by Randolph Magri-Overend
A legend died on Thursday 14 May 1998. On a day when Jakarta burned, when
Netanyahu and Arafat still haggled over 4 percent of occupied Israeli
territory, when Seinfeld broadcast his last TV show to an adulating American
audience, when John Coombs and Chris Corrigan were at loggerheads over the
Australian waterfront, he died in Palm Springs, California. It was 10.50 pm.
Francis Albert Sinatra was 82.
The obituaries sounded the same. Some had been written weeks in advance. A
column or two, or even a page. About a man's life. All the facts correct -
clinical - recounting scandals, achievements and dates. Eulogies appeared
from those who knew him. Or knew of him. Or were indifferent to him. It
all read like a business reference.
But Sinatra had only one reference worth recording. His voice. Without it,
he was nothing. With it, he was the intimate of Presidents, Princes and
Queens. He had conquered the world and yet owed the world a living. He
lived because 'life was worth livin' and death was a pain in the arse!'
His ups and downs are well documented. Problem is, he lived in an age hungry
for news and living his way was sometimes incompatible with his
indiscretions. The more he bucked the system, the more he advertised his
presence, the more the fans wanted more. Sinatra was communal property.
Living in the late 20th century is like living in a 14th century hamlet -
people want to come and use the facilities. They feel entitled.
Except for the last decade and a half, the voice has always been in fine
fettle. He had a few hiccups in the middle fifties, but his problems were
more a case of excess than lack of artistry. Living in a hamlet was a cross
even Sinatra had to bear.
The voice did change, however. Gone was the sweet legato of the war years
and the Harry James/Tommy Dorsey big band arrangements. He had earned the
right to dominate. It was a harsher voice, more bass than baritone. More
punchy and slick. Nelson Riddle was the arranger of swing, and albums with a
single theme swung all the way to the cash registers.
Even with the advent of rock 'n roll, Sinatra survived. Adulation had
become tempered with common sense. The fans were mellower. Middle age had
swung Sinatra's talents to the big screen while, round the corner, Las Vegas
beckoned. With maturity came personal status. Favours were sought by
presidents, by parties keen to utilise his web of influence. He had
achieved an ambition. He was a pawn with power.
He continued to swing and tour. His farewell concerts rivalled Melba's last
stands. Everywhere he went made news. Australia was no different. The 1974
controversy over the standard of journalism was a drop in the ocean compared
to previous outbursts. It was like a dog chasing its own tail. The bigger
the conflagration, the bigger the news, the bigger the goading, the bigger
the conflagration...
His last albums were the two Duet CDs. A final fling before the final
curtain. But fans felt cheated. The supporting cast included echo chambers
and younger partners. They did not even share the same studio.
Sinatra had come full circle. He'd started by singing solo in packed clubs
for peanuts and finished singing duets by himself for a fortune.
Who cares? The voice still lives.
E-mail to Randolph Magri-Overend: ibmar@zipworld.com.au
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