CD, стоящие на полке рядом : Pop (Ballads)      

LP Originally released - September, 1965

September of My Years is one of Frank Sinatra's triumphs of the '60s, an album that consolidated his strengths while moving him into new territory, primarily in terms of tone. More than the double-disc set A Man and His Music - which was released a year after this album - September of My Years captures how Sinatra was at the time of his 50th birthday. Gordon Jenkins' rich, stately, and melancholy arrangements give the album an appropriate reflective atmosphere. Most of the songs are new or relatively recent numbers; every cut fits into a loose theme of aging, reflection, and regret. Sinatra, however, doesn't seem stuck in his ways - though the songs are rooted in traditional pop, they touch on folk and contemporary pop. As such, the album offered a perfect summary, as well as suggesting future routes for the singer.

========= from the cover ==========

Tonight will not swing. Tonight is for serious.

Inside, the musicians, led by coatless, posture-free Gordon Jenkins, rehearse their voice-empty arrangements. Waiting for his arrival.

Outside, in the hall, the uniformed guards wait and wonder, what to do with their hands.

Unruly fiddle players, who love recording like they love traffic jams, tonight they bring along the wives, who wait to one side in black beaded sweaters.

And these wives and these fiddle players and all of these are different tonight. For in a few minutes a poet will begin to speak of years ago.

He arrives. Tie loosened, collar loosened. The guards at the studio door edge out of the way.

"Good morning, sir," he says. "Who's got the ball game on."

Thirty orchestra wives wish they had the late scores memorized. Four men look around for a transistor radio.

"Hello, Sidney, how are ya. What's happening in the music business?"

He strolls up behind Gordon Jenkins, who is rehearsing his strings. Sinatra listens for 32 bars, then turns to Mike Romanoff. "The way this guy writes strings, if he were Jewish, he'd be unbearable."

The Prince wakes up a bit.

"You ready, Gordie?"

"I'm ready," replies Jenkins. "I'm always ready. I was ready in 1939."

"I was ready when I was nine."

He walks to his music stand, clearing his throat. "Think I swallowed a shot glass."

Jenkins starts a song, conducting with arms waist high, sweeping them side to side. Not leading his orchestra: being the orchestra.

Sinatra begins to sing his September's reflections. Jenkins, on the podium two feet above, turns from his orchestra to face his singer. He beams down attentively, his face that of a father after his son's first no-hitter.

The wives in their black beaded sweaters muffle their charm bracelets.

He sings of the penny days. Of the rose-lipt girls and candy apple times. Of green winds, of a first lass who had perfumed hair. April thoughts.

He sings with perspective. This vital man, this archetype of the good life, this idolized star...this man pauses. He looks back. He remembers, and graces his memory with a poet's vision.

He has lived enough for two lives, and can sing now of September. Of the bruising days. Of the rouged lips and bourbon times. Of chill winds, of forgotten ladies who ride in limousines.

September can be an attitude or an age or a wistful reality. For this man, it is a time of love. A time to sing.

A thousand days hath September.

-Stan Cornyn