This Saturday, December 12th, will mark the centenary of the birth of Frank Sinatra. That he was one of the greatest of America’s popular singers—many would say the greatest–is beyond question. The security and the richness of his vibrant baritone, the impeccable diction, his sensitivity and his swagger, his ability to both soar and swing, his unmistakable intelligence as a singer both in his selection of material and phrasing, all mark him as unique.
To properly listen to Frank Sinatra you must extricate the artist from his myths, and must forget about his rat pack chums, the women, the mob, his explosive temper, his boozing, his tough guy affectations, and all the other aspects of his personal life that intruded on the musician. In some ways he is not unlike the other great popular singer born in 1915—my choice, if anyone cares, for the greatest popular singer of the century—Billie Holiday, another singer whose myth sometimes obscures the art. But if Holiday is the myth of the damned artist, self-destructive, hooking up with a series of terrible men, hooked on drugs, whose life’s downward trajectory ended while she was in custody for heroin possession, Sinatra’s myth is the opposite, no scandal, no setback ever got in the way of his relentless ambition to become, in the words of perhaps his most famous song, “king of the hill/top of the heap.” The contrasting myths no doubt reflect what it meant, on the one hand, to be black and female, and on the other, white and male. read more