My grandfather was a big fan of Frank’s. He had this framed picture in his living room that was a collage of sorts. Four sepia-looking images of Frank looking typically “cool.” I can remember my mother saying that she couldn’t stand Frank Sinatra. I could never get a straight answer about why, but I’ve come to believe that it was her way of saying that she couldn’t stand her father-in-law.

As a child, I never took much interest in Frank. I wasn’t particularly close to my grandfather, so it wasn’t like he spent any time introducing me to the finer points of the crooner’s body of work. (My grandfather never demonstrated the finer points of anything, except maybe beating a five-year-old at checkers or dodging the question when asked about how to put English on the cue ball. I suppose there is an art to those things, albeit a questionable one.) Though I knew the songs from the countless musicals I’ve played, I only became truly interested in jazz and the American songbook in my 20s. Though I finally understood what all the fuss was about, when I finally got to listening, I liked other singers far more than Sinatra.

Frank Sinatra gets a lot of credit from a lot of people. People who don’t seem to care much about singing still have an opinion about his tone and the quality of his delivery. They gave him affectionate names like “Old Blue Eyes.” Sounds like a shiver and a sigh, doesn’t it? They tell you the obvious stuff. “Did you know he’s from Hoboken?” (Yes, I knew that. His high school is now an elementary school. I was playing a children’s theatre gig at that school the day that Frank died. By the end of the day, only hours after the news hit, they were selling t-shirts with his likeness on them on Washington Street. It was the first time I saw a Frank Sinatra t-shirt. I’m sure my grandfather would have thought a national day of mourning was in order. I spent my gig money on records and a burger.)

When I really listen, Frank sounds like an egotistical blowhard. The man could convey in a performance the idea that it was a pleasure for us to hear him. I’m reminded of Groucho Marx exchanging pleasantries with another character. “The pleasure is mine. No, the pleasure is all mine. No, surely the pleasure is all mine.” Groucho finally admits that after all, the introduction was perhaps a greater pleasure for the other man. That’s what Sinatra sounds like to me. Like Gene Simmons, only without the tendency to cry when he talks about America.

I might have overlooked the Sinatra pomposity if that had been the only shortcoming. However, upon hearing a few of his records last week, I finally hit upon why I dislike him so. His interpretations serve only him. One example of this was the way he’d alter lyrics to suit himself. Sometimes he was trying to be marketable, like when he changed Cole Porter’s line about cocaine to “perfume from Spain” for a single. Other times, he was just trying to be funny, or show how cool he was. “You give me the boot” in the same Cole Porter tune, “I Get A Kick Out Of You.” He also threw in the odd “cat” to refer to himself, or “chick” or the dreaded “ring-a-ding-ding.” The way in which Frank “interpreted” material often did not respect the song. The song was secondary to him, maybe even tertiary. I can’t appreciate that. It’s almost like you have to love Frank’s persona if you’re going to enjoy his performance. That’s fine if you’re into his shoe-lift swank thing, but what if you’re not?

A true artist would be one who could bring new truth to the piece without abandoning its integrity. Frank was not capable of offering new truth. He might have, if not for that old Frank Sinatra bullshit. What a burden. What a drag to be Frank Sinatra, dragging that ego around all the time.

Find a place to sleep. Yesterday, I played a benefit with Brian Fitzpatrick and the Band of Brothers for Blank-Fest. They have these concerts all over the place every year. Admission to the show is a blanket for the homeless. Of course, the one we played ain’t the number one event, but it happened and we contributed, which I think is a good thing. It’s nice in New York today. 65 annoying unseasonable degrees. I don’t even need jacket. But there’s still a long winter ahead and I don’t have to wonder where I’ll be sleeping when it gets really cold.

Start re-learning the guitar. There’s a guy I met through my voiceover work at Sirius. By met, I mean I’ve talked to him and sent him e-mail. I’ve never seen him. He sent me a message last week telling me that he was moving on from his gig there and that I should direct my invoices to his successor. With his message was a list of URLs, so I checked out a few of them. I hadn’t known much about him. It seems that he’s a guitarist. Earlier this year, he had a terrible accident with a power saw that left him without fingers or parts of fingers on his left hand. His fretting hand. I discovered that he’s now resolving to play the guitar again, left-handed.

Incredible. I looked down at my hands and thought about how I’d ever manage. I’m very careful with my hands. I won’t even go bowling. I play so many instruments and nothing is more important than my hands for that. I thought about Curtis Mayfield, who was paralyzed from the neck down when a lighting rig fell on him. When he died, he couldn’t do anything but sing. I’ve often thought of how I’d use a sequencer or something and continue to make music no matter what happened, but now I know someone dealing with that horror and it’s far more shocking than any conjecture. I picked up my bass and turned it upside down and backwards. I wondered if I could do it. My hands just wouldn’t work! After 25 years of doing it, playing bass is second nature to me. But I couldn’t even think my way through it. I turned the instrument back to normal and it felt so good in my hands. What a long road that would be. I wish Alex all the strength in the world. There but for the grace of God go I, but I don’t have to start re-learning the guitar today.

Independent music is the only true music left. The grand part of it is that there’s so much available to anyone who’s really looking for something great. No one every has to be force-fed “product” by a major corporate record label interested more in fleecing you than providing anything of value. Those days are long gone. I only buy independent music. There’s nothing like it.

Here’s the thing…

The only catch is that for independent music to flourish, we have to tell our friends about the music we enjoy. We have to be active listeners. Here’s our chance. My new single is available by download only through the download store on the Music page at www.chrispreston.com. The Pass It On promo is in circulation now.

The Pass It On idea is that someone you know gives the promo CD to you, you check it out, but only keep it for a couple of days. After that, you hand it off to someone else who might be serious about their music too. Then, you can purchase it if you want on the Music page and/or comment on the Pass It On blog for that recording.

If you’re visiting here because you’ve been in possession of the “It’s Christmas (Let It Touch You)” Pass It On promo, leave your comments here. Maybe you downloaded the song for your collection, maybe you didn’t, but leave your comments for everyone to read. Let everyone know where the “Pass It On” promo CD ended up. How far did it go? How did you like it? Whatever you do, keep the CD moving. Thanks so much for being part of this with me.

Keep buying independent music. Major labels have nothing of value to offer you. Independent artists work hard to give you everything that you love about music. You are a very important person in their world.