The Milwaukee Journal- May 2, 1943
Browse this newspaper>> Browse all newspapers>>
Is Sinatra the Next Bing Crosby?
Ladies Swoon in Squads When They
Hear Frank’s Dulcet Baritone Voice
By Willa gray Martin
NEW YORK N. Y.-(AP)- If there’s a
radio or teen age girl in your home you’ve heard of him. If there’s an Andy Hardy around, as well as a junior miss, you have more than heard of him. Undoubtedly
a few impassioned arguments about him have burst about your innocent head.
For Frank Sinatra, lanky 25 year
old Hoboken (N. J.) boy, son of a city fireman, suddenly has become the singing
idol of a large part of young America. Recently Frank finished an eight week
run at the Paramount theater in New York City, the first time any one performer
had stayed so long since Rudy Vallee was the nation’s vagabond lover, and that
was ‘way back in ’29.
Before this engagement, he had
been widely known as a featured vocalist with Tommy Dorsey’s orchestra –one of
his records, “This Love of Mine,” has topped 1,000,000 in sales; another, “I’ll
Never Smile Again,” is above the 750,000 mark—but there was nothing like the
present burgeoning bud of popularity.
Yet people behind the scenes
thought they detected the beginning of a new fad. And they nodded sagely in
agreement when Sinatra decided to leave the band and try his luck alone. They saw
in the boy’s vocal style—which is way over on the sweet side—a symbol of the
growing trend toward sentimental and wistful singing, along with the waltzes,
flowing capes and candlelight that seem always to flourish in a world at war.
Women Deluge Frank With Fan Mail
It has been that Frank Sinatra is
completely untrained. Perhaps he can’t read music. But he has received
invaluable advice on showmanship from such friends as his Norwegian arranger,
Axel Stordahl. And he has taken the matter of physical training more seriously
than many an opera singer. Using a small range, Frank’s style is reminiscent of
Crosby, without the “b-b-b-boos.”
Frank blithely admits the
influence of Crosby but explains in his confident, likable way, that he never
stops to breathe where the average singer pauses. Instead he goes on until he
gets to the end of the lyric, thereby completing its meaning. Then he ties the
phrases together with moans. Sounds simple, but it looks as though it would be
worth at least $200,000 to the young Italian American this year. That would be
his income from singing at present rates in a big New York night club; from
making a musical for RKO Radio pictures at $25,000; from radio and from theatrical
appearances, and there is no telling how much from records when the Petrillo
ban is lifted!
When blond Frankie, wearing extra
wide trousers, a longer than usual coat and a slightly apologetic stoop, walks
into the spotlight at the Riobamba club, feminine sights float to the roof. And
you can feel the men bracing themselves to take it like gentlemen, or turning
to signal waiters for “another Scotch.”
Most of the puckish faced fellow’s
mail is the impassioned, boldly underlined output of high school girls who, too
young for night clubs, have heard him on radio’s “Hit Parade.” They write
begging letters, letters comparing him to Crosby and other heroes. “I know you’re
married but” letters. They tell of spending days looking for a record of “The
Song Is You,” insist he’s the only singer in the juke box repertoire to whom
the boys and girls at their bowling alley will stop to listen.
A Bowes Amateur Graduate Is He
Not only the singer himself, but
newspaper columnists, are being deluged with Sinatra mail. Occasionally an
irate male puts in his 2 cents worth, says “Sinatra reminds me of Donald Duck
imitating Crosby.” But Frank, who grew up in a back alley gang of a tough seaport
town, can take that, too.
In high school Frankie got the
idea of acting as agent for small orchestras, signing them for parties. He was
farsighted enough to write himself into the contract as soloist. When his
father got him a job on the Jersey Journal as office boy, he gave this up. He worked
hard, doing a little of everything until he earned his “by” line as a sports
reporter.
Then he took his girl (he had
become interested in Nancy Barbati because of all the girls in their crowd, she
was the only one who seemed unimpressed with his ukulele playing) to hear Bing Crosby sing one night. The next day—with only a dream for lunch – he gave up
his typewriter at the Jersey Journal. Soon afterward he went on the road with a
Maj. Bowes amateur unit. He is one of Bowers most successful graduates.
But that trip soon ended. Frank’s
first steady job in the entertainment world was as waiter and master of
ceremonies at a New Jersey roadhouse. To get singing practice, he went on five
local radio stations—for which he received 70c a week carfare.
On Feb. 4, 1939, Nancy and Frank
were married, had a three day honeymoon and Frank went to sing with Harry James. In less than six months he left to go with Tommy Dorsey and from then on
the money rolled in. he was making $250 a week when he left Dorsey.
Sweet Music Makes Our Singer Cry
With enthusiasm uncorroded by
experience, Frank and Nancy bought themselves a house in Hasbrouck Heights, New
Jersey. It has a sort of Dutch colonial entrance, a Cape Cod bay window. There’s
to be a tennis court in the back, a tricky movie projector hidden in the sun
porch wall, and a loud-speaker tucked away in the fireplace. The Sinatras have
a daughter, Nancy Sandra, 2 ½.
He seems more appreciative than
surprised at his sensational luck. He explains, “I wouldn’t want to give anyone
the idea that I haven’t worked at this racket.”
* * *
Virginia Irwin of the St. Louis
Post Dispatch came away with a few more impressions after interviewing the
singing phenom. She writes:
“Five feet 11 inches tall. Frank weights
around 140 pounds, has blue eyes and brown hair. . . . He hates evening clothes,
loves sports clothes and is not particularly handsome. He is terrifically
sentimental and music often makes him cry.
“‘Particularly the sweeping string
passages,’ he says. ‘I remember one particularly embarrassing experience with
my inability to hold back the tears. It was at a concert of the Los Angeles
Philharmonic. I got there late and couldn’t be seated until intermission. So I sat
on the floor in the aisle. Just before intermission the orchestra played Ravel’s
“Daphnis and Chloe” and when the lights went up for intermission, there I was,
sitting on the floor, with the tears running down my cheeks. People looked at
me as though I were something escaped from an asylum.”
Comments
Post a Comment