May 14, 1998 –
The world lost one of its smoothest voices and sharpest suits: Francis Albert Sinatra, better known as Ol’ Blue Eyes, bowed out at the age of 82. If you believe in poetic exits, perhaps the last voice he heard really was his own, crooning from a record player, whispering, “May you live to be 100, and may the last voice you hear be mine.” From Hoboken bars to Las Vegas stages, from Oscar-winning performances to allegedly “acquaintances, and what have you“, Sinatra’s life was a masterclass in swagger. He wasn’t just a singer, he was a symbol of an era. Suave, volatile, loyal, mysterious, magnetic and with just enough mafia-adjacent intrigue to keep things spicy.
The Chairman of the Board once said, “What I do with my life is of my own doing. I live it the best way I can.” Which is one way to describe an existence filled with top-shelf bourbon, sold-out concerts, a few FBI files, Ava Gardner, and four marriages. A model citizen? Not quite. A cultural icon? Undeniably.
Frank Sinatra didn’t just sing songs, he inhabited them. He didn’t just perform, he commanded. And when he died on this date, of a heart attack, the world fell a little quieter. Though, somewhere, in some smoky lounge in the great beyond, you can imagine him raising a glass and saying, “Regrets, I’ve had a few—but then again, too few to mention.“
The Haus of Dcaligari 