Eliot Weisman - The Way It Was: My Life with Frank Sinatra

F rank Sinatra was not afraid to die. From the day I met him back in the 1970s till his passing at the age of eighty-two, he lived his life with strength, courage, and at times, even reckless abandon. The death of his iconic status, however, was another matter entirely.

Its been twenty years since his passing, and he knew he would leave a legacy for the generations. Nothing frightened him more than eroding the patina of his glorious run. Still, he forged ahead, refusing to be shelved with all the forgotten musicians of a bygone era. Nothing made him happier than staying relevant and in demand, till his last storied breaths, cultivated through years of holding those beautiful, elongated notes.

I was his manager and I like to think I played a small role in his enduring career.

Was he having memory problems toward the end? Sure he was, but he could handle that on a live stage with the audience in the palm of his hands.

Did he use those memory problems to his advantage, especially with me?

You bet he did. And so, I wasnt entirely surprised, as we rode in the back of a limo down Sunset Boulevard in 1993, when he said, What are we doing here, Eliot? Had he forgotten the six months worth of conversations, negotiations, and reminders? Not a chance.

Boss, were going to the recording studio, I said.

This is bullshit, he said.

Still, he trusted me. When we walked into the lobby of the Capitol Records Building, he should have felt like a star taking a victory lap. Instead, I couldnt shake the thought that he looked like a kid who didnt want to go to his first day of school. The hallway to Studio A was lined with photos of Frank, Dean Martin, and Nat King Cole. They were the kings who built this circular palace that towers into the airspace at Hollywood and Vine.

He didnt even look at the photos, and I was too preoccupied to do so. There was only one thing on my mind, and that was to make sure he sang. I was nervous. My stomach was uneasy, and I knew it would be that way for some time to come.

The last time he walked that hall was 1961. He had ruled much of the 1950s and then led off the 1960s with one of the greatest bodies of work ever in popular music. It was there at Capitol that Sinatra collaborated with Nelson Riddle, Billy May, and Gordon Jenkins, and where they successfully birthed the concept album by grouping songs together to set a mood, from tender love songs to swinging dance music. He owned the legacy with years of hits like I Get a Kick Out of You, All of Me, and Ive Got You Under My Skin.

Shortly after, he started his own record label, Reprise, which was unheard-of for a singer to do in those days. He was the Chairman of the Board, the Voice. What did he have to be worried about?

I was startled and frightened when I saw the lost look in those Ol Blue Eyes as we made our way to his old recording studio. It was filled with all of his favorite things: Tootsie Rolls, Wild Cherry Life Savers, Jack Daniels, and a pack of Camels. I was hoping the familiarity would take him back to that time when he was on top of the charts and on top of the world.

This was Duets. I was executive producer of this album, along with Capitols Charles Koppelman and Don Rubin. This was to be our piece of the Sinatra recording legacyprovided it was ever completed. This was his wife Barbaras piece of his recording legacy, too. He had gifted the rights to his previous recordings to his children.

The band was all there, seated and waiting for their cue. It was a combination of musicians who traveled on the road with us and studio players. The musicians had been paid for four days in advance, so there was a lot riding on this. Bill Miller was a familiar face on piano.

There were horn players, strings, and drums. Phil Ramone was producing. He was off to the side with the soundboards, anxiously looking through the glass that overlooked the studio. Hank Cattaneo, Franks longtime associate, was coproducing. He had ridden in the limo with us.

Patrick Williams, who scored the music for hundreds of films and television shows, was conducting. He was the second-biggest star in the room. He was hired to do for the recording sessions what Frank Sinatra Jr. did for his dad in the live concerts. Patrick was standing in front of the musicians.

Sinatra was seventy-seven years old and it had been almost ten years since his last recording, L.A. Is My Lady. It was the first time I had ever been in a studio with the Boss, and his presence sent an undeniable wave of nervous excitement through the room.