Swoonatra forever

The dance floor was filled with old classmates traipsing gaily to the music of the ‘60s and ‘70s. Two bands played alternately. Suddenly, our host Mariliese Saldaña, put a finger on her lips and with a hush, declared, "Now listen to the next piece... it’s one of my favorites." The tempo switched and a saxophone player blew life to an effortless, nonchalant, smooth and polished melody. "Let’s take it nice n’ easy, it’s gonna be so easy for us to fall in love..." Hey! That’s Frank Sinatra.

To celebrate Mother’s Day, Maryann Lumen sent a CD of Rod Stewart and his version of the songs that were popularized by Frank Sinatra from the "Great American Songbook". The accompanying note read, "I burned this myself knowing you’re a Frank Sinatra fan." It was a fast seller.

In the 1950’s, Sinatra was the singing sensation of the bobby soxers and he was dubbed as "Swoonatra" but by the end of that decade, the taste in popular music had shifted away from big bands and classic ballad standards of the sort Sinatra performed well.

In the 1960’s, baby boomers listened to screaming, simplistic, sometimes mindless, forgettable tunes played by noisy "combos" although we did have a pool of talented artists who came out with remarkable tunes and music. Among them were Paul Anka, Neil Sedaka, Rick Nelson, Elvis Presley, the Ventures, and later on, the Beatles. Sinatra’s songs were not my generation’s kind of music but they were a constant and familiar alternative. When we had to review for school exams, I would switch my player to his slow and moody ballads for better concentration.

At our house, we had more Sinatra albums than any recording artists because my siblings loved him. He sang about every change of season and all the fine, sublime and wretched emotions that it carried. As far as my brothers and sisters were concerned, Sinatra always hit them where it mattered: the heart.

Once, my sister carried a secret admiration for a young medical intern who turned out to harbor the same romantic feeling towards her. But she was shy and could not express her real passion. One moonlit night, while playing in the attic with my raucous brothers, we saw two shadows in the garden holding hands by the stone bench. This young man boldly stole a kiss from my sister and wham! A big stone fell on his head. It was my brother up to his crazy pranks again. My sister looked up in time to hear us scampering out of view. The screaming and the laughing gave us away and totally spoiled the romantic atmosphere of their dreamy interlude.

I blamed myself for having contributed to this jolly "fracas" because my sister lost interest in the handsome guy. Did she dump him out of sheer frustration? Was she embarrassed because she could not hide, much less annihilate, the presence of three incorrigible brats in her family? But she didn’t fool me. I knew she liked him because I heard her play, again and again, Frank Sinatra’s song about the emptiness within. "This love of mine goes on and on, though life is empty since you’ve been gone." What a guilt trip.

Sinatra made me understand the range of emotion one can be overcome with. He sang arduously with a voice that was soft, clear and gentle. His lyrics were full of poetry. Sometimes, I would get stuck with a foreign word ("What’s ennui?") so I would rush to the library, pull out a dictionary and find the meaning.

Sinatra was all heart and soul. When he sang of love, loss, joy and despair he penetrated the core of the emotion and brought you along – his listener – on a journey. But give him a light, upbeat tempo and he sang it like he crossed a crowded room, extended a chivalrous arm and glided you smoothly around the dance floor. He had a mastery of interpretation. He was the only singer who was able to set me in a mood – pensive, brooding or swinging. Even just by listening, his baritone voice would shine through making me feel that he sang the song with me in mind, only me.

Sinatra loved his art and demanded perfection all the time. Tony Bennett recalled asking Sinatra, "How do you handle being nervous on stage?" Sinatra answered, "It’s good to be nervous. People like it when you’re nervous. It shows you care. If you don’t care, why should they?"

I caught two of his concerts in Japan (1982) and in Australia (1990) where he charmed the audience by the way he carefully handled each song as if he was in an intimate conversation. His singing possessed a great reserve of convincing emotion, a dramatic power really if you think of the way he made it sound very natural and effortless.

He was also the only artist I watched who took the trouble to educate the audience about the essential talents behind every song: the composer and the musical arranger. Thus, I learned about the great American songwriters like Cole Porter (I’ve Got you Under my Skin, Night and Day, I Love Paris), George and Ira Gershwin (I’ve Got a Crush on You, Embraceable You, S’wonderful), Rodgers and Hart (The Lady is a Tramp, My Funny Valentine), Jimmy Mercer (Fools Rush In, P.S. I Love You, That Old Black Magic), Sammy Cahn, Jimmy Van Heusen (Second Time Around, All the Way, Come Fly with Me), the Brazilian composer, Antonio Carlos Jobim (How Insensitive, Dindi), and of course, Paul Anka (My Way).

For Sinatra, musical arrangers breathe life to every song giving it an enduring worth that can surpass contemporary versions. His favorite arrangers were Nelson Riddle, Gordon Jenkins, Quincy Jones, Billy May, Axel Stordahl and Johnny Mandel.

Being a public figure, there had been many write-ups and books about his private life including those aspects of his personality that were celebrated as scandalous, notorious and irredeemable. He’s been up and down, like a see-saw and had conquered every aspect of his world, the entertainment world. One account even described him as the two masks of the performing theater – the comedy, the tragedy. But underneath it all, to those who knew him well, he was a very, very sensitive, nice person.

Sinatra took pride in describing himself as a saloon singer. He talks of taking his audience to a deserted bar where he would occupy the end stool as the bartender looks at him with sympathetic and forlorn eyes. He holds on to his glass of bourbon, runs his finger around the rim before he takes a drink. The alcohol sends a jolt up his head but he stays numb and unfeeling. To him nothing is more painful than the hurt of a love that got away. Because he sang it that way, the audience felt the hurt too. I did.

Tony Bennett said that "Sinatra left behind a legacy of music that will live forever. Five hundred years from now, people will still be listening to his recordings, watching his films and they’ll say, "There was only one Sinatra‚. And, that’s not an opinion. It’s a fact."

Sinatra died on May 14, 1998 of heart failure. He was 82. That day, my brother-in-law, Leo Aranda, brought a packed lunch to work and quickly ate it. He didn’t want to miss the church service that was held at The Good Shepherd in Beverly Hills. He stood across the street when the funeral party drove by. A lady approached him and asked, "Are you also a fan of Frank Sinatra?" He replied, "Not quite. But I knew his music and I’m here to represent a zealous one who lives in Manila."

Back to the class reunion, everyone by now was in a karaoke mood. "How about a chorus?" someone suggested. Quickly, I stood and began to sing, "Start spreading the news, I’m leaving today..." "Oh please, give me a break," hollered a classmate. She stood up, cleared her throat and began to sing, "And now the end is near and so I face the final curtain..."

Hmmm. Thanks to Ol’ Blue Eyes, there certainly was no ennui in this group.