Sinatra didn't live in our house

Francis Albert Sinatra & Antonio Carlos Jobim

And neither did any jazz, really, to speak of. All the music that I play now, when I’m with a drummer and a bass player, lived in another place far away from where I grew up. Budding musician notwithstanding, I was living in a working farm environment and musical growth occurred when there was time and from the music that was on hand.

When Bert G. was on the air at KBRK on the AM dial, the radio was most likely on in our farm house. It was on while my two sisters and I got ready for school from 7 o’clock until the bus came at 7:45. And it was on in the summer time until Bert signed off around noon or 1 o’clock. We heard the morning news, sports and the lunch menus at all the schools in the area. And we heard, “No school at Sioux Valley schools,” whenever we got socked in. And we heard our names on the radio when it was our birthdays and Mr. J. from J.’s Shoes and Bert G. sang “Happy Birthday” to all of the boys and girls who had successfully made it one more time around the sun.

Later in the morning, the music would start. It fit the profile of upper midwest farmers and small town 1970’s stay-at-home mothers. Some crossover from Top 40 would leak into the airplay like ABBA, Billy Joel, Gilbert O’Sullivan, Crystal Gayle and Olivia Newton-John. And this would mix in with Danny Davis and the Nashville Brass, the Statler Brothers, Glen Campbell, Herb Alpert, the Oak Ridge Boys, maybe a polka, and other nondescript artists who set the bar high by putting out albums designed to make anyone’s day not unpleasant.

Ignorance is truly bliss. This is the music that was in our house. And when you’re a young musician who doesn’t know to seek out other styles of music, then you avail yourself of the feast before you and dine like a king and savor every morsel. And I was completely content … until the day I discovered South Dakota Public Radio. They played classical music. And they played it ALL DAY! I thought that this was okay. As a matter of fact, I thought it was just fine. A new genre materialized on the iPod in my head and a path emerged before me.

My sisters and I struck gold with our parents. Though grounded, they seemed to view parenthood with a sense of adventure and proceeded to follow each of us wherever we would lead so that they could maybe guide and counsel, but mostly take part in the fun. When we would develop a love for anything, Mom and Dad would adopt a sympathetic, yet genuine, love for those things as well. Because they loved that we loved those things.

It's unlikely that my parents ever would have established a habit of attending concerts at SDSU on their own. But once I started getting them there, they thought that this was okay. As a matter of fact, they thought it was just fine. And continued to attend concerts for years after I graduated from college, maintaining friendships with my professors and becoming acquainted with other “regulars” in the SDSU musical ensemble fanbase. When our father passed away in 1997, there was a beautiful bouquet of flowers from the music faculty at SDSU.

But my parents didn’t like Sinatra. They must have come from a combination of place and time where the “bad boy” just isn’t tolerated, and if you’re going to act like that, well, I don’t need to listen to your music. Do Be Do Be Do? What does that mean? If you’re going to do more than hum, why are you going to waste your breath and my time with nonsense sounds?

I eventually heard Sinatra when I got away from home, and recognized his genius. I have indulged in his not-so-serious, hard swingin’, “so deep in the pocket you can taste the lint” hipness. Over the years, I’ve probably heard all of the finest tracks from his vast songbook. But I remember the day when a photographer from one of the ships I was working on asked, “You’re a Sinatra fan, right?” Yes. “Have you ever heard this?” No. “Then prepare to imbibe, my friend, the finest champagne. From the finest glass. This is Fred Astaire-elegance Sinatra.” And boy howdy was he right.

This is sleek, ultra-refined, Art Deco Sinatra. Francis Albert Sinatra and Antonio Carlos Jobim put out a sound that is devoid of accent and packed with subtlety. The waters run deep and there are no ripples at the top. Everything that Sinatra isn’t is on this album. I don’t think that the dynamic level goes beyond mezzo forte. There’s a quote from one of the trombone players at the recording session where he says, “If I play any softer, I’m gonna be sucking air out of the trombone.” “Change Partners” and “I Concentrate On You” will forever be trapped in a Latin setting. I cannot hear them otherwise.

Was your love for your parents ever such that you wished that they approved of everything you liked? I have imagined myself telling my dad that I’m sorry that I like Sinatra and that I would like his forgiveness. I like to think that he would reply with something like, “Oh, that’s okay, son. As a matter of fact, that’ll be just fine.”

Credits: Hope D., for hooking me up with “L.A. Is My Lady”. “Mack the Knife” swings hard, baby. Mr. J., for many “Happy Birthday”s and several pairs of Hush Puppies. They’re dumb, y’know.