Lady Blue Eyes_ My Life With Frank - Barbara Sinatra [92]
“But, Frank,” I countered, “you wouldn’t be taking anything away from Liza—just doing it your way. ‘New York, New York’ is much more of a man’s song. I mean, those lyrics—‘king of the hill’? That’s the story of your life!”
He wouldn’t have it at first, but I’d keep trying to work my idea into the conversation whenever I could. I’d managed to influence his musical choices several times in the past simply by telling him, “Oh, I love that song, darling. It’s one of my favorites,” if I heard him practicing a number I particularly liked. He’d sort his music into three piles—“yes,” “no,” and “maybe”—and one word from me was usually enough to get something added to the “yes” pile. Our friend Steve Wynn, owner of the Golden Nugget hotels at that time, had a running joke with Frank about the song “Luck Be a Lady,” which Steve understandably wanted Frank to sing whenever he performed in his casinos. Sitting opposite him on a plane en route to Atlantic City or Vegas, Steve (whom Frank called “the Kid”) would wait anxiously to see which pile “Luck” would go into. Once, he made the mistake of picking up the music from the “no” pile and telling Frank, “But you have to sing this at the Nugget!” at which Frank slapped his hand and seized it back. Seeing Steve’s doleful expression, he upgraded “Luck” to a maybe and then, eventually, to a yes. Frank, with mischief in his eyes, went through that routine every time he saw Steve after that.
I fell foul of Frank’s obstinacy a few times too. When a would-be songwriter cornered me backstage once and begged me to play Frank a tape of a song he’d written, I listened to the number and thought it was great. The trouble was, Frank refused to hear it, so one morning I put the tape on very loud in my bathroom next to his as we were getting ready to go out. Frank came bursting in and yelled, “What are you listening to that rubbish for? Don’t you know you’ve got the original right here?” I had to laugh.
Getting him to sing “New York, New York” was almost as tricky; I knew I was going to have to think of some other way to persuade him. Fortunately, I had several people on my side, including friends, fellow musicians, and executives at his record company, who were all for it. After a while, Liza’s show closed and her single dropped off the charts, so Frank wouldn’t be treading on her toes in any way. Then in 1978, when the New York governor Hugh Carey was running for reelection, I spotted my chance. I told Frank, “Okay, then, don’t record ‘New York, New York,’ but at least work up an arrangement to sing at Carey’s inauguration gala. Try it out there and see what happens.” He finally agreed and asked Don Costa to arrange a brassy version for his voice accompanied by his usual big orchestra. He performed it at Radio City Music Hall in October of that year. Brought to life with his unique phrasing and impeccable timing, the number he almost didn’t sing brought the house down.
A year later Frank relented and recorded what was to become a Sinatra anthem. He incorporated it into his Trilogy set of albums—Past, Present, and Future—his first new recordings in six years, chiefly because he’d been so busy touring. Those albums went straight to number one and garnered six Grammy nominations. Although he never admitted I was right to have suggested “New York, New York” for him, I know he always felt a great personal connection to the song because he chose it thereafter as his closing number, replacing “My Way.” Not that he gave me any credit for that; he said only that it was too strong an opener and needed to be moved to the back. The irony was that the number’s biggest fan (yours truly) rarely got to hear it all the way through because, by the time he was on his finale, I’d be slipping out the side door on his cue of “These little town blues are melting away …” But at least I heard it whenever we went to the big sporting