Frank Sinatra enjoyed popular and critical acclaim throughout his entire career. His passing at the age of 82 became the occasion for both fans and music critics (and musicologists) to sing the praises of his art. But few were able to demonstrate that Sinatra's music lives up to the criteria that determine great art.

I will argue that Sinatra's enduring popularity derives more from the uniquely intoxicating quality of his voice than his interpretations, a distinction classical music critics often and appropriately bring to bear on tony (pun intended) chamber music. I will argue that Frank Sinatra is the most over-rated crooner of this or any other century, that the acclaim that preceded his May 14th, 1998 passing, and the veritable apotheosis following it, speaks less of Frank's interpretations (he never wrote a song in his life) and more to the abject state of music criticism: the egregious, post-modern practice of deconstruction that systematically deprives the critic of the necessary tools to evaluate artistic endeavor.

Note: That Frank was a thoroughly detestable human being, (belligerent-arrogant, violent, self-indulgent) who would have ended up working as a hitman/gangster or prison guard if he hadn't been endowed with The Voice, will not be considered germane to any discussion of the artist Frank aspired to become.

Sinatra was nicknamed, The Voice, and it is here we must begin if we are to uncover the myths upon which his incomparability rest. Frank had a voice like no other: thicker than whipped cream and more resonant than a choir of backed-up, dyspeptic baritones, the vibration was so potent, in defiance of the laws of sound, it registered like succulent fat dripping off the spit: to the effect the unsophisticated ear couldn't get enough of it. But did the voice serve the music?

If the written testimonials following Frank's passing are indicative, the evidence is as thin as his popularity remains uncontested. To wit: In an adoring, lopsided fan letter penned by the bereaved David Lazarus which appeared in the local paper (Montreal Gazette) on the Saturday following Frank's decease, he writes that with the departure of his icon, his life "will never be the same," as if the fervor of his worship must be the inevitable effect of Sinatra's greatness. However sincere, if not pathologically obsessive, is D. L.'s devotion to his idol, his letter, a posteriori, betrays the emotionally bankrupt and barren life common to all groupies, male and female, and sheds no light on why Frank merits the highest ranking accorded to him.

Now that almost a year and a half have passed since Frank took up permanent residence in Hades, I'm optimistic that fans and musicologists are in a better position to more objectively evaluate the Sinatra canon.

No one would deny that Frank sang well, and for a handful of songs (Got you Under My Skin, I Get Along Without You Very Well) his versions must be ranked 'among' the best of the kind of music he interpreted. But to argue, as many have, that he was the greatest singer of standards ever, that he single handedly evolved the genre to its apogee is to stretch credibility to its busting point.

Which begs the question: what criteria can we confidently adduce that will enable us to determine the relative success of a singer's interpretation of a particular song, where each rendition implicitly competes against all the others? Are we not measuring the singer's ability to deeply probe and personalize a song so we believe it is the interpreter/singer himself who, out of necessity, composed it? That is why we say of certain singers, he or she owns a song. Through the power of their art, they convince us of great interpretation by laying bare the hitherto only partially disclosed meaning of a song and making it stand still as an enduring truth. On those rare occasions when this happens, when, as listeners, we are touched to the quick by great music, do we not feel a bit more knowing about our personal life experiences which the music (the interpretation) has made more explicit?

And I go at a maddening pace
And I pretend that it's taking your place
But what else can you do at the end of a love affair.

It is set against these criteria that Sinatra's music does not stand up to close scrutiny.

At this point, the reader is invited to listen to the wonderful music I will be alluding to, a distinctly American music that has endured the test of time.

In The End of a Love Affair, Billie Holiday, in an incomparably vulnerable voice, is so able to make us empathize with the dysfunction and emotional disarray that comes from a broken heart that we fear, in her case, there is no cure for love lost. Frank's version is rendered with great poignancy, but here, he releases the lyric as if each word has been slicked in some exotic unguent, while the arrangement, written in a relaxed, narcosis-inducing swing tempo, curiously betrays the tension upon which the song's tumult and hurt depend.

In exquisite ballads such as Little Girl Blue, There's a Lull In My Life or Forgetful, lend an ear to Chet Baker, who is able to recreate an intimacy that belies his years (he's only in his mid-twenties). Never putting himself above the music, he has already come to an understanding that teaches us what a ballad can be, that not even the consummately polished Sinatra in his prime can rival.

A long day's journey (without redemption) into night best describes Heyman and Levant's Blame It On My Youth. The Sinatra rendering, although deeply felt, somehow just misses the mood, in part, because Nelson Riddle's treacly, lachrymose string arrangement competes with instead of complements the song's original sentiment. When Chet the Elder sings it, now a broken man ravaged by heroine addiction, it's as if his entire life has come down to a moment of almost unbearable resignation and regret, of gifts wasted. Through masterly vocal restraint we come to understand how less can be more, how understatement, as an emotive counterpoint, can produce the kind of tension capable of shattering the most cherished of illusions. Blame It On My Youth, as sung by Chet Baker, is what great music is all about, and raises the bar for the bearing of the soul.

Turning to one of the unacknowledged master-interpreters, Fred Astaire "the singer," who, intent on supplying the defect of film versions of songs he made famous, teamed up with a jazz combo featuring Oscar Peterson and put together a collection of standards that I believe will prove to be a genre classic. Astaire's interpretations of The Way You Look Tonight, You Can't Take That Away From Me are simply more urgent and deeply felt than the Frank's versions. When Fred sings Night and Day, he is addressing a woman who has been made to feel as rare and precious as a one-of-a-kind gem. When Sinatra sings the same song, this same woman is checking over her shoulder, chagrined to discover that there are 100s just like her waiting in the wings, trying to look brave in their belittlement, turning to their martinis to deaden the disappointment.

And yet it must be said, without overstating the case, not all of Sinatra's critical acclaim is unwarranted. The precedent-setting interpretation of Cole Porter's Got You Under My Skin is a classic and arguably Sinatra's greatest achievement. It introduced and brought to perfection the concept of fusion music decades before the word gained currency; and to this day, its historical significance in the evolution of modern music has yet to be fully disclosed. The Sinatra-Riddle version, which integrates the Blueberry Hill Fat's Domino tempo with the music of the 40s and 50s, stands as the bridge between two eras of music, as Beethoven was the bridge between classical and romantic, as the Beatles bridged rock and roll (body music) and hard rock (mind/head music). Make no mistake about Under My Skin, Frank owns it body and soul, and for this alone he deserves mention with the likes of Pat Boone, Frankie Vaughn, Perry Como and Victor Mature before he became an actor.

It is the singer, as standard-bearer, who must ultimately assume responsibility for a song's final version, which includes the musical arrangement. Standards, especially ballads, are often excruciatingly intimate and confessional, usually written for or about one special person, meant to be sung in low, self-effacing tones. The signature Sinatra voice, always bold and resonant and irresistibly slick, along with Nelson Riddle's large, lush sound betray the very spirit of the genre, turning what are intended to be private moments into a public spectacles, the kind reserved for the mega-casinos of Las Vegas, and more recently, the stadium circuit (circus). Chet Baker, for all the flaws, (his voicing pales compared to Frank's, he hangs on to certain notes too long), understands the genre and makes us long for him after a CD or two of Sinatra.

In evaluating the complex Sinatra legacy, we must make an additional distinction between the Sinatra who played (and pandered) to Las Vegas audiences and the Frank Sinatra in the recording studio. We dismiss as immaterial the allegations that Frank in the studio was relentlessly discourteous and dictatorial in his quest for perfection. In the end, the Frank Sinatra of the studio (whose seriousness was indeed commensurate to the music he endeavored to master) was defeated only by his limited understanding of what constitutes the essence of the timeless standards he unquestionably loved, and by a voice that was simply too big (that is, inappropriate) for many of them.

So how do we account for the fact that Sinatra's art has thus far weathered the test of time. The answer, I believe, begins and ends with The Voice that was so rich and smooth and sensuous it seemed to confer the weight of warm flesh to the words, which Sinatra addicts, to this day, can't get enough of. Far too often, a Sinatra concert turned into an occasion where singer and audience would conspire to get drunk on vibrations of sound, much like classical audiences space out listening to the ecstatic effusions of Wagner. Since none of us is a hypocrite in our pleasure, we must heap praise on the sensual qualities of Sinatra's voice, but let us recall that great cinematography does not a great film make, beautiful sentences do not a work of literature make, and great tone or vocalese do(es) not a great song and/or interpretation make. Which is to say, as erstwhile read poet Milton reminds us in Samson Agonisites: "But what is strength without a double share of wisdom?" Frank's magnificent, matchless, vibrant voce was his strength, but he lacked the wisdom to stay away from the kinds of music which in the end can only be poorly served by a large (canyonesque) voice.

In what may well prove to be the enduring irony of the Sinatra legacy, The Voice that made the man, in and of itself bold and confident and sonorous like no other, is the same voice that betrays Frank Sinatra as merely a great singer among other great singers, with his limitations and blind-spots, which must include the often inexplicably inappropriate musical arrangements he chose: a lasting 'riddle' for which he, and to a lesser extent fans and music critics, must be held accountable.

But Frank did it his way right to the end.

This polemic is an invitation to consider the possibility that Frank doesn't own every song that bears his voice, (as claim his legion of devotees), and for the uninitiated to discover -- with all due respect to the groups The Dead Kennedies, Twisted Sister and Jane Mansfield's Head -- American music at its best.

READER FEEDBACK

From JIM DEMPSEY

Dear Robert:

As I write this, I am listening to Chet Baker's "Look for the Silver Lining" and I love Chet Baker. The reason I love Baker is a totally different from why I love Frank.

I am 65 and recall hiding a radio under my pillow to catch late night music, so my Mom wouldn't discover us. Singers then say what I call straight, Crosby, Buddy Clark, Dick Haymes and Frank. The 1st three sang the tune and well but did not sing it to me, Frank did. I am an avid listener of lyrics today because of Him.

I could never get from others what I get from Frank, but I owned their albums. I worked in a record store and heard it all. I liked female vocals, but they didn't do anything to me. Billie and Dinah Washington, I loved (acquired a taste for like Dewars). I like but do not love Tony Bennett. I like him because he loves music and the American song book. He has been hiding behind a slow tempo, so he can make his voice work and breathe. You certainly should be able to write a critique of him, it should be a piece of cake. Look at all the fans Tony has, and I know they all like him for a different reason than I. I loved Bobby Darrin and his possibilities. I can not stand Harry Connick Jr., Just a wannabee. He's the Kenny G. of vocalists. There are 300 clarinetists as good if not better than KG. Opinions are all we are talking about here and you have yours.

My musicians friends east and west coast, sent me your article on Frank, all angry at you You are certainly in the minority, but that is O.K.

Baker was a bridge as were many others. I walked the bridge with him and Gerry Mulligan, Four Freshmen directly to the new thing on 52nd St. NYC and to Howard Rumsey and the Lighthouse Allstars on the west coast. What a ride it was, Where are we going now? Who is out there now for us to love. I'm not talking about personalities, but love for the music.

You said Frank would have been a gangster had it not been for his voice, bad argument, he had the voice. George W. would not be President if it were not for his Dad. God has the tiller and we have the choices.

I never realized Vic Mature was a singer, I lived in DelMar CA. He lived in Rancho Santa Fe and was a great guy, my brother and I had a few cocktails with him and played a couple of rounds of golf with him. I never heard him even hum a tune.

Frank gave me so much, at this stage I can not even entertain looking at him from your point of view, but I do respect your right to an opinion.

Respectfully submitted, Jim Dempsey:

From LYNNE KAISER

Dear Mr. Lewis:

By way of introduction, I am Lynne Kaiser, Memphis, Tennessee, a lifelong Sinatra fan. I read your article about Sinatra on the fortunecity.com site, and have some comments and follow up questions for you. By your own admission, you take a position that is contrary to most music critics, aficionados and mere fans such as myself. I cannot help but be curious as to your perspective and how it was formed. For example, have you been to many Sinatra concerts? I have never been to one but hear from others that he bonded strongly with his audience, creating an intimacy despite the open setting and large number of people.

What particularly interested me about your article was your choice of material. Some of the songs you selected to illustrate your case that Frank's interpretations were not always the best, happen to be among my personal favorites. For example, you wrote:
"In The End of a Love Affair, Billie Holiday, in an incomparably vulnerable voice, is so able to make us empathize with the dysfunction and emotional disarray that comes from a broken heart that we fear, in her case, there is no cure for love lost. Frank's version is rendered with great poignancy, but here, he releases the lyric as if each word has been slicked in some exotic unguent, while the arrangement, written in a relaxed, narcosis-inducing swing tempo, curiously betrays the tension upon which the song's tumult and hurt depend."

Not having heard Billie's interpretation, I cannot evaluate the validity of your comparison. I agree that, in general, Billie conveys a greater sense of vulnerability. No matter how vulnerable Frank may have been, he was always able to muster survival skills. However, I strongly disagree that Frank Sinatra did not move us to empathize with the endemic pain and chaos of a broken heart. In fact, I am so touched by Sinatra's "End of a Love Affair" that I fear Billie's rendition, if it's as moving as you suggest, would put me over the edge.

When you compare Frank Sinatra's versions of "The Way You Look Tonight", "They Can't Take That Away From Me", and "Night and Day" to those of Fred Astaire, you are expressing an opinion that has been voiced repeatedly on the various Sinatra discussion lists.

You wrote: "Turning to one of the unacknowledged master-interpreters, Fred Astaire "the singer", who, intent on supplying the defect of film versions of songs he made famous, teamed up with a jazz combo featuring Oscar Peterson and put together a collection of standards that I believe will prove to be a genre classic. Astaire's interpretations of The Way You Look Tonight, You Can't Take That Away From Me are simply more urgent and deeply felt than the Frank's versions. When Fred sings Night and Day, he is addressing a woman who has been made to feel as rare and precious as a one-of-a-kind gem. When Sinatra sings the same song, this same woman is checking over her shoulder, chagrined to discover that there are 100s just like her waiting in the wings, trying to look brave in their belittlement, turning to their martinis to deaden the disappointment."

While I personally give the edge to Mr. Astaire in having the best versions of these songs, I think the visual images of Astaire's scenes with Ginger Rogers have influenced my opinion on this. Fred had the advantage of singing all these songs to Ginger, whereas Frank was solo in a recording studio. I have no doubt that the scale would tip to Frank's side if we saw a video of him singing to Ava. The same is true of "One for My Baby" -- Fred's dance routine created a visual impact which, to me, surpassed the vocal effort of Frank Sinatra.

But we've had these kinds of discussions on the lists, the "who has the definitive version" discussions, with list members expressing varying opinions. Once I started a thread on Ella having the best "April in Paris" rendition. I remember author Ed O'Brien pointing out that Sinatra himself considered AIP to be his BEST recording, although it was not his FAVORITE recording (Sinatra 101, P. 88). I think these kinds of discussions are interesting, as we focus on particular standards and where Frank's interpretations of the songs rank, in the opinion of music critics, aficionados and casual listeners.

If we concede that Frank Sinatra does NOT, in all cases, lay claim to the best interpretation of EVERY standard, does it necessarily follow that he is not the greatest interpreter of the standards, or as you state, "that Frank Sinatra is the most overrated crooner of this or any other century"? (Some would argue that Frank was not even a crooner). Absolutely not. In the final analysis, when we take the totality of Frank's work product into account, Frank stands alone king of the hill, top of the heap. You select a dozen or so songs to make your case -- Sinatra recorded THOUSANDS.

Regarding your article, I think you are representative of a minority view of Frank Sinatra's place in musical history. I was appalled when Jonathan Alter of Newsweek Magazine called Frank a "thug" during an MSNBC tribute in the year that Frank passed away. Mr. Alter did not feel that the media attention given to the life and death of Frank Sinatra was warranted. Alter, like you, chooses to ignore all positive aspects of Sinatra's impact on society, his philanthropic deeds, his contribution to the civil rights effort in the 1960's,etc., instead focusing exclusively on the negative. But Alter was making a statement about the MAN, Frank Sinatra, not the musician. The stated objective of your article is to show how Sinatra's interpretations of the standards were not all they're cracked up to be and that Sinatra's talent has been overrated. Yet, your article is laced with characterizations of Frank being "a thoroughly detestable human being", "belligerent-arrogant, violent, self-indulgent" -- even if this were true, how would this be germane to your thesis? As a writer, why would you include such biased statements that only serve to diminish your credibility on the subject which you show some knowledge, the interpretations of the standards?

I hope you don't mind my asking you these pointed questions -- I suspect you are prepared for a challenge, having written such a provocative piece about a man whose voice touched many lives.

I hope you do write back, I would love to hear more of your background. Has this article been published anywhere other than the website? How long have you been studying music? Have you had formal schooling? Do you think it's essential for a singer to achieve greatness, that he or she write music? Lynne Kaiser

From: Tim Darling:

I'm personally a huge fan of Frank, but not of his version of 'Blame it on my youth' either. Why did you choose a song that's no longer in print of his to critisize? Because the hundreds of songs on his best alubms are beyond reproach, that's why. I'm also not a huge fan of Chet's version- listen to Lisa Ekdahl and the Peter Nordhal trio (on 'When Did You Leave Heaven') for a real version of that song that will knock your argyles off.

From C. Lezent:

I object to your critique of Franks Sinatra because you 'unfairly' compare FS the pop singer with jazz singers, which he wasn't.

THE END

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