Perfectly Frankie

FRANKIE LAINE, to borrow from the title of his autobiography (in a twist on one of his greatest hits), truly was a “Lucky Old Son.” Long after his reign at the top of the pop charts ended, the longtime Point Loma resident—who died of a heart attack at Scripps Mercy Hospital February 6, just two months shy of his 94th birthday—refused to go quietly into the night, or anywhere else, for that matter.

He took great pride in his beloved Point Loma home and its spectacular ocean and bay views. He prided himself on his healthy diet (heavy on sushi, which he adopted after quadruple bypass surgery in 1985). He loved his women—his wife, actress Nan Grey, who died in 1993 after 43 years of marriage, then fiancée Anita Craighead and finally Marcia Ann Kline, whom he wed in 1999.

But most of all, he loved singing, moving from the concert halls he filled in the 1950s and early 1960s to supper clubs, cruise ships and charitable events, such as a PBS TV special in October 2005, his last public performance.

His hit streak was an enviable one that put him in the same league as Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra. His first million-selling hit was “That’s My Desire” in 1947. Over the next 22 years, there would be 20 more gold records, including such classics as “Lucky Old Sun,” “Mule Train,” “Jezebel” and “I Believe” (at 3 million copies his biggest-selling single). All told, he sold more than 110 million records and hit the charts an astounding 70 times. He sang the theme to the TV show Rawhide in the 1950s and two decades later sang the theme to Mel Brooks’ classic movie spoof Blazing Saddles. He also hosted his own TV variety show and appeared in seven movies.

His last chart hit came in 1969, with a cover of Marty Robbins’ “You Gave Me a Mountain,” but he continued to record, tour and perform regularly. Even after he turned 90, he was still talking about his next Top 40 hit. And just last year, he signed a contract to perform in Branson, Missouri, in September.

The morning after he died, a Google News search picked up 431 published obits from around the world, including all the major news services and Billboard, the music industry’s bible. Each duly recounted his early years as the eldest of eight children born to Italian immigrants in Chicago—his birth name is Frank Paul LoVecchio—to his illustrious rise from a Depression-era marathon dancer to one of the biggest pop stars of all time.

I was lucky enough to spend some time with Frankie Laine, beginning with an interview I wrote for oldies magazine Goldmine in 1983. We struck up a friendship—he lived down the street from my parents—and we frequently ran into each other at the post office on Canon Street. My mom was with me once, and although she had been a lifelong fan, she didn’t recognize him. That’s because he was in the habit of venturing out of his house without his toupee.

I was a guest at his home at least half a dozen times. Each visit, I was impressed with his zest for living, his love of life. I still recall one visit, just after he’d moved into his new, custom-built home in a ritzy gated neighborhood tucked away in Point Loma’s wooded area. It was a hot day, and he was shirtless and rugless. We were sitting outside, enjoying the view. He was reminiscing about his early days in music, when Hoagy Carmichael happened to hear him sing Carmichael’s own composition, “Rocking Chair,” and was so impressed he got Frankie a gig at Billy Berg’s, the Hollywood jazz club. Suddenly, midsentence, mid-thought, Frankie stood up, looked around him and, spreading his arms in the air, proclaimed, “This is paradise.”

Funny that quote should come back to me the day I learned of Frankie’s passing. Even in death, his enthusiasm is infectious.

I once asked him if he had any intention of retiring. “Why retire?” he said, laughing. “I think I would be the first to say I should quit if I knew I wasn’t sounding good—and if I knew people weren’t anxious or interested in hearing me anymore. That hasn’t happened yet, and hopefully it never will.”

Frankie said that when he was 70. For nearly another quarter-century, he kept his word to his fans. And to himself. A lucky old son, indeed.

Do you like what you read? Subscribe to San Diego Magazine »