QUESTIONS WITHOUT SIMPLE ANSWERS
By David McClintick
Why is Frank Sinatra the most potent figure of popular culture who ever lived?
Why has no other performer - not Crosby or Judy Garland, not Presley, Dylan, the Beatles, or the Rolling Stones, not Chaplin, Garbo, Brando or Streisand touched such a wide audience so deeply, or for nearly so long?
Why has Sinatra been able to bridge so many generations of fans and musical styles?
Why has the world of rock music, as it was sweeping the world for the past few decades, always paid homage to Frank Sinatra and no other artist of his vintage? Why does the Rolling Stone Encyclopedia of Rock & Roll call Sinatra "the model and envy of rockers from the beginning?" Why have Linda Ronstadt and Carly Simon recorded albums of songs associated with Sinatra and dedicated the albums to him? Why did Sid Vicious of the Sex Pistols, not to mention Elvis Presley, record "My Way?" Why did Jim Morrison of the Doors once remark, "That Sinatra - no one can touch him."
Why has Sinatra, who is not, strictly speaking, a jazz singer, always been a universal favorite of jazz musicians? Why is he the all-time favorite singer - by far, no contest - of Miles Davis, Duke Ellington, Stan Getz, Benny Goodman, Gerry Mulligan, Oscar Peterson, Andre Previn, Lester Young, and many others?
Why does Twyla Tharp build entire ballets around Frank Sinatra recordings?
Why, alone among popular artists, is Sinatra an object of respect, curiosity and affection among opera singers like Luciano Pavarotti and Robert Merrill?
Why is Sinatra music still used - now more than ever before - to accent so many mainstream motion pictures in which he does not otherwise appear, from When Harry Met Sally ("It Had To Be You"), to Wall Street ("Fly Me To The Moon" over the opening credits), to Who Framed Roger Rabbit? ("Witchcraft"), to Albert Brooks' Lost In America ("New York, New York" over the closing credits), to The Pope of Greenwich Village ("Summer Wind")?
Why do leading literary figures, people like Wilfrid Sheed, William Kennedy, Frank Conroy, and Murray Kempton, take the time to craft heartfelt text for Sinatra record albums?
Why do Madison Avenue and Main Street continue to seek out Frank Sinatra, in the face of controversial nationwide publicity going back many years and recycled regularly, to appear in prominent advertisements for bedrock American products - Chrysler, Holiday Inn, Michelob, Revlon?
And why is all this still going on more than half a century after Sinatra first started hustling singing jobs at New Jersey road houses and listening to Billie Holiday on 52nd Street?
Such questions cannot be answered in a few sentences in this booklet. Indeed, it is difficult to fully grasp the phenomenon of Frank Sinatra by reading about him, or even by listening to his recordings. It helps to be there.
1943
At the height of World War II, its end not yet in sight, Sinatra is an established star. In Los Angeles for his first starring role in a motion picture, RKO's Higher and Higher, he is singing this evening - Saturday, August 14 - at a Hollywood Bowl pops concert with the Los Angeles Philharmonic, a pairing that has vexed the stuffier members of the classical music community, some of whom have boycotted the concert. And because much of Sinatra's potential male audience is overseas in uniform, the Bowl is packed mainly with young women, for whom Sinatra has come to symbolize their missing men in a way that no other entertainer has.
The Philharmonic opens with several light classical works, including Mussorgsky's "Night On Bald Mountain" and Rimsky-Korsakov's "Flight Of The Bumble Bee." After an intermission, Sinatra (billed in the program simply as Frank Sinatra, Baritone Soloist) walks onto the stage in a white dinner jacket with his conductor, Morris Stoloff. At first, the atmosphere of symphonic grandeur seems a bit daunting both to Sinatra and the audience. The applause, though warm and enthusiastic, is slightly subdued, by Sinatra standards. The young women seem to be asking if it's all right to scream in the presence of the Los Angeles Philharmonic. Sinatra, too, is a little solemn as he begins with Arthur Schwartz and Howard Dietz's "Dancing In The Dark." He sings the song as skillfully as anyone has ever sung it, but absolutely straight, with minimal passion, as if he were giving a lesson in light baritone tone production.
By the end of "Dancing In The Dark," however, Sinatra has relaxed and the audience's reserve IS overcome. As the concert proceeds through Kern and Hammerstein's "Ol' Man River," Cole Porter's "Night And Day," the Gershwins' "Embraceable You," and other songs, the applause builds and is less inhibited. After the last selection, "All Or Nothing At All," cheering, shrieking, shouting and clapping engulf the stage, and he has difficulty quieting the crowd.
"It's been quite a controversy out here, I understand, as to whether I should appear here at the Bowl," Sinatra says, his speaking voice gentle and boyish, "and I want to say that it seems as though those few people who thought I shouldn't, kinda lost out in a very big way tonight. (Screams and applause.) I have a comment to make about that. I don't see why there shouldn't be a mixture of all kinds of music in any bowl or any public auditorium. Music is universal ... "
Sinatra and his audience seem to be groping this evening toward a new definition of "dignity" as applied to music, its performance, and the audience's reaction to it. Nothing could be more "dignified" than Frank Sinatra's rendition of these classic American songs at this concert.
And if an audience can bawl "Bravo!" at the Metropolitan Opera, he and his listeners seem to be saying, an audience can scream at Sinatra and the Los Angeles Philharmonic in the Hollywood Bowl.
The crowd erupts again as he leaves, escorted by a brace of traffic police.
1970
The Beatles, whose music has mesmerized much of the world during the Sixties, are disbanding. Janis Joplin and Jimi Hendrix have died in recent months of drug abuse. The late General George Patton, who was advancing through Sicily when Frank Sinatra sang at the Hollywood Bowl in 1943, is the subject this year of an Academy Award winning motion picture.
On Monday, November 16, Sinatra is in London to perform before a capacity black-tie audience in Royal Festival Hall. The evening is a benefit for United World Colleges, and Sinatra is introduced with abundant affection and humor by Princess Grace, with whom he made High Society in 1956 and has remained very friendly over the years.
As applause fills the hall, Sinatra emerges from a door at stage right, mounts five steps, and makes his way past the string section toward the center of the stage, smiling, taking his time, stopping half way for a bow. Several steps from Princess Grace, who is resplendent in a flowing white gown, he breaks into a run, arms open, as if rushing to embrace a lover. He feints running past her, then takes her shoulders and kisses her cheek. She leans for the kiss, left foot raised slightly, and then leaves to stage left, as the applause builds. Sinatra turns and removes the microphone from its stand so that he will be free to roam.
"Thank you, Princess," he says and bows again, both to the thousands out front and the few hundred people seated above and behind the 65-piece orchestra. "What a press agent!," he adds, in a Jimmy Durante voice, looking toward the door through which Princess Grace has exited. The audience roars with laughter.
Having set a playful mood, Sinatra approaches his long-time conductor Bill Miller, and says, "Just raise your hand, watch, see what happens." Miller strikes up the rousing orchestral introduction to "You Make Me Feel So Young," one of the Princess' favorite songs, and the concert is underway.
Like so many songs written for other people to sing in particular shows or films, "You Make Me Feel So Young" is now identified entirely with Sinatra, who recorded it in the Fifties and frequently opens concerts with it. It is a song of irrepressible vitality, and his rendition this evening is virile, frolicsome, and dramatic to the end:
"You-u-u make me young.
You make me feel there are
Songs to be sung,
Lots a bells to be rung,
And a wonderful fling to be flung.
And even when I'm old and gray,
I'm gonna feel the way I do today.
Because you make me feel so,
Yeah, man, I feel so,
You make me feel so young, babe,
You make me feel so young!"
The applause explodes. Sinatra bows all around and, before the clamor fades, cues the conductor into "Pennies From Heaven." The brisk pace is maintained through Cole Porter's "I've Got You Under My Skin," George Harrison's "Something," and Rodgers and Hart's "The Lady Is A Tramp."
Acting is integral to Sinatra's singing - not histrionics, but skillful, sensitive acting of lyrics and melody. With definitive phrasing, economic use of italics, controlled gestures of voice, face, and body, and a foundation of understated passion, he turns each song into a one-act play. Like the best acting, Sinatra's is nearly invisible. The audience believes him, as it always has. How many hundreds of times has he strolled back and forth in front of an orchestra explaining:
" ... I have said to myself this affair,
It's not gonna move so well.
But why should I try to resist
When, baby, I know damn well ... "
Although the Beatles' repertoire is newer, he has mastered some of the best of it, as well:
" ... Something in the way she knows me,
All I got to do is think of her.
Something in the things she shows me,
I don't want to leave her now". "
After the big finish of "The Lady Is A Tramp," he settles onto a three-and-a-half foot padded metal stool and says, "We shall call this next segment 'Songs for Losers.' These are songs of unrequited love, girls running away from home, and all that kinda jazz." The rueful smile fades. And with desperate irony etched in his face, he sings Hoagy Carmichael's:
"I get along without you very well.
Of course I do.
Except when soft rains fall,
And drip from leaves,
Then I recall,
The thrill of being sheltered
In your arms ... "
Then he sings Jimmy Webb's:
"This time we nearly made
The pieces fit,
Didn't we, girl ..."
And then, lit only by a single spot, accompanied only by the piano, Sinatra turns his back, moves away a couple of steps, and returns in the character of a man who is quietly, mournfully drunk. He lurches a bit, shields his eyes from the light, wipes his mouth with his right hand, and sings Harold Arlen and Johnny Mercer's:
"It's quarter to three.
There's no one in the place
Except you and me.
Set 'em up, Joe.
I got a little story
I think you oughta know ... "
This is risky, razor's edge acting. The few singers who even attempt it usually overdo it. Sinatra executes it perfectly. He lights a cigarette and gestures at the bartender:
"You'd never know it,
But buster I'm a kind of poet,
And I've got a lot of things I'd like to say ... "
Again, the hint of a lurch:
" ... This torch that I found,
It's gotta be drowned,
Or it's gonna explode,
Make it one for my baby,
And one more for the road.
The long - the long God, it's long ... "
He turns away, still in character. The spot fades to black. Silence. Applause.
As if to break the tension, Sinatra sings two songs that are very different from the torch songs, and from each other. Rodgers and Hammerstein's "I Have Dreamed," from The King And I, is a song of such surpassing beauty, with such an extraordinary orchestration by Nelson Riddle, that Sinatra knows he serves the music best simply by standing there and singing it straight. By contrast, Van Heusen and Cahn's "My Kind Of Town" benefits from some cavorting.
The 13th and final selection on the program is "My Way," which has become Sinatra's anthem since he recorded it two years ago. Although "My Way" isn't a first-rank song, and both Sinatra and his audiences eventually will tire of it (Sinatra sooner than the audiences), its performance still is an event, and this audience of international philanthropists and sophisticated Londoners applauds the first bars of the introduction. By the end of the song, the crowd is on its feet and the roar inundates the stage. Sinatra slips the mike back into its stand, gently kicks the long cord out of the way, and strolls to stage left to begin his bows. Dabbing at his forehead with a white handkerchief, he works his way across, shaking a few hands and accepting a bouquet of roses, as the orchestra reprises "My Way." He returns to center stage for another few bows as the roar continues. Then he descends the steps at stage right and walks through the door, which closes behind him. There is no encore. There never is.
1980
Jimmy Durante, Alfred Hitchcock, Marshal Tito and Jean-Paul Sartre have died this year, and Richard Pryor has nearly killed himself freebasing cocaine. Frank Sinatra, by contrast, is thriving. Numbers crowd his life, and statisticians are beginning to take his measure. It is seven years after the conclusion of his two-year hiatus ("retirement," "vacation") in the early Seventies. He has just completed his latest album, the most elaborate (three discs) of his career and one of his biggest sellers. (There have been well over a hundred albums, difficult to enumerate because of the large number of anthologies and differing international collections.) He has made his 56th motion picture. In December he will be 65 years old. And the business at hand on the evening of Wednesday, June 25, is the ninth of 13 concerts he is giving at Carnegie Hall.
Unlike most celebrities who need no introduction, Sinatra rarely gets one anymore. Without even an orchestral fanfare, e simply strolls onto the stage. The audience rises at the sight of him and the applause billows through this magnificent edifice to the top of the last balcony - a sustained clamor of cheering, clapping, and whistling. He bows. He accepts a bouquet of roses, and then another, from women at the lip of the stage. Smiling, he places the roses on the piano, bows again, takes the microphone, cues his conductor, and sings:
"I've got the world on a string,
Sitting on a rainbow ... "
He frequently opens concerts nowadays with this robust Harold Arlen song - simple, strong, affirmative, and loved by audiences.
" ... What a world!
There ain't no other way of life.
Hey, now, I'm in love!"
The ovation meets his sustained final note and the orchestra's drum-punctuated fortissimo finish. "Thank you," he says, cuing the conductor. Solo piano introduction to "The Best Is Yet To Come," Cy Coleman and Carolyn Leigh's rhythmic, evocative metaphor of joyous seduction. Sinatra settles onto his stool and adjusts his music stand:
"Out of the tree of life
I just picked me a plum ... "
He is singing softly, gently, riding the gradual crescendo of the orchestration, which sounds like Count Basie for whom it originally was written by Quincy Jones to play for Sinatra.
"The best is yet to come
And babe won't it be fine.
You think you've seen the sun
But you ain't seen it shine.
And wait til you see that sunshine day
You ain't seen nuthin' yet ... "
He snaps off "met" as a big brass chord explodes.
Now singing forte, he stays on the stool, gesturing with his left hand, the mike in his right. The orchestra is in full swing, answering each lyrical phrase:
" ... I'm gonna teach you how to fly
We've only tasted that wine.
We're gonna drain that cup dry ... "
More softly now, but with assurance.
" ... Come the day that you're mine.
And you're gonna be mine.
I'm gonna make you mine."
Thunderous, gleeful applause. He's off the stool, moving it back out of the way. "Thank you very much." Cue. "The Lady Is A Tramp." Applause at the familiar orchestration. He eases into the song, gently snapping his fingers:
" ... won't dish the dirt
With the rest of those girls ... "
Third chorus.
Brass-led fortissimo.
" ... she'd never bother
With some bum that she'd hate.
That's why this chick,
She's a tramp!"
Whirling to face the orchestra, he executes four boxer-style left jabs on the beat of four big blaring chords: POW! POW! POW! POW!
The audience is mesmerized, as he hits the homestretch:
" ... She hates California
Because it's cold and it's damp.
That's why the lady-
That is why the lady -
That's why
The lady is a tramp!"
With a sweeping right-hand chop, he conducts the staccato final chord.
"Can this man be 65 years old?," the many young people in the audience seem to be asking. His hair is gray, his face is lined, and yet he is vigorous and vital and looks years young, and they have never seen anyone else like him.
He waits for the hall to calm after "Tramp," then moves on to "When Your Lover Has Gone," which he sings with a lot of ritards, "I've Got You Under My Skin," which is feistier and less legato than usual, and "Street of Dreams," which he recently re-recorded for Trilogy.
"Holy Christ, it's hot in here," he says, wiping his brow with his hand.
"Love laughs at a king.
Kings don't mean a thing.
On the street of dreams ... "
During the ovation for "Street of Dreams" a woman in the first row hands him a white handkerchief with which he mops his forehead again. He also accepts a single long-stem red rose that he puts on the piano with the other flowers.
Sinatra's "saloon songs" this evening are a medley of Harold Arlen and Ira Gershwin's "The Gal That Got Away" and Rodgers and Hart's "It Never Entered My Mind." Off his stool, he lights a cigarette.
"The night is bitter.
The stars have lost their glitter.
The winds grow colder
And suddenly you're older
And all because of a gal who
got away ... "
He wanders about, smoking, seemingly gripped by sadness:
"Once I laughed when I heard her saying
That I'd be playing solitaire,
Uneasy in my easy chair.
It never entered my mind ... "
The lights fade at the end, and he walks off the stage as the ovation builds. With the lights back up, he returns, holding a glass of bronze-colored liquid. He proposes a toast to the audience, sips, and looks askance at the glass. "Would you believe this is a million-dollar act and I got a plastic glass?" Laughter. Peering offstage he barks, "Why the hell don't you put it in a Dixie cup while you're at it!"
Three more ballads. Vernon Duke and Ira Gershwin's "I Can't Get Started," Sondheim's "Send In The Clowns," and Cahn and Styne's "Guess I'll Hang My Tears Out To Dry," all sung from his stool and music stand, from deep in his heart, reminiscent of a senior professor holding a lecture hall spellbound.
He sings 18 songs in all, closing with "New York, New York," which is his current hit and, for the time being, has replaced "My Way" as the climactic-event song in the lineup. The crowd is aroused from the first notes of the introduction. And during the last eight bars performer and audience are as close emotionally as a theatrical relationship can be:
" ... If I can make it there,
I'll make it any-goddamn-where.
It's up to you
New York, New York!"
Standing, the audience claps, whistles, shrieks, waves, yells, and clamors for more. Sinatra bows, secures the mike, bows again, picks up his roses, signals the orchestra to take a bow, waves to the top balcony, blows a couple of kisses, and disappears through stage right whence he came.
1983
The United States has invaded Grenada and lost 216 Marines in Lebanon. It has also lost some notable cultural figures this year - George Balanchine, Tennessee Williams, Eubie Blake, Gloria Swanson, Muddy Waters, and Jack Dempsey.
It is ten days before Christmas, and Sinatra is in a dressing room at the Long Beach Arena, which is near the ocean half an hour south of downtown Los Angeles. The arena is a huge oval sports facility, similar to Madison Square Garden. The atmosphere in such a setting differs from that of a concert hall or theater. There is the electricity of any Sinatra concert. But there is also the ambience of a championship prizefight a hint of danger and physical violence, a feeling that anything can happen.
Sinatra will work "in the round" from an elevated square platform in the center of the arena - a fight ring without ropes. The orchestra is below him on one side of the platform while guards protect the other three sides from overzealous fans, a necessary precaution because the crowds in these arenas, in addition to being several times larger than in concert halls, tend to be even more boisterous.
Three days after his 68th birthday, Sinatra's life is as hectic as ever. He is suing a writer. He has had an unpleasant encounter with a blackjack dealer in Atlantic City. He is planning another movie and another album. He was honored last week by President and Mrs. Reagan at a VIP gala at the Kennedy Center in Washington where Mikhail Barishnikov and Elaine Kudo performed Twyla Tharp dances to Sinatra recordings. Just last evening he sang in San Diego. Tomorrow night he will do a benefit in Las Vegas. And then he will retreat to Palm Springs for the holidays with his family. He is weary and eager to be home. What Frank Sinatra does for a living night after night is, after all, work - hard, demanding work, however rewarding - "a job, like laying pipe," as John Gregory Dunne has said of being a professional writer. Tonight, moreover, Sinatra shares a problem with the audience: a thick fog has moved in from the ocean during the afternoon, closing airports and imperiling drivers up and down the coast.
Despite the weather, the Long Beach Arena is packed with an extraordinary cross section of Southern Californians attired in everything from tuxedos to dungarees, and spanning at least half a century in age. Many have purchased Sinatra T-shirts in the lobby for $12 each. Many people carry cameras, which rarely are banned at Sinatra concerts. A number of fans also are equipped with concealed tape-recorders, which technically are outlawed but which have been present in audiences for years wherever Sinatra has sung around the world. The tapes will be reproduced surreptitiously, and within a week or two, Sinatraphiles in New York, London, Rome, Rio de Janeiro, Sydney, Tokyo, and hundreds of other places will be listening to cassettes of tonight's concert, analyzing it and commenting about it to each other by telephone - avidly pursuing one of the world's most intense avocations charting the daily activities of this most riveting of all pop idols.
The lights are lowered, and three security men, watchful and tense, bring Sinatra along a narrow aisle through the crowd. A spotlight finds him halfway to the stage. The clamor begins with those who see him first - shouts and shrieks - and spreads like a flash fire through the floor seats and up through the balconies. As at an NBA playoff game, the cheering is so loud that it has a physical dimension.
Onstage, Sinatra smiles and waves, picks up his microphone, and bows repeatedly in all four directions, waiting patiently and contentedly for the applause to ebb. As usual he begins with "I've Got The World On A String," and if he is tired, his voice and manner don't reveal it.
The usual crisp pacing - cuing the next song just after the applause for the previous song has crested - is maintained through "At Long Last Love" and "I've Got You Under My Skin." Sinatra is relaxed and seems to be enjoying himself, except momentarily during Irving Berlin's "Change Partners" when he hears feedback from his bassist's amplifier. Off mike, he snaps at his conductor to have the amplifier adjusted. Only a few in the audience notice his ire, which passes quickly.
In addition to the different ambience of this arena, the style of the music varies somewhat. Sinatra is singing tonight with the Buddy Rich Orchestra, a jazz band without strings. The orchestration is brassier - less subtle and luxuriant, and less suited to ballads, of which he sings fewer. Bands with no violins evoke memories.
"I got to tell you something that you won't believe," he says to the audience. "I swear as I stand here it's absolutely true. The last time I worked in (Long Beach) was in 1935, with a Major Bowes unit. For you younger people, there was a man named Major Bowes who had an amateur radio program. You went and auditioned, and if they selected you, you went on the air, and then they had troupes that traveled around the country - 12 acts in each troupe. I remember sitting on the back step here trying to get some color in my face from the sun, so I wouldn't have to wear makeup every time we did a show. It doesn't seem that long ago. (Pause.) It seems longer." The audience laughs, and there are shouts of "Happy Birthday."
Frank Loesser's "Luck Be A Lady" from Guys and Dolls has always been a Sinatra show-stopper. It is a clever theater song, Sinatra loves singing it, and the orchestration is one of Billy May's most exciting arrangements - pulsating, relentless, giving no quarter.
" ... I know the way you've treated
Other guys you've been with.
Luck be a lady with me ... "
And then:
"A lady doesn't wander
All over the room
And then blow on some other guy's dice ... "
And finally:
"Stick with me, baby,
I'm the guy that you came in with.
Luck be a lady, (big brass answer)
Luck be a lady, (half-step higher - another big brass riff)
Luck be a lady, (higher yet - drum roll into a third big brass answer)
To-night. "
He holds the last note as the band barrels to its climax.
Sinatra sings "My Way" in the middle of the concert, reflectively, more as a ballad than as the anthem it usually is. Although he includes many old favorites, he also sings two new songs, underscoring his constant, frustrating search for contemporary songs of quality that he can perform comfortably. "How Do You Keep The Music Playing," by Michel Legrand and Marilyn and Alan Bergman, is a ballad about marriage from the Burt Reynolds-Goldie Hawn picture Best Friends. "Here's To The Band," written especially for Sinatra by three New Jersey fans and submitted to his office, is a tribute to the thousands of musicians who have played for him.
There are 16 songs. The opening notes of "New York, New York" spark rhythmic clapping. By the end, the ovation is surging over the stage, swamping the last note and chord like ocean waves engulfing a pier. Sinatra moves around the rim, leaning down to shake a few hands and accept a couple of bouquets. The crowd presses forward and the guards tense. Sinatra bows in all directions, letting the throng get one last look. Then his security force meets him at the steps and escorts him out.
The 20,000 fans, exhilarated and a little short of breath, as if they had sung the concert with him, gradually give up their cries for more, and begin the slow trek to the exits, the parking lots, and the dense midnight fog.
The questions remain. What is happening here? What is occurring at these four concerts? What is the significance of thousands of comparable performances by this man -live and recorded spanning more than half of the 20th Century and continuing into its final decade?
Some of the answers are self-evident but others would fill books. Enough said here. Reading and writing about music are limiting exercises. In the end, one must hear music, witness performance. So as we ponder questions about the phenomenon of Frank Sinatra, I suggest we enhance our reflections by listening to this extraordinary treasury of singing, and by catching a concert as soon as possible. (It's okay, too, to enjoy this music without pondering anything.)
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"You Make Me Feel So Young" (M. Gordon, J. Myrow) © 1946 (Renewed) WB Music Corp. ASCAP.
"I've Got You Under My Skin" (C. Porter) © 1936 (Renewed) Chappell & Co. ASCAP. "Something" (George Harrison) © 1969 Harrisongs Lld. BMI. "I Get Along Without You Very Well" (H. Carmichael) © 1939 Famous Music Corp. ASCAP.
"Didn't We" (Jimmy Webb) © 1967 Jobete Music ASCAP.
"One For My Baby" (H. Arlen, J. Mercer) © 1943 Harwin Music Corp. ASCAP.
"I've Got The World On A String" (H. Arlen, T. Koehler) © 1932 Mills Music Inc. ASCAP. "The Best Is Yet To Come" (C. Coleman, C. Leigh) © 1959 E. H. Morris Co. ASCAP. ''The Lady Is A Tramp" (R. Rodgers, L. Hart) © 1937 (Renewed) Chappell & Co. ASCAP. "Street Of Dreams" (R. Young, S. Lewis) © 1932 Miller Music Corp. ASCAP. ''The Gal That Got Away" (H. Arlen, I. Gershwin) © 1954 Harwin Music Corp. ASCAP. "It Never Entered My Mind" (R. Rodgers, L. Hart) © 1940 (Renewed) Chappell & Co. ASCAP. "Theme From New York, New York" (F. Ebb, J. Kander) © 1977 United Artists BMI. "Luck Be A Lady" (F. Loesser) © 1930 Frank Music Corp. ASCAP.
Lyrics reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. 