank - Barbara Sinatra [59]
We were having the time of our lives, and Frank was clearly as happy as I was, especially once he was onstage. His shows were sellouts, and I knew he was relieved to be back in the spotlight soaking up the applause. Although I’d seen him perform before, I think on that comeback tour he really came into his own, commanding the stage with a maturity and presence I’d never known anyone else to possess. It had always astounded me that when he walked into a room he’d create a kind of shock wave, like a surge of electricity around him that demanded absolute silence. He sparked the same reaction in a theater. Sitting in the front row of a concert, I could feel people’s hearts pounding all around me. He’d receive a standing ovation just for walking out onstage. There was a palpable, physical sensation before Frank even sang a note. Seeing him up there was an almost religious experience for his fans. I don’t think there’s anybody alive who could still get a reaction like that.
Frank not only wanted me to be at every concert but insisted that I sit up front so that he could see me and sing to me. He’d almost always dedicate at least one number to me, often “My Funny Valentine,” and would point me out to the audience. “Take a bow, sweetheart,” he’d instruct. Then when I stood up, he’d say something like “Ladies and gentlemen, this is my roommate.” With Frank, a compliment was half a put-down and half-flattering but always said with love.
He handpicked all his songs and worked closely with his musical director, arranger, and the orchestra. As an avid reader, writer, and admirer of novelists and poets, he favored tunes with the best lyrics, which he felt held the attention of both him and his fans. He especially liked a song called “Something,” which George Harrison had written a couple of years earlier for the Beatles. Frank would slow it right down and said it was the most beautiful number because it was a love song that never actually said “I love you.” He liked to sing sad or romantic ballads, but he also loved jazz and working with people like Louis Armstrong, who was great fun to be with but who I thought was a little too “on” all the time. Frank especially loved anything by Cole Porter or Irving Berlin, and a favorite was “Here’s That Rainy Day” by Jimmy Van Heusen. Sammy Cahn and Jimmy wrote a lot of Frank’s music, and they worked really well together because they understood how he’d make each song his own. Every time he sang a number anew, Frank would change it in some small way with that perfect enunciation of his. Timing was everything, and his was strictly original. He had a gift for it, along with that unique texture to his voice, which could be a powerhouse or soft and sexy when needed. Either way, that voice was God-given; there is no question about it.
At the end of each number, Frank would almost always credit the songwriter and those responsible for the orchestration, paying tribute to people like Rodgers and Hart, Don Costa, George Gershwin, or the writers of newer tunes like Joe Raposo and Jim Croce. “Isn’t that a pretty ballad?” he’d ask his audience with almost childlike delight, or “Don’t you think that’s the most maaarvelous love song?” Always happy to share the credit for a song, he’d speak glowingly of Cole Porter being “in his shining hour” or Nelson Riddle “at his peak.”
Songs like “Strangers in the Night” or “My Way,” which he’d been asked to sing over and over again since the 1960s, did absolutely nothing for him. He always