POP MUSIC REVIEW : Sinatra in Command at the Greek

In 1935 Frank Sinatra became a singer. By 1960 he was a legend. In 1990 he is a singer, a legend and an experience.

Any doubts about Sinatra’s incomparable command were quickly set to rest Thursday, when he launched the first of his two nights at the Greek Theatre. (He plays the Pacific Amphitheatre in Costa Mesa tonight.)

True, there were hints of a sore throat, inducing an occasional edge on his tones that merely added to the emotional impact. This aside (and within a half-hour he had in fact cast it aside), the symbiotic interaction of voice, orchestra (splendidly conducted by Frank Sinatra Jr.) and arrangements (by Nelson Riddle, Don Costa and others, all of whom he was at pains to credit) worked its perennial wonders, whether he was inducing a frisson of warm pleasure with “Soliloquy” or adding his own hip lyrics to “The Lady Is a Tramp.”

What music teachers tell their students about breathing and phrasing, portamento and rubato, Sinatra has known instinctually all along. If an occasional note stops short nowadays or is a hair too high, the basic elements remain. For his daughter, in the audience, he sang “Nancy”; for his career camp followers he had everything from “Strangers in the Night” to “Guess I’ll Hang My Tears Out to Dry.”

Only when Don Rickles came out toward the end of the show was the spell broken. It was infra dig for Sinatra to stand there drinking with the Sultan of Stereotype, and acting as straight man for him.

Rickles, who might be called the Andrew Dice Clay of his generation, managed to demonstrate that if there were no Mexicans, no Jews, no Italians, no blacks, no Irish, no Arabs, no Puerto Ricans, no Poles, no Japanese and no homosexuals, Rickles would have no act--which might not be a bad idea.

The elimination of the word Christ , which at rough count was used 14 times, would also shorten his show helpfully. The almost continuous laughter that greeted Rickles’ racial ranting attested to the public’s willingness to meet him at his own level.

Pia Zadora, who opened with a short set, remains a big-toned, stylized belter with formidable chops that seem at odds with her petite appearance. Her choice of songs was beyond cavil, ranging from jazz standards (“All of Me,” “Birth of the Blues”) to the Michel Legrand-Bergmans “How Do You Keep the Music Playing?”

Zadora’s arm and body movements were excessive. Every arrangement--even “Maybe This Time,” which began on a quietly agreeable note--tended to lead to an overly dramatic climax. Still, she remains what she has been for some years, an often compelling performer with Broadway show potential. True, she could learn from Sinatra’s capacity for restraint and dynamic shading--but what living singer couldn’t?