Frank Sinatra
Sings For Only the Lonely (Capitol 94756)

Let me take on the burden of dispelling some misguided notions about Frank Sinatra:

1. He had "the voice."
Sorry. At his best, he had like a two-octave range, with one of the most bland timbres ever and virtually no genuine vibrato. He undoubtedly possessed some sort of star quality, but vocal technique was not his strength. It's a sure sign of a fake vocalist that he's so easily imitated.

2. He was the master of phrasing.
Sure, if you mean diction. Sinatra was one of the biggest over-enunciaters ever, and his ability to put across a standard convincingly entirely depends on the listener's lack of musical knowledge. Ever notice that most of the people who go on and on about Sinatra being "the master" are either old, Italian, or people that only own five CDs? Sometimes a mixture of those qualities.

3. He poured his emotional pain into his music.
What pain? The guy was Frank Sinatra, he ruled the frickin country. What caused him more pain, breaking up with beautiful women or beating them? Sheesh!

Sings For Only the Lonely is generally regarded as Sinatra's masterpiece, and sometimes described as "the most depressing album of all time." As a concept album about loneliness, it is at least an interesting album. Depressing, though? I don't think so. Try out Disintegration or Songs For Distengué Lovers. Shit, I'd almost say the soundtrack to The Crow is more depressing than Only the Lonely.

Like most of Sinatra's output, this album is shallow and contrived, offering Frank an opportunity to pull everyone's heartstrings and tap into the sorrow everyone faces in their lives. It's all a show, of course.

Nelson Riddle's orchestrations are appropriately downbeat and sometimes sort of claustrophobic ("It's a Lonesome Old Town" in particular), but the whole affair is about as convincing as most 50s movies about alcoholism or juvenile delinquency.

As much as people my age seem to identify Sinatra as some sort of hipster icon, I can't buy into that revisionism. The guy is one of the most dated icons of all time, truly bound to the 40s and 50s and losing relevance with time.

Yes, I know he will always be regarded as one of the century's most "important" performers, and that his influence has left its imprint on millions of fans and countless musicians – still, I don't have to pretend to like this album.

Few of Sinatra's recordings offer the real emotional connection you find in someone like Chet Baker or even Elvis Presley, plus his voice is so dreary and devoid of character it makes these albums a real frustrating experience, at least for me.

Just because every song on an album is slow doesn't make it sad. And while many of the lyrics should pack a real sucker-punch of misery ("What's New?" "Good-bye," "Only the Lonely," "Guess I'll Hang My Tears Out to Dry"), the only thing I think when I hear this record is "When will it be over? I'm bored and want to play a video game."

And I never want to play a video game; that's how fidgety Sinatra makes me.

I'll tell you why I think everyone loves this album so much: the cover. It's a great cover, featuring Sinatra in clown makeup against black background with colored charcoal rectangles and "Only the Lonely" written in super-sad cursive. Looking at the album, you have already made 90% of your decision regarding the music.

But listening to tracks like "Blues in the Night," you realize that the concept of the album is about as mercenarily calculated as the cover art. Don't believe the hype.

Highlights, if I had to pick 'em: "Angel Eyes," "One For My Baby," "Sleep Warm." Most of the tracks have been done better by less pompous voices. I realize that I risk alienating the Swingers crowd in dissing Frank, but then it's about time everyone in that crowd grew up anyway.

The Rat Pack mythos was stupid the first time it came around, and it hasn't gotten any cooler over time. Sinatra was, and will always be, your parents' music. Leave him there.

Review by Wimpempy Tarlisle