RED EYES FOR OL' BLUE EYES

"He more than paid rent for the space he occupied on this planet." - Richard Burton on Frank Sinatra

25 years ago, on this day, 14th May, 1998, Frank Sinatra died and it hit me like I'd lost someone close to me even though it was perfectly reasonable at that time to expect the inevitable demise of a man who had been suffering from ill health with heart and breathing problems as well as bladder cancer and dementia. I guess for someone like me, who was pretty much obsessed with him, he seemed immortal.

It was only as I got older I realised it was his art that was immortal, the man himself was only too mortal and yes, deeply flawed as many great artists often are. Without those flaws though, his ability to resonate with so many millions of people across the globe would have been surely impossible. No one who does not possess an emotional reservoir as deep as his could deliver such rich and incredible, timeless music.

I think the first time I heard Frank Sinatra sing was 'Young At Heart' as it played over the final scene into end credits of Woody Allen's 'The Front' (1976), the lyrics of which have since become my personal credo for life. There was something about his rich, confident voice that seemed as if I had always known it, like a friend, brother or uncle at a Christmas party who would always bring good cheer to the occasion and an inherent joie de vivre. It was only later, exploring his abundant back catalogue of albums, that I would begin to appreciate the full Shakespearian spectrum of his range as a musician and what I might call 'vocal acting'. There is simply no one quite like Sinatra for expressing both the exterior of a song’s melody whilst mining the interior of its lyrics. Some might say Billie Holiday with her similar love of torch songs but I would personally struggle to listen to her for an entire album as it's like overdosing on reality whereas Sinatra, although being a self-confessed "18-karat manic depressive", creates a blanket with his voice to keep you warm no matter how cold and bitter things can get in the songs he sings. It should be noted that Sinatra sat with Holiday while she lay dying in New York's Metropolitan Hospital and was inconsolable for many days after receiving news of her death, locking himself away with her records to play all alone by himself. Her musical influence on him, along with Bing Crosby and Tommy Dorsey, was incalculable.

Hearing of Sinatra's death on that Friday morning in May, left me feeling a mixture of gratitude and sadness. Gratitude because he had already provided me with (at my young age) an entire emotional universe that I sensed I would have access to for the rest of my life, just so long as I listened to his albums. Sadness, because some part of me would have liked to have seen him, no matter how decrepit and out of his mind he was. Like those many pilgrims who travel to Rome to attend the Papal audience in St Peter's Square, I would have been satisfied to inhabit the same environment and atmosphere as the great man.

But alas, it was not to be.

Headed to my lecture at film college that same morning back in 98, I swung by Ben's Collector's Records in Farnham, Surrey where the hipster/law student dude behind the counter ('Richie') and I played some prime Capitol Frankie in solidarity as we saluted his departed soul with some mugs of black coffee like some sort of spur of the moment wake. Of course, it should have probably included a slug of whiskey to go with it to make it a true send off for the 'saloon singer' but it was early I guess, though no doubt Frank would have scoffed at such weak moral affectation.

I can't quite remember what song it was we played that morning as way of tribute but if I had to guess it was most probably "Young At Heart' where my Frank obsession first began and still remains, unwavering.

As Frank would often like to say to his audiences, raising a toast with signature tumbler of whiskey in hand: "May you live to be 100 and may the last voice you hear be mine."

I'll drink to that! Salute!

Frank Sinatra (born December 12, 1915, Hoboken, New Jersey, U.S.—died May 14, 1998)