Sinatra and Ali- "His path"
One had the perfect traits of a boxer: quick hands, unmatched speed of feet, long reach. The ability to avoid and then take most hits, all with the grace of a gazelle. The other had all the qualities of a singer: perfect pitch, vibrato, presence, incredible phrasing, a finger-snapping style. He was, ultimately, the voice.
When Ali commanded her stage, no one would come near her. The self-proclaimed “Greatest of All Time” forced the world to listen, but he needn’t have raised his voice. His was a picture that was certainly worth a thousand words. Just watch any Ali fight in his prime and you’ll understand.
The singer was no different in his element. Singers come and go, but this one was different. He inspired the writers and the arrangers, the conductors and the players to deliver the goods. He created the mood album, the lounge song, the swing with a blaring orchestra, and much more. He spawned countless imitators, but only his voice and his presence could light up the stage for more than fifty years.
Ali also elevated the game, changing boxing from just another sport to a spectacle, an event, while taking the purse, as well as the public, to new heights. And yet, when religious idealism got the better of Ali, he walked off the stage rather than sacrifice his beliefs. And while he may have given up the “heavyweight champion of the world” title, he got another admirable one: the ambassador of standing up for what you believe in at all costs. Later, when fate decided to let him regain his title after a two and a half year hiatus, he returned with a vengeance.
Well almost.
At first, we try not to notice the slower hands, slower Ali’s signature shuffle, not so quick reflexes. But it didn’t really matter. She kept winning, right? Maybe not with lightning-fast punch combos, but it looked like this wizard traded in his old bag of tricks for a couple of new ones. Most were surprising his relentless ability to take a hit. And how about the Ali Rope a dope? That little scheme about George Foreman that scorching-hot night in Zaire some 35 years ago gave Ali what he had been striving for for almost seven years: his title.
Sinatra also had his own bag of tricks, and like Ali, he didn’t need to rely on just one style. So when the ’50s said goodnight to the big bands and hello to rock and roll and the Beatles, Sinatra could easily have been catapulted into extinction, but true to form, he remained relevant. He recorded with a wide range of arrangers, never getting into a groove he couldn’t get out of. Riddle, Jenkins, May, Costa, Jones, Count Basie, Mandel, Jobim. They kept the singer alive and topical without sacrificing his artistic roots. Until the End, Take Me to the Moon, The Girl That Got Away, One For My Baby, The Way You Look Tonight, Girl From Ipanema. You get the idea. And just like Ali, he could never leave it good enough alone. He needed to matter, he needed to feel a connection to the one thing that made him tick: his audience. And so, when most older artists are sitting on a golf course or in a restaurant, reminiscing about the good old days, Frank was singing about them. Whether it was a very good year, Such is Life, My Way, or the much later New York, New York, Frank kept coming to the office. He even reinvented himself as a performer. As he sneaked up on the great Five-O, Sinatra gave birth to yet another institution: The Rat Pack. Las Vegas would never be the same again. Talk about those thousand word pictures: The Marquis of Caesars just read “He’s Here” and the room sold out before he even knew who “he” was.
It was the same with Ali. Even after his Thrilla in Manila, when it seemed like his tank was almost empty… well, this bunny kept going. For me, Ali’s greatness was summed up in a 1977 fight with the much younger and much stronger Ernie Shavers. It’s not a great fight. There is not much dancing. Cordless a drug. But after 14 rounds of hard punches, mostly to Ali’s head, Ali gathers strength from I don’t know where and lands several consecutive blows, nearly knocking out Shavers, if not for the sound of the final bell.
That fight said it all.
He had the heart to win, even when his body said no. The will and determination to keep going when most others would be willing to throw in the towel.
I guess that’s what the whole concussion was really about. His resilience. His ability to take a hit and get back up. And of course, its longevity. Ali taught me that the fight isn’t over until it’s over. Just look at how many fights he’s won in the last few rounds. Sinatra’s lessons also taught me that a vocal hemorrhage, a failed record label, the fall from grace of the public, musical fads, were no reason why a good singer could not reinvent himself and reach greater heights.
You could say that Sinatra and Ali had a lot of rebirths, without a lot of deaths. Both recited poetry, both danced in their respective genres, and made viewership ratings soar. Every time any of them were part of something, they BECOME something, just because of their association with it. And the older they got, the more their mystique grew. It didn’t matter if the blows were so fast or the voice so agile. The world still wanted to see them, to get one last look at the living legends, at least.
They were both the best, they both did it in their own way, and while I guess they stayed on stage a little longer than they should have, who could blame them? Wouldn’t you want to see what all the fuss was about?