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Remembering Frank Sinatra on the ten year anniversary of his death

May 14th, 2008 by Scott Marks

The last time I saw Frank Sinatra was when he opened Chicago’s United Center in October of 1994 and just about everyone was preparing for the worst. It had been six years since Frank brought the ill-fated Rat Pack reunion to Chicago and many were saying that this would be The Voice’s last groan.

Dean was not functioning in top form and by the time the reunion tour reached the Windy City, he was replaced by Judy Garland’s daughter Liza Minnelli. Liza was so much younger and more energetic than Frank and Sam that at times she appeared to be more their floor nurse than a co-headliner. Dean would have herniated a disc were he to have attempted to hoist Sammy and “accept” him on behalf of the N.A.A.C.P. Liza didn’t even try.

Frank, Liza & Sammy - The Ultimate Event!

Frank was out of it, Sammy unduly effusive (even for a performer who put the sincere in insincerity), and Liza made Sammy appear modest by comparison. It made for a fascinating evening, but not for any of the reasons you’d have wanted. The unintentional laughs soon eclipsed any chances of witnessing awe-inspiring artistry that only the biggest of stages could hold.

That’s were my mind was when Charlie Flashback invited me to join him for Frank’s inaugural appearance at Chicago’s brand new United Center. Only a Sinatra (or the store) could get Charlie to leave his house and I lucked out because his girlfriend Nasus (they are still together) didn’t want to be bored by the Chairman and refused to go.

It was my third and final time seeing Frank perform live. My choice viewing was obviously the earliest, at Caesar’s Palace in the early 80s. While a far cry from his ring-a-ding early 60s prime, the voice was strong and his phrasing a work of art. Frank’s between-songs patter was thick-tongued Hoboken served haphazardly to the audience whether they wanted it or not. Of course they wanted it. Even Frank’s stalest “fag” joke, and there were several, drew grateful howls from the adoring assemblage.

My first inkling that Sinatra was slipping came during the 1984 Academy Awards when he presented the Jean Hersholt Humanitarian Award to Mike J. Frankovich, or as the confused Sinatra started to say, “Frank Mikeovich.” Vanity forbade Frank from wearing his glasses that evening and when an anxious cue card boy started flipping them too fast, the result was sixty seconds of non-stop hilarious blunders. At times he drifts into Jerry Lewis territory with sentences trailing off into nice and good nice things like that too. Other time he simply can’t keep up.

As the closed captioning proves, it was all written out ahead of time. If Frank put as much time into memorizing the brief speech as he did adjusting the schmate on his head he’d have been in and out, no embarrassment noted. Or God forbid try something spontaneous. I am constantly amazed that this man, who was capable of such eloquent phrasing, couldn’t wrap his tongue around a few simple words unless there was a band backing him up.

Later that same year, Frank was the premiere guest on the first The Jerry Lewis Show, a one week pilot for Fox. I have studied these things in such detail that the oxides have separated from the magnetic stock. Until tape of Sammy and Company surfaces, this is the closest we’ll get to a real-life Sammy Maudlin Show. Everyone and every thing was marvelous and lovely and when it came to puffing, Frank was no slouch. To further underscore his slow slide into dementia, while trying to assure Jerry that he had a hit on his hands, Frank points a thumb in Charlie Callas’ direction and says, “How can you miss with a crazy nut like this?”

The answer is, by a mile.

When he opened the United Center ten years later reports of flubbed lyrics and cumulus-sized cue cards were making headlines. Many wished that Frank would avoid further embarrassment by putting an “amen” on his career.

Eight months earlier the Grammys showed great disrespect by cutting off Frank’s rambling acceptance speech. For once it wasn’t the case of “It’s Frank’s World and We Just Live In It.” The mellow crooner loosened up and actually tried to fit it. Frank Sinatra was moved to tears, for Christ’s sake! Zoom in, don’t cut away! The powers that be interpreted it as the incoherent ramblings of an old man, sensed a ratings drop and pulled the plug on Old Blue Eyes.

I entered the United Center expecting a train wreck and left a bigger fan than ever. My effervescence had nothing to do with opening act Don Rickles. I saw Rickles with Bob Newhart at the Riviera in 1977 and later at Chicago’s Mill Run Theatre where Vic Damone opened for him. Oooohhh! I love Rickles and always have. I could watch him work up a sweat for hours, but that night in 1994 he simply wasn’t funny. There was nothing fresh about his material; the “black guy” was still in the back row singing Zip-A-Dee-Do-Dah and everything appeared forced and predictable.

I’ll tell you what did make me howl, but if you join in the laughter I can ensure you a spot in hell next to me. Come close and let me warm you with this hopelessly tasteless remembrance.

It was not only the last time I saw Sinatra, it was also the last time I saw Irv Kupcinet in person. When Charlie did leave the house he went first cabin and the seats, while not on the main floor, were damn good. Good enough to have Mr. Chicago seated a few rows down from us. Charlie brought binoculars and I spent as much time time spying on Kup and Essee as I did studying Sinatra. 90% of the time Rickles was on my eyes were glued to the Kups.

Here’s where the road to hell begins. How did I know that Kup was going to be there? I didn’t, and when he appeared as if from the heavens, my brain started doing flip-flops. Kup was as big as the Statue of Liberty and twice as weathered. He was fairly frail and the sight of an old, disoriented Kup trying to descend the narrow steps in the dark was a real pisser. He looked like a marionette whose puppeteer suddenly had a coughing seizure. At one point his handler had to wrap his arms around Kup’s waist and guide him down the stairs. (Charlie probably still has bruises from where I elbowed him.) Essee, following closely behind and in heels no less, was almost as funny.

I had my fill of old age humor by the time Frank took to the stage and was bracing myself for another hour’s worth. It turned out to be about a fifty minute set and while Frank’s blue eyes were indeed old, he was hitting the high notes and didn’t fumble a lyric. How could he have? The teleprompter was almost as big as the electronic billboard that announced Charles Foster Kane’s death.

He must have sensed that this would be his last string of public appearances as the generally arrogant patter quickly made way for sentimental effusion. There were a couple of complaints concerning song choices. With Halloween a week away, he failed to deliver any Witchcraft and even more surprising, the evening’s playlist didn’t include either Chicago or My Kind of Town.

Twenty years earlier and Frank would have exited the stage to a limo waiting to whisk him to booth #1 at the Pump Room where Kup and Essee would regale in his presence till the wee small hours. With the top of the hourglass almost empty, Frank was lucky to sneak a nip from one of the hotel’s bellboys and the strongest thing Essee and Kup would drink that night was a glass of Metamucil.

It was one of those nights where I literally watched an era draw to a close before my eyes. As we exited the United Center that evening one could swear that even the wind was crying.

Links:
Frank Sinatra photos

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Dedicated to the One I Love: The Irv Kupcinet Bridge

January 11th, 2008 by Scott Marks

This Reporter, Harold Washington and Irv & Essee

How do you do, ladies and gentlemen. I’d like to say good evening as Kup’s World begins tonight with a remembrance of bridges past. The date: June Five, 1986. The occasion: The dedication of This Reporter’s bridge. And I don’t mean the one that Dr. Morris Fineman, DDS implanted free of charge in exchange for repeat mentions in this column.

You know, you gotta’ love Windy City weather. It’s June Five, the start of summer, everyone is wearing outer coats and the sky has that lovely dirty-milk bottle gray hue. HEH! HEH! It’s no wonder that some choose to live in San Diego.

In spite of the bl-ustery, bl-ueless, bl-ackened sky the sun was shining in the hearts of both myself and this reporter’s lovely bride, Essee whose name I mention in the column in exchange for a little hand release every third Sunday morning of the month.

You know, so many people have…had, I should say, been walking all over me for decades it just seemed right to name a bridge in my honor. So many dignitaries were in attendance. Of course there was the Polish Prince, Roman ‘Pooch’ Pucinski. Yes sir, you can’t fool me, I’m for Pucinski, to borrow from his old campaign jingle. I gotta’ tell ya’ when the two of us stand facing each other in profile it looks like a couple of Buicks about to collide. Nya-Ha! Unfortunately, his lovely wife…daughter, err pardon me, Areola was not in attendance. She was at home with five other family members shaking the stove in order to make popcorn.

It goes without saying, I’d like to add, that WGM-Radio’s Wally Phillips was on hand with microphone in hand and dishrag on head. His makes my rug look like George Chakiris. And to think he married that same Barbara gal so many times and she never told him.

Unfortunately my dear friend Sig Sakowicz was unable to attend. While running late he accidentally tripped over his left breast and had to be rushed to Our Lady of Blazonyczik Mercy Hospital in Libertyville. Maybe it’s a good thing. The last time Sig and Burton Natarus were in the same room together the alderman tried fitting him with a horse diaper.

Another bl-ow was that I failed to get a good picture taken with my kind of town’s favorite idiot movie savant, Scott Markus. There were so many topics that I wanted to cover with him, most notably Eisenstein’s employment of dia-lec-tical montage and the use of signs and signifiers in the films of Jean Marie Straub.

Sadly, this is the only photographic representation that exists of our meeting. Look at that lousy picture. It would have been better with the lens cap on. I’ve seen sharper compositions in Kevin Smith films. Scott was gracious enough to bring a copy of Kup’s Chicago, my tome to the city I call home, for me to inscribe. Looking on is Chicago’s first bl-ack mayor, the honorable Harold Washington, who, underneath his business suit, was wearing a lovely Seymour Paisan designer original.

I remember at the precise moment of signing Essee leaning over and whispering in my ear, “It’s K-U-P-C-I-N-E-T.” We shook hands and Scott burst out laughing when I tickled the inside of his palm with my middle finger. Always a sure-fife yuk-getter. As for a posed picture together, some things are never meant to be. After the crowd dispersed, I just looked around for Scott and like Abraham, Lincoln and Marovitz, he was gone.

Here is a link to more photos of the dedication taken by Devon Avenue’s premier portraiture, Mlodinoff Studios whose services were offered gratis in exchange for this mention.

And good night to one and all!

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