We gave it an A
If finding one of the greatest songwriters of the last century referred to as ”whore wrangler Jimmy Van Heusen” within the first few pages doesn’t set your heart aflutter with anticipation, Mr. S: My Life With Frank Sinatra may not be the memoir for you. The rest of us can wallow in the recollections of the Chairman’s valet, George Jacobs, a fly on the wall — or ”Spook,” as Sinatra called his black confidant — during the glory years 1953-68. Learning which Kennedy or Rat Packer preferred which kind of hooker may fall into the realm of too much information, but with its improbably witty prose, this exercise in deep dish never makes you feel like taking a shower (even if Frank had four a day). It’s the one Sinatra tome that doesn’t stint on rageaholism or sexual addiction or the affection this king of split personalities still engenders.