From the 1965 chapter of Newport Jazz Festival: the Illustrated History (1977): The final evening belonged to Frank Sinatra. The skies were clear, and every seat had been filled early. Fifteen thousand people were on hand to see Frank’s helicopter descend at seven forty-five P.M., followed by another chopper carrying Quincy Jones, his conductor for the evening. After the landing Sinatra and party stayed in a house trailer backstage until nine thirty, when he went on. A cordon of thirty policemen had surrounded the landing area immediately after landing. Out front 280 seats usually reserved for press people were reserved exclusively for Sinatra’s friends. And we in the press had problems. An edict had come down from Sinatra tjat five minutes would be allotted to picture taking during the first few minutes of the program, and that was it. There was a mad scramble to shoot fast and furious. You could see the excitement and tension building up in the audience from the moment the helicopter appeared in the dusk sky with its flashing red and green lights. When he came onstage, Frank appeared relaxed. His crew of sound engineers were off to one side of the stage, moving their dials and adjusting their equipment. It was all unnecessary. The sound balance was fine to begin with. They should have left it alone. They had distorted the balance of the speakers for the people in the audience. Oscar Peterson had appeared briefly before Sinatra, and Basie had played a couple of numbers -- both to no avail. The people wanted Sinatra, and Sinatra only. They got him. From the moment he stepped onstage with a short monologue - “With all those beards in the audience it looks like a state hom for the hip” - to his roaring off into high gear with “Get Me to the Church On Time” -- he had them in the palm of his hand. Looking around me I saw hardened booking agents, artists and repertoire men, record-company presidents, musicians, and people who had been there alongside me for years, listening quietly in awe. He sounded great. As good as he ever sounded on record. Better, as a matter of fact. All the magic was still there, and he glided through his program of twenty songs. “Street of Dreams” had an intense and imperative message, and his “Where or When” was a beautiful projection of warmth. Whatever he sang had substance. The audience responded with a genuine outpouring of warmth in return. His impeccable phrasing, his way with a lyric - that night he had it all - and if he had had the greatest public-relations firm working out a dramatic departure, they couldn’t have come up with a more effective answer than that slowly ascending helicopter blinking its lights good-bye.
Posted on: Sat, 26 Jul 2014 14:13:55 +0000
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