Death comes to us all, and there are few of us who believe that somehow we'll escape that final confrontation when we find out what, if anything, lies on the Other Side. Death came last Thursday at 11:50 p.m. Pacific [Daylight T]ime to a man whose music touched nearly all.
Although he had been ill for two years, Frank Sinatra seemed a candidate for the title of The Machine, the man who would never succumb to the mortality assigned to all who come aboard the earthly presence. His sign-off shocked the world, because so many wanted to believe that The Voice would manage somehow to avoid the inevitable journey to that mysterious thing which we know about, but prefer not to think of in terms of ourselves.
Sure, death comes to our neighbors, to our families. Nearly everyone over the age of innocence has suffered through the loss of loved ones. Eventually, if we live long enough, we come to accept that the Grim Reaper will visit us as well. But somehow I figured the Chairman of the Board, as appointed and anointed by the fabled Count Basie, would escape the final sting.
Frank Sinatra lived the life that many of us probably envied. Although Paul Anka wrote the words to Sinatra's signature song, those special lyrics perfectly captured the essence of Sinatra, who always did it his way.
I had one encounter, if you could call it that, with Sinatra and his mystique a long, long time ago. In 1951, the senior class of Gauley Bridge High School, located in the hills of West Virginia, climbed aboard a yellow school bus for the exhausting journey to New York City. The senior trip, accomplished in lightning fashion over an all-too-brief weekend, included a trip to the Paramount Theater. That palace of pleasure had been the site of Sinatra's "coming out" as a major star some dozen years ago. He became the first superstar of popular music, attracting thousands of screaming, fainting teenage girls who recognized before their adult betters that Sinatra was definitely the real thing.
In 1951, Sinatra returned to the Paramount at a time of trouble in his career. His off-stage antics, the abandonment of his first wife for a dalliance with a beautiful movie star, had sent his notoriety spinning out of control. Fans in those fussy times abandoned him, and he faced the ignominy of again headlining a vaudeville show that featured Eileen Barton, then famous for a novelty song called "If I Knew You Were Coming (I'da Baked a Cake)," and the Joey Bushkin dance band.
The woman who would become my wife, not long after the senior trip, accompanied me to the Paramount. Tickets were something like $2 per person. We were shown to the mezzanine, where our seats permitted a good, unobstructed view of the stage. Barton, who we had spotted earlier walking in Times Square, repeated her hit song and a few other numbers, and Bushkin--a brilliant jazz pianist as well as respected bandleader--performed a short set marked by an outstanding version of "Autumn Leaves."
Finally, it was time for Sinatra. An offstage announcer said, simply, "Ladies and gentlemen, Frank Sinatra." There was polite applause, but no screams from adoring teenagers, who ten years earlier had erupted into adoration.
Sinatra casually walked on stage, small and insubstantial in appearance, neatly dressed in a dark tuxedo. He quickly removed the bow tie and opened his shirt collar. He launched into about 45 minutes of unadulterated magic, singing with that unparalleled voice. Even those days of a downward slide in his fortunes had no effect on his complete control of The Voice. In his set (one of several performances that day) he did things with a lyric that few others have ever managed. I know of only one other singer--the still-working, still-enchanting Rosemary Clooney--who gives life, feeling and humanity to every word of every song.
Not too long after Betty and I married, I bought a Sinatra album for her birthday. It was the one containing many classics, including "A Foggy Day." Over the years we played it hundreds if not thousands of times, until finally the grooves disintegrated. Sinatra made a huge comeback, won an Oscar in a film career that included several classics and a few clunkers.
We were pleased when Sinatra's comeback began, for then we could tell friends and neighbors that we'd seen him live in New York City, when he was 35 years old.
Now 47 years have passed. Frank Sinatra is gone. As long as I'm around this mortal coil, there's a blessed memory that will remain alive: Frank Sinatra, live and in person, on stage at the fabled Paramount.
That old theater no longer exists. However, Sinatra will be around as long as his CD's are played. And that should be at least until the end of time.
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Bob Powers writes about current literature in his weekly G21 column, "Powersbooks." In college he was the drummer in the Hot Shots, a trio (sometimes a quartet) that performed Saturday nights at the Eagles Club in Montgomery, West Virginia.
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