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■ Tony Bennett
Singer-entertainer
In the 19505, I was
brand new in this
business. But I was
given a summer re
p’acement TV show to
fill in the slot that
Ferry Como had. The
network gave me a bad
stage, a small orches
tra and very few guests.
I thought I was going
to fail. This was in
New York, and Frank
happened to be play
ing at the Paramount
at the time. Now, he’s
10 years older than me,
and he’s a star. But I
wanted to take the
chance to meet him and
ask him for advice. People told me not
to, that he could be temperamental.
But I did it anyway.
I got to his dressing room, and he
turned to me and asked, “What is it,
son? What do you need?” I told him
what I was going to be do
ing and how full of panic
and nervousness I was. His
advice changed my life.
“The public likes it when
you’re nervous,” he told
me. “They’ll see that you
care, and they’ll want to
help you out They’ll ap
plaud you to make you feel
more comfortable.”
He asked me if I watched the horse
races. Frank loved horse racing. “On
a racetrack, nervousness is the sign of
a great thoroughbred,” he said. “He’s
got all kinds of butterflies. He’s the
hardest horse to get into the gate, and
he’s the fastest horse out of it” FYom
that moment on, Frank was always
looking out for me.
He invited me out to his home for a
party in California once. At first I
w'as a bit miffed. I was seated in this
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USA WEEKEND • May 2-4.2008
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room in front of a little card table, like
I w’as a kid being sent to the play
room. I could hear Frank and the Rat
Pack guys laughing in the kitchen. So
I turn to this man that I’m sitting next
to and introduce myself That man
Frank taught us
how to make art
seem effortless.
It looks easy.
But it takes
years to learn.
Arts, which my wife and I founded in
his memory in my hometown in Queens.
It’s a place where kids learn all about
the arts and hopefully go on to college
and then Broadway and
other places to hone their
craft. Frank taught us
all how to make great j
art seem effortless I
and what to leave in I
and what to leave out. 1
It looks easy. But it
takes years to learn.
fVnnHf .it tlu*
fi.mk Smatr.i
S< hoot of th« * Arts.
turns to me and says, “I’m
Mario Giannini. I run Bank
of America.” I couldn’t be
mad any longer, right?
Frank was looking out for
me again, getting me in a
good social situation with a
top executive.
Today, I’m proud of the
Frank Sinatra School of the
How did T
Sinatra’s music
affect you?
Tell us at
. usaweekend.com^
■ Gay Talese
Author (A Writer’s Liss who wrote “Frank Sinatra
Has a Cold” one of the most influential works
in magazine writing for Esquire in 1966
I didn’t want to meet him. Sinatra allowed Italian-Americans like
me to take pride in ourselves. I didn’t want my fond impression to
be crushed. My editors at Esquire , however, insisted.
An interview in Los Angeles was arranged. But I got a call at my
hotel from his publicist, who said Frank Sinatra had a cold and he
wouldn’t be doing any interviews. I didn’t go home. I spent three
months going to places in L.A. and Vegas where he showed up. He
never gave me the interview. After it was published, I thought it was
a complimentary piece. But he never told me what he thought of it.
Years later, I was invited to the home of Bennett Cerf, co-founder
and publisher of Random House. Sinatra was there. He knew who I
was. He was sitting at a table, saw me and then moved to a farther
end of the table and mainly focused on listening to a baseball game
on the radio. He never said a word to me, positive or negative, the
entire time. I didn’t know what to make of that.
Then, after he died, I was invited to speak at an event for him. His
daughter Tina was there. She came up to me and said, “My family
really appreciated and enjoyed your article. You were one of the only
writers who got who rny father really was.” Then, I guess the fact
that he didn’t speak to me made sense. When someone gets too close
to the reality of who you are, it’s best to not comment at all about it.
You don’t criticize it. You don’t praise it. You just let it lay there.
■ Douglas Brinkley
Historian (The Reagan Diarietf
My parents always played a lot of Frank Si
natra’s records. One that always resonated
with me was Cycles, about life’s ups and downs. I’d
play it over and over again, even though I was only 9 years old at the
time. Even at that age, I could appreciate how the sense of melan
choly and the songwriting and singing all came together.
As I got older, I gravitated toward the Bob Dylans and Neil Youngs
of the world. But at Ohio State, I worked at a record store, and the
hippest guy I knew a guy with cool dreadlocks played and dis
cussed all the great music, like reggae and new wave and punk. But
he w’as always talking about how’ great Sinatra was. “Sinatra never
goes out of fashion,” he’d say. “He is always cool.”
That’s when I realized that Sinatra’s music didn’t have gen
erational limitations. And it didn’t matter that he got con
. servative politically, or that he had tabloid run-ins, or that
he didn’t dress like the rock stars. He transcended all of
I that. His music was timeless. His voice conveyed ail the
sadness in all the midnight bars in every city in America.
w When you’re eating in a steakhouse and one of his songs
come on, you feel like he’s right there with you. The 20th
century would have been much less without him. ca
I didn’t want
my fond
impression
to be crushed.
When his
songs come
on, he’s there
with you.