" data-original-title="" title="">Frank Sinatra album speaks to the fact that his name still creates ripples when tossed into the cultural pond; still has the power to inspire a reaction when other other vocal stars of yore have receded into distant memory. An ocean of ink has been spilled in portraits and musical criticism of the "Chairman of the Board," some of it merely respectful, most adulatory. Long ago, the rough, mafia-inflected edges were smoothed out and the battle was won, or should I say the seduction was complete. At this point, you can write about Frank Sinatra, although it feels like being the fifty millionth customer at Arby's. Nonetheless, I will step in line, socially distance and review this album (albeit briefly). First, however, I have to go a few rounds with the Sinatra mythology; not the complicated man, the music.

In order to get a whiff of the current zeitgeist, I asked a question on jazz social media—"Sinatra: jazz or pop singer"—and the response was immediate, vehement and disproportionately large. Phrases like "impeccable phrasing" "transcendent," "stamp his own indelible imprint on a song" appeared often in comments. Some took offense at the question being asked at all, with comments like: "He's one of the greatest singers of all time. He doesn't need approval from anyone." In one attempt to put him in the jazz category, someone went so far as to say: "'scooby dooby doo' is scatting." Some hardcore jazz people were reluctant to claim him as their own, but overall, ne'er was heard a discouraging word. Of course-as Perry Mason would say-it's irrelevant and immaterial whether one categorizes Sinatra as a pop or a jazz singer, but the subtext in most of the messages seemed to be: Old Blue Eyes' voice soothes the mind and stirs the heart, so don't spoil the mood with critical analysis.

Pushing ahead, nonetheless. On the jazz side of the ledger, Sinatra listened and borrowed from the best: