Bel Canto of the Barroom

By Michael Walsh

A package of 16 vintage LPs documents Sinatra's vocal art

"Let him learn the manner to glide with the vowels, and to drag the voice gently from the high to the lower notes," advised Pier Francesco Tosi in his book Observations on the Florid Song. "Let him take care that the higher the notes, the more it is necessary to touch them with softness, to avoid screaming. Let him take care that the words are uttered in such a manner that they be distinctly understood."

That was back in 1723. In the years since then, the art of bel canto so prized by Italian singers of the time has fallen into desuetude among their operatic descendants. But not in pop music, where one Italian baritone has, however unwittingly, put Tosi's recommendations into practice throughout his four-decade career: Frank Sinatra. A 16-album, $350 set of vintage recordings, recently released on the audiophile label Mobile Fidelity Sound Lab, documents Sinatra's vocal art at its peak.

That peak came between 1953 and 1962, when Sinatra was recording for Capitol Records. Teamed with arrangers such as Billy May, Gordon Jenkins and, especially, Nelson Riddle, Sinatra finally put to rest the "Swoonatra" image of his youth to become a singer of astonishing breadth, consummate technique and unrivaled intensity.

Whether forlornly ruminating on Alec Wilder's I'll Be Around, with a lonely piano and solitary celeste offering gentle support, or swinging easy with Cole Porter's Just One of Those Things against a background of burbling saxophones, or punching out Jule Styne and Sammy Cahn's Five Minutes More in front of some antiphonal spitfire trumpets that would have made Gabrieli gladly forsake San Marco for the recording studio, Sinatra is a master of mood and vocal nuance. He can ornament a line, subtly altering its rhythm, or bend just a single note to startlingly expressive purpose; he sings the first word of Just One of Those Things with a momentarily indeterminate pitch that colors the entire song with tantalizing emotional ambiguity. As evoked by Sinatra on I Love Paris, the city has never been sexier than "in the summer, when it sssizzles."

Above all, though, is Sinatra's urgent sincerity, which persuades the listener that for the moment at least, the singer and his song are one. In real life, Sinatra may bully hapless casino dealers and harass would-be biographers, but in concert with a chorus of moppets on High Hopes he seems a natural to lead next year's third-grade outing. And when Sinatra sings that definitive barroom lament, One for My Baby, even a teetotaler is tempted to light up a cigarette and order one more for the road. Now that is bel canto indeed.

--By Michael Walsh