FEATURE

By Caitlin Ward

That’s Life
By Frank Sinatra

That’s life, that’s what all the people say.
You’re riding high in April, shot down in May
But I know I’m gonna change that tune,
When I’m back on top, back on top in June.
I said that’s life, and as funny as it may seem
Some people get their kicks,
Stompin’ on a dream
But I don’t let it, let it get me down,
‘Cause this fine old world, it keeps spinning around
I’ve been a puppet, a pauper, a pirate, a poet,
A pawn and a king.
I’ve been up and down and over and out
And I know one thing:
Each time I find myself flat on my face,
I pick myself up and get back in the race.
That’s life. I tell you, I can’t deny it,
I thought of quitting baby,
But my heart just ain’t gonna buy it.
And if I didn’t think it was worth one single try,
I’d jump right on a big bird and then I’d fly
I’ve been a puppet, a pauper, a pirate, a poet,
A pawn and a king.
I’ve been up and down and over and out
And I know one thing:
Each time I find myself laying flat on my face,
I just pick myself up and get back in the race
That’s life. That’s life, and I can’t deny it
Many times I thought of cutting out
But my heart won’t buy it
But if there’s nothing shakin’ come this here July
I’m gonna roll myself up in a big ball and die
My, my

I’ve often thought that my father’s greatest disappointment in me is my unerring and completely unbidden love of Frank Sinatra. It happened sometime around the age of 17 — around the same time I started disliking The Clash, actually. Perhaps they’re somehow connected.

So far as I can remember, though, this love began without any provocation. I seem to recall watching From Here To Eternity around that time, but I’m fairly confident that happened after the whole Sinatra thing got started.
In the lexicon of my father, Sinatra was old guard, old school, the signs of an establishment to be done away with. It was the sort of thing his parents might have liked, if his parents had been into that sort of thing instead of opera. It was also the sort of thing he was forced to listen to on the radio when, as a child, he was sick in the hospital with rheumatic fever, so that probably has something to do with his dislike of it, as well.

For me, though, Sinatra came without any strings attached. He was just a guy who sang songs I liked. Sinatra had a talent for phrasing that was entirely unique to him. That is to say, he didn’t sing songs the way they were supposed to go. It’s a curious irony that he was instrumental in popularizing the songs of Cole Porter, because Porter despised every Sinatra rendition of a Porter song ever done. You see, Porter wrote songs with complex and exact melodies. Instead of trying to match Porter’s often difficult phrasing, Sinatra ignored it entirely.

Porter may not have liked it so much, but with the exception of my father, much of the rest of the world did. Sinatra had a patter and a rhythm that was half story, half song. Every song he sang became his. Though he didn’t write One For My Baby (And One More For the Road), All the Way, Witchcraft, or I’ve Got You Under My Skin, it’s hard to picture these songs as anything but Sinatra’s. No wonder Porter was so annoyed.

I, however, am not. Where my affection for other bands and artists has come and gone, Sinatra has remained a constant in my musical obsessions. Eight years on from my first introduction, I have half a dozen of his albums and no less than five hours of his music on my computer. I’m not allowed to listen to any of it without headphones, though, lest my father hear a few lines and go mad.

Lately, I’ve been spending a lot of time with headphones. I’ve been listening to That’s Life. Musically, it’s not a characteristic Sinatra song. It came out in 1966, toward the end of his hey day, and the song’s backing track is dominated by Hammond organ rather than brass.

Thematically, though, it’s a characteristic Sinatra song, so it’s not surprising that composers Dean Kay and Kelly Gordon offered it to him. It’s been covered by many singers since Sinatra’s version came out, but no other gets close. When he sings, “each time I find myself flat on my face / I pick myself up and get back in the race,” you believe him in a way that you just don’t believe Michael Bublé. But then, I tend not to believe Michael Bublé as a general rule, so there’s that.

The song is so characteristically Sinatra, I think, because it looks at the vagaries of life and stares them down — Sinatra was known to do that, in both art and life. However, unlike a song such as My Way, which is frankly overrated and essentially says, “I did everything the way I wanted to and I came out on top,” That’s Life acknowledges that things don’t go the way they’re supposed to: “You’re riding high in April / shot down in May.” There’s a swaggering pride to the song: however many times he gets kicked down, he gets back up again. Despite the machismo of it, it’s a lesson we should probably all take to heart.

The song isn’t merely about when things go bad. Life is often cruel, but it’s also often wonderful. That’s Life acknowledges the twists and turns of fortune: “I’ve been a puppet, a pauper, a pirate, a poet / a pawn and a king.” What’s interesting in this particular line is not only the shifting of fortune, but also the shifting of character. While “pauper” and “king” easily refer to poverty and wealth, “puppet,” “pirate,” and “poet” refer to how one acts in the face of changing fortunes: being a good and productive person at certain points (poet), and a bad or slightly useless person at others (pirate, puppet). Ultimately, the song demonstrates that few people’s fortunes are determined at birth, and moreover, we need not stay in a role that is unattractive, immoral or pointless.

It’s the sort of song that’s useful to listen to during difficult times. For me, at any rate. It’s not been any easy time, you see: multiple (and unexpected) deaths in the family; multiple (again, unexpected) illnesses; turns of fortune and disappointments. But through all of that, I’ve developed the sense that whatever awful thing life brings, there’s no traffic in dwelling on what went before or what might have been. In the past two years, my life motto has become, “things happen, and you keep going,” which is not so different from, “I pick myself up and get back in the race.”

After all, what else is there to do? I’m not about to roll myself up in a big ball and die. And you know, whatever the lyrics might say, I don’t think Frank would’ve, either. In fact, he never did.

Ward is a freelance writer and aspiring documentary filmmaker based in Saskatoon. You can find her short bursts of insight and frustration at http://www.twitter.com/newsetofstrings