Sinatra sings the words and music of Rod McKuen.
      FRANK SINATRA  
        An Appreciation
      Running  
        jumping  
        standing still,  
        Frank Sinatra is the tallest man I know. 
        Sitting down  
        his feet go dragging through the clouds, 
        and anyway we heard him one night singing  
        "Fly Me To The Moon" from the moon. 
      After that  
        even though you call him Frank  
        you wonder if you'll ever earn the right  
        to do so.  
        He's tall because he stoops to help  
        and bends to give,  
        and because while going down his own road  
        he's always had the time  
        to cut the underbrush  
        for those who came along behind him. 
      Sometimes in turning he falls down  
        and hardly anybody picks him up but him.  
        He gets up always  
        taller than he was a day ago.  
      Meeting him the first time out  
        you know that he could tear a wall down  
        with his eyes. 
      Later on you learn he's much too busy  
        building bridges to think about destruction. 
      Still you're wary.  
        Isn't this the man you've read about  
        who punches up the press  
        and chews up shadows  
        like a jackhammer biting into streets?  
        Be careful. 
      He smiles then.  
        I don't know like who.  
        Like nobody ever did or will. 
      You go away that first time thinking  
        maybe you don't want to write songs anymore  
        for anybody else but him. 
      Another time  
        you meet and talk of trains  
        and Alec Wilder. 
      You drink a lot.  
        In the early hours  
        he stays listening to Respighi  
        while you crawl home to bed.  
        He worries you because he has so much  
        (I don't mean jet airplanes)  
        and thinks he has so little. 
      What can you give a man  
        who's given several worlds of pleasure  
        to as many people? 
      The morning paper.  
        But wouldn't that deprive the doorman  
        of his daily honor?  
        How many Frank Sinatra's do I know?  
        Another every day. 
      The one whose gentleness to women  
        touches on the renaissance.  
        I honestly believe  
        he's never met a woman yet  
        he thought to be a tramp. 
      There's the family man  
        concerned about his children.  
        Helping never pushing.  
        (Good God, his son does not  
        make records for Reprise.)  
        He's the father  
        who waited till his eldest  
        made it on her own  
        to sing a song with her.  
        The only man  
        to make that laughing face  
        smile on consistently. 
      Tina's lost her luggage  
        on her way to Bangkok,  
        and so he spends all Independence Day  
        calling airports round the world. 
      The fighter?  
        Hmmm.  
        Christ the public can be mean!  
        One night while on the town  
        I saw him baited half a dozen times.  
        He smiled and signed his name.  
        Nobody got a bloody nose  
        or his picture in The Daily News.  
        But I for one  
        would hate to see his eyes turn orange,  
        even if it is his favorite color. 
      Still you get the feeling  
        that when in doubt  
        he beats up on himself. 
      Who else goes home to Hoboken  
        and makes it back to California  
        two days and twenty million later.  
        So he is a businessman.  
      (Remember that and you forget  
        his Oscars number two, not one.) 
      Guts should be his middle name,  
        not Albert. 
      Sometimes I think that he invented guts  
        inside and out. 
      Hearing him announce at fifty  
        "September's quite a time,"  
        you're well aware of generation gaps  
        he's pulled together with his hands.  
        Yet something  
        (maybe monkey glands)  
        has kept him more than young at heart.  
        His mind's as new as noon tomorrow.  
        I have it.  
        Jack Daniels must have pickled him  
        circa nineteen-forty-three.  
        But why does he sing better every day?  
        Why are there new humble cycles  
        and pride that boasts I did it My Way?  
        He did you know.  
        We have every one of us  
        doing it his way to prove it. 
      He invented singing,  
        and every time he sings  
        he's giving lessons. 
      It comes to this.  
        Whatever kind of man he is,  
        whoever made us  
        made just one of him. 
      You have to love him.  
        I leave the reasons up to you. 
      I've set down some of those I have  
        within the words and music here  
        and Frank Sinatra sings these songs with love.  
        Almost as though he owned them.  
        I guess he does now, dammit. 
      An any different drummer,  
        Sinatra is a man alone.  
        Sometimes I think he laughs  
        to keep from crying. 
      Forget it.  
        I'm no Sigmund Freud.  
        I know a few things only. 
      Today I know a man  
        hidden in the California hills  
        who's spoiled for good  
        because another man he loved  
        gave new dimensions to his children. 
      My children are my songs  
        and those within this album  
        all have brand new shoes. 
      ROD McKUEN 
        June, 1969 
       
      A Man Alone (1969)
      Reprise 2-1030 
      A Man Alone 
        Night 
        I've Been To Town 
        From Promise To Promise 
        The Single Man 
        The Beautiful Strangers 
        Lonesome Cities 
        Love's Been Good To Me 
        Empty Is 
        Out Beyond The Window 
        Some Traveling Music 
        A Man Alone 
       Buy A 
        Man Alone from Amazon.co.uk. 
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