The Coolness of Tragedy

I own two crates of records: one is full of my rock 'n' roll: loads of Beatles, Stones, some Elvis...even Matthew Sweet, The Smiths, and The Who. The other one? It's my jazz: Ella, Joe Williams, Basie, Ellington...and loads of Frank.
You can't know me and not know my love affair with Old Blue Eyes' music, that swaggering, crooning, empathic way he had of singing lyrics written by other people to us...that odd connection I feel in the inner recesses of my psyche with the sounds that come off of impressions in wax and sent from needle through speaker.
My discovery of Frank's music started in college, a love affair that began more with his big band Dorsey-era swing...the older I got, and the more knocks life put me through, the more I got into the music from the second big phase of his career. "Night and Day" got traded for "One More for the Road", "Everything Happens to Me" for "Autumn Leaves". Life put me through several wringers: divorce, job loss, car wreck, heartbreak, having to give up my home, another heartbreak, death of loved ones...and Frank was there, always, crooning his sympathy each time, acting like an old pal who put his hand on your shoulder and says "It's okay, because I've been there."
Somewhere in all of this, I discovered his concept albums, all bearing gorgeous covers and awesome instrumentals (often the uber-talented Gordon Jenkins).



It seems Where Are You? was my first concept album...the greens and burnt sienna tones giving an understated masterpiece of a cover...Frank looks down, morose and thoughtful, his cigarette-wielding hand strategically placed to hide the conflict (presumably) on the bottom half of his face.

I was kinda sort-of dating this girl a couple of years ago. I say "kinda sort-of" because, in all truthfulness, that's about as far as it ever went. I was actually out at a thrift store with her (she was buying a dress for an event that night...and wound up picking up a red dress that was probably once worn to someone's prom. Fit her like a glove, and she looked great [damn this photographic memory]). And there, sitting like a diamond in the rough amongst a stack of '90s rap CDs...was this gem for a mere buck.
The cover features Frank standing in an Edward Hopper world, his face solid and almost plastic, trademark fedora pushed back to reveal that thoughtful brow, ever-present cigarette leaving a light trail of smoke that blends in with the foggy night. You get the impression he's been walking the entire night, trying to evade the ghost of the girl who got away, maybe trying to find something (or someone) new.
But all he has are his memories and the one cigarette in the midst of a hazy and sad night.
Needless to say, the heartbreaking title tune ("...that's the time, you'll miss her most of all") drags you into an entire album of melancholy.
And it's damn beautiful.
(Incidentally, this album came right back out of the CD case reserved for my few Frank CDs [I almost exclusively own him on vinyl] when the girl did eventually get away a few weeks later...)

No One Cares the cover is a bit better than the album itself, but that's mostly because the image is tough to beat. The use of contrast keeps this photo cover from becoming too pathetic...Frank, still donning his trench and hat because he's wandered in restless and can't unwind enough to take them off at the bar, stares into his glass because it's the only thing he can look at that doesn't make him feel worse.
You know that feeling when you're out in public and just surrounded by couples? Or when you're the only single person in a crowd of seven? That alienation that's mated with the salt in the wound feeling of still being alone?
That's what Frank looks like he's feeling here, being alone in a crowd.
The album itself hits you with everything from the title track ("When no one cares, and the phone never rings") to the mind-numbingly sad "Cottage for Sale" (which conjures up memories of Frank's TV special in the '60s, where he sang the tune to a set of an empty cottage).

So, call me a square, or an old fogey...I love new music as much as the next guy, but even the newer guys can't seem to get a grasp on the Tragicoolness of Sinatra.