My Secret Life with Sinatra

I had a chum named Frank Sinatra, and kept it to myself. It isn’t that I wasn’t proud of our friendship. I just knew that repeating anything he said or did, anything, meant death to our relationship. I kept it tucked away for many years, and it was worth it.

I have told you about him in staggered vignettes during this two year Happy Hare series, but had not thought about compressing my times with Frank until recently when several of his devotees asked to see them in a more manageable sequence.

First, the initial meeting.

The Sinatra I begin with here isn’t the god-like Frank Sinatra that you have heard about in countless allegories, but the “scandalous” Sinatra of the early 50’s.

The scandal was: Frank deserted his wife, Nancy, in the latter 40’s, and took up with Ava Gardner, considered by many as the most beautiful woman in Hollywood.

The public roar of betrayal was so tumultuous that MGM fired him and TO’d his last pay checks to Nancy.

In the few years after that, Frank was desolate. He had split with Ava, and run out of money.

We first met in 1950, in the patio of KLAC Radio in Hollywood. I was the afternoon drive jock. Frank was as near the bottom as he was ever to be, Silken wisps were beginning to fray his sleeves and collar.

He had come to KLAC to see me, not because I was a jock who might play his records, but because he had been asked to “look in on” me. Who had the power to do that? A Mafia don named Sam Maceo who had helped get me there.

That’s a whole ‘nother story that you can scroll down to the RDN chapter frivolously titled, “Mafia Don Sam Maceo, My Patron Saint,” setting up my trip to L.A. from Galveston.

Few have known how bad it was for him in those early 50’s. That story chronicled even now is so counterintuitive to what you have heard about Frank, that I would lose credibility with you if I led off with it in this series. I will hold off on that one for now.

Instead, let’s fast forward some 20 odd years to the Alpha Frank that you do know. He would have enjoyed your knowing about what I am about to tell you. It defines him.

I had seen Frank several meaningful times in the interim between those KLAC days and the time in the early 70’s when he called, inviting me and my wife, Carol, to see him perform in his upcoming NBC TV show, “Frank Sinatra, A Man and his Music" in the Burbank Studio.

“You two will be the only ones invited. I want you as my guests backstage, so we can visit. Is that okay?” “Backstage! Is it okay?,” I shot back “Who do you think you are, somebody?” He howled. It was set. A week later, Carol and I drove to the NBC studios.

It was also a reunion for Carol who had met Frank and served as his coordinator when he came to her dad, Ben Chapman’s “Flipper” studio in Miami to make “Tony Rome.”

Carol told me he had been the perfect gentlemen around her, although he did linger around the dolphin pool area when she came to cavort with Susie, aka “Flipper.”

She found him to be courtly and humorous with her. He kidded her that he only behaved because he was afraid of her dad, Ben Chapman, a retired Air Force Brig General who had been a nationally ranked gymnast in his youth, and still sported a pair of bull shoulders.

When we arrived at the NBC Burbank gate, the guard consulted his guest list, and looked up at us. “You two go backstage,” He laughed and kidded on the square, “No outsiders go backstage. You must have something on Mr. Sinatra.”

“We’re as surprised as you are,“ I replied and meant it. He pointed toward a VIP parking area and waved us through.

Carol and I parked, stepped out into the broiling Burbank sun, and hot footed it the short distance to the towering doors leading into the studio building.

We walked down a hall leading to the studio, manned by a guard who carefully scrutinized our passes, then pressed a button that opened up the massive studio doors and ceremoniously waved us in., like Frank Morgan, the “Oz” doorman.

The vast backstage deck was a controlled traffic jam of bustling crewmen in a disembodied choreography, somehow averting collisions despite lugging large pieces of lighting and sound equipment.

A 20 foot camera crane lumbered through the mass of crewmen, and took its place at the foot of the steps that led up to the stage platform where the performance would take place.

All of this was accompanied by the cacophony of fiddles, brass, and woodwinds. running scales, all streaming from the distant stage.

I assumed that Don Costa was in command of the music.. By now, this was the orchestra du jour. Frank had signed Costa for his new Reprise label.

In a prior conversation, Frank told me why he had chosen Costa over Billy May and Nelson Riddle, to Riddle’s consternation.

Frank told me a few years back that he was grateful to Riddle for his contribution in helping him bridge over from his smooth elegant style of the latter 40’s into his highly successful rhythmic singing in the 50’s, but that Nelson Riddle arrived at sessions too prepared, leaving little room for invention. He had come to prefer the more flexible Costa who welcomed last minute ideas.

Shortly after we entered, the band was in full array, rehearsing what I recognized as the background accompaniment to “I’ve Got You under My Skin,.” including the classic bridge where someone, either Milt Bernhart or his clone, erupted with a trombone ride that has become classic.

Off in a far corner, bent forward in a tight huddle, singing into each others’ ears were the highly recognizable “The Fifth Dimension.” rehearsing “Up Up and Away,” a song that was etched indelibly in their brains, but still being run over under the tension of getting it right for Mr. Sinatra.

Carol and I quickly escaped the traffic flow by edging toward the wall and soon made out the familiar figure of Ed McMahon, Johnny Carson’s sidekick.

He had been chosen as the announcer for this great occasion I felt a rush of envy. Damn!

Reaching his side, I squelched my pique, and held out a hand. I had met him before in Cleveland when he spent a week co-hosting with Mike Douglas.

During that week, Ed had often come upstairs into the radio area to renew his long friendship with Jim Runyon, our KYW mid-day host. They had been Marine buddies.

“You must be part of Frank’s inner circle to be the sole invitee backstage,” Ed said half-kidding.

I accepted his lofty appraisal with false aplomb, then blurted “I’ll trade my illustrious status for your gig. here.” That got me back on even keel with this unaffected man.

I reminded Ed where we had met, introduced Carol, did a little small talk and then pulled away to leave him with his last minute concentration.

Ed appeared to remember something he wanted to tell me and motioned me back, then waved me off like he had changed his mind.

The entire studio fell silent. Shouted orders were muted. Work stopped practically in mid-air. The entire studio area was freeze-framed.

I looked at Ed questioningly. “It’s Frank, he whispered . ”He just left his dressing room”.

He flicked his eyes behind me. I turned around.

A few feet away, his face beaming, was Frank Sinatra and he was aiming straight for Carol and me.

Next week: the outrageous dress rehearsal that defines Frank like nothing else.

Our Picture Palace Films movie “Kings of the Evening was so enthusiastically received in Los Angeles at the Pan African Film Festival, that we have been invited to the Atlanta Film Festival in April. There are rumors of invitations from other prestigious festivals.

Written and produced- would you believe?- by a white guy, Robert Page Jones, and directed by his brilliant son Andrew P Jones, the buzz runs two ways: how did these men define the black experience with such feeling and understanding? Secondly, that they had plumbed the human soul with such insight and sensitivity, that this film is now ready for general distribution. “The Color Purple” revisited. It’s a “feel good” story that has inspired the seasoned festival moviegoers who saw it to rise and give it a standing “O.”

A high ranking Democrat chum rankled over my seeming slight to their candidates when I suggested a branding for McCain and Huckabee, namely the “McAbees,” has “demanded” that I give equal time to his Democrat candidates and brand them. Well, it looks like Barack will be the presidential candidate and Hillary, maybe, his veep.

I walked around mumbling ideas to myself for several day, but came up empty. I finally shared my frustration with Carol.

Subconsciously spurred on by this. Carol, woke up at 3 am one morning last week and shouted, “Barackhilli!” rousing both me and Peek-a-boo, our bed buddy cat.

“What?” I protested stridently at being jerked out of my sleep.

“Combine their names” she shouted, “Barack and Hillary and you get “Barackhilli,” pronounced like Baroccoli.

There are two reasons to name them “Barackhilli” she explained eagerly. “It’s a word play on broccoli which is good for you, and it’s green, the big thing these days.”

I think Carol has been living with me too long. Her 1970 Sinatra era picture is seen in my chapter titled, “Happy Hare’s Trifecta.” That’s who Frank saw “cavorting” with “Flipper” in Miami.

Things are growing so violent these days that soon on television,. they may have a show called, “Waterboarding with the Stars”………Hare