We finally got a turntable that works beautifully! The record that we've been listening to the most is a double Frank Sinatra album called Portrait of Sinatra - Forty Songs from the Life of a Man. I really enjoy the capitalisation in that title, too - there's something grandiose and wonderfully pompous about it. This album taking the number one spot on rotation came out of left field a bit, although we have fairly widespread tastes, as a household. We just bloody love it, though.
The album belongs to my stepmother, and we're going to have to return it and buy our own copy eventually. Interestingly, when I've mentioned it to people, they all have different reactions, and a few of them have really surprised me. 'He was a womanising scoundrel,' my mum said, and 'a bit of an old dog,' an older, male colleague at work said. But that voice, is the unspoken bit at the end of whatever they say. This is something I've been thinking about a lot, lately.
The language that we use to speak about men, women and infidelity and the allowances we make for people who are artists of some description are fascinating. If you Google Frank Sinatra, it's a rabbit hole of conflicted wrangling over whether or not we can reasonably love someone who, arguably, treated quite a few women abominably. Here's what it has made me wonder:
If Frank was Francine, with the same transgressions, how kind would history be to her?
If Alice in DTTS was a man, would we judge her as harshly for pursuing her art over her parenting responsibilities? Does this change depending on how good the art is? Or how famous the maker?
And, if someone made an album of forty songs at the end of Your Life, what would the songs be?