We teen age boys made fun of him a lot in the WW2 years. When word got out that he was 4F for mental problems we really howled (don't know if that was ever proven).

From Here to Eternity

http://www.wnyc.org/radio/#/streams/jonathan-channel

Is programed by Jonathan Schwartz and features Sinatra. Jonathan, son of composer Arthur Schwartz ("Dancing in the Dark" & "That's Entertainment!"), as one of the most vocal proponents of the Great American Songbook, of which Sinatra was the foremost exponent.

http://www.wnyc.org/story/how-listen-jonathan-channel/#playlistinformation

In the '50s and early '60s Sinatra sang songs that young men half his age wanted to sing, but couldn't. Now they are in the eighties and he's no longer here, except in spirit and in the minds of the same men who still want to sing those songs and still can't. But they don't forget that he could. And they never will forget that. He will live on; first in their memories then in the digital cyberspere for as long as humanity exists.That is some achievement, for a minor mobster.

Here, this will download just about any Web based video, Youtube, Vimeo etc, and then allow you to convert it to an MP3 file for your later listening pleasure.

http://any-audio-converter.com/

It's nice to be perfect isn't it?

Frank Sinatra was not a "minor mobster." You can try to tumble him down to your level with cheap shots and second-hand wit, but I don't think it really works.

He was the consummate artist. Just listen to his versions of almost any songs, compared even to their authors or those who introduced them.

Listen to Bing Crosby singing "I don't stand a ghost of a chance with you," and then listen to Mr. Sinatra.

Much of the material in the "great American song book" would be worthy of the great Provencal troubadours. How great would it have been, to have heard those lyrics performed by as thoughtful, as impassioned, as technically brilliant a singer as Mr. Sinatra. But you can get an idea of how some of those lyrics might have rippled across Eleanor of Aquitaine's court, listening to the Capitol sides.

He is the only singer I can think of whose nuanced emotionality rivals Billie Holiday's. And the voice itself, of course, was one of the great instruments of the 20th century.

Here we go again with this bird. By the time I'd come along he already had the hairpiece and numerous blowouts with the paparazzi. Me and a friend had a mutual dislike of him, and it became "our thing". We'd cut our long hair at that point in the seventies, and when we found a couple of cheap tuxedos stored in a neighbors garage, well...it was relentless. Not a small thing in the part of the country we were from, where he was revered as some type of demigod. We even became regulars at a local red and black Naugahyde lounge where four nights a week a swanky cat on a Hammond would belt out the hits. It got weird, it got dangerous. Then Piscopo came along and we were vindicated, albeit too late for Ladies Night-a. We were asked not to return. Even in civvies. But now, after thirty years of hip-hop, I think I've got a better grasp on the mystery of his longevity. Hype. Unrelenting hype and decades of saturation marketing.

The people that worked for him loved him. Sinatra was a railroad fan and his staff put their money together and bought him a railroad car. He put a model train set and a bar in that car and at night would tell his wife that he was going to "play with his train set." In other words, he was going to his back yard bar to get crocked.