Frank Sinatra left an indelible mark on the American music scene. His career, spanning over half a century, had earned him nicknames including ‘The Voice’ and ‘The Sultan of Swoon’. Though he never learned to read music, Sinatra became one of the most famous singers on the international stage. But how much do you know about the real Frank Sinatra?
Tonight, the young musician had been invited to play a private performance in the apartment of a wealthy East Coast family. Frank Sinatra had accepted the invitation, for a handsome fee. Tonight, the Sultan of Swoon was performing solo. Playing to such an intimate crowd felt slightly suffocating; at this stage shows, he would often pay a few women scattered throughout the audience five dollars an hour to whip the crowd into a euphoric frenzy. Usually they cried his name, threw themselves on stage, made obscene gestures and offered him nights of passion once the music stopped. Usually the crowds were wild, and everyone was toasted. That was the party life, the jazz life. “Well, there’s always tomorrow night,” he thought as his fingers danced over the piano keys. He knew where every note was, though he could not read sheet music. Was reading music really so important? In this country what you knew didn’t matter – it was what you did with it that counted. Autumn in New York reverberated through the apartment, to the delight of the guests. “You’re my favourite singer,” one of the debutantes cried. “I’m going to go to all your concerts!” she went on. The pianist smiled gallantly at her. He enjoyed compliments but was getting bored, and lit a cigarette which he kept perched between his lips. He did not savour these kinds of gatherings, but you don’t turn down a hundred thousand dollars for a few hours of tender crooning in the Big Apple. A man approached him from the left to take a picture. “Other side, Jack,” hissed Frank Sinatra. He had a scar on his left cheek, and though he covered it with makeup he hated being photographed from the left. The man came around to the other side to capture the moment. Frank Sinatra began singing The Brooklyn Bridge. Memories came flooding back to him. He thought of the streets and the scrapes he’d gotten into on the other side of the Hudson. All those women who had shared his bed, the blue-blooded Americans who’d fallen for an Italian Immigrant. Frank Sinatra took a break.
“But of course!” the hostess smiled. “I’m sure you wouldn’t say no to a Jack Daniels.”
“My favourite! Two fingers of Jack, four ice cubes and a drop of water, please. I’ll need a cocktail napkin – never touch the edge of the glass, that’s my rule.”
Frank sat back down. He was quite the neat freak, in his own way. There wasn’t much longer to go. A few more songs for the upper crust and he could go back to his apartment on nineteenth street. Sirens rang out on the street below, along with the blaring of taxi horns. This was his New York, his city, his love. He began singing New York, New York to general applause:
Start spreading the news
I'm leaving today
I want to be a part of it
New York, New York
These vagabond shoes
They are longing to stray
Right through the very heart of it
New York, New York…
Start spreading the news, as the song goes.
Alan Alfredo Geday
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