did Frank Sinatra ever record the song "Manhattan".If so on what album and is it available?

Answer 1

I dont think so that it was his song

Answer 2

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Answer 3

Manhattan was from the Rogers & Hart show "The Garrick Gaieties 1925 (S)", but as yet have not been able to track down a recording of it by Frank.

Perhaps he sung it on one of his TV shows?

Answer 4

I am pretty sure he never did.
However this site thinks differently
http://www.lyricsdownload.com/frank-sinatra-manhattan-lyrics.html

Answer 5

No. He never recorded that song.

Answer 6

1

Answer 7

no frank never sang that song according to http://www.songsbysinatra.com/ that is anyway,,

Answer 8

no
maybe your thinking of
new york new york

Answer 9

I’LL TAKE MANHATTAN


I was fifteen years old and living in Brooklyn, New York, when I was swept into the Frank Sinatra vortex of swooning, screaming teenage females. It was when the singer was as thin as a needle and had hair that was not transplanted nor made to order. It was dark, soft looking and all his; it was combed just right to elicit sighs. I wanted to bury my face in it. Sinatra’s blue eyes were another matter to swoon over. Two blue bedeviling orbs that were crafty manipulators of one’s heartbeat. Were they cornflower blue, sky blue, baby blue? I’d wondered. In any case, they played their own seductive games as he sang.

I had a serious crush on Sinatra tantamount to an obsession. Scotch taped to the walls of my bedroom were large glossy commercial photographs of him which 1 had bought in a Manhattan store that sold glossies of entertainers and movie stars. Instead of doing my homework when 1 came home from school, I turned on the radio, hoping I’d hear him singing a few bars of a song, even a few notes. My mother often came into my room to ask ire to lower the very high volume on the radio, because it swamped her program of classical music which was playing decorously in the living room. In those days in our home, there was a1was the velvety smooth Sinatra counterpoint to Beethoven, Brahms, Bach and other great masters of music competing for sound space. “Oh, the Three B’s again,” I’d say, producing a yawn. My parents had absolutely no interest iii pop music; none was ever admitted into their universe, and to get them to acknowledge that there was a pop singer with a voice like no other, would have been pointless.

A few years later when they were living in Puerto Rico, they attended almost all the concerts given at the Casals Festival. I have a photograph of my father standing directly opposite Pablo Casals; Casals’ right arm is extended, the index finger of his hand is pointing at my father, almost touching his chin. The renowned maestro, and my father, the ardent admirer. I don’t know why Casals was pointing at my father; it certainly was not a gesture of accusation, for my father, the admirer, was probably offering homage to the great cellist. Around this time, someone introduced my father to violinist Isaac Stern whom he soon engaged in conversation in the lobby of a hotel in Puerto Rico. Though my father was not a musician, his intense love of music was ingratiating.

I had been studying piano since I was five years old and decided that ten years of study had been enough. I summarily stopped taking lesson at the Brooklyn Academy of Music, much to the deep disappointment of my parents. I had been offered the opportunity by the Academy to study with Abby Simon, a well-known concert pianist at the time. I was told 1would have to work very hard if I studied with Simon. So I turned down the offer. Though ostensibly I had talent for the piano, I had other plans, big plans that centered on Frank Sinatra, my true love. ‘Frank’s voice is like no other voice,” I continued to repeat dreamily, as if I were talking in my sleep.

When my father came home from work, usually quite tired, and sometimes contentious, he’d complain, “Every time I walk into this house I hear this fellow singing. What’s so great about his voice?” Sinatra’s voice trailed after him into the dining room where a radio tuned to a station that played the singer’s recordings almost continuously, assailed him. Risking my ire, he quickly turned the dial to the station that played classical music only. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to hear some good music while I have my dinner?” I minded all right. There was a tacit understanding that my mother and I would whisper when he listened to music.

“To answer your question, what’s so great about Sinatra’s voice. I have to tell you that he has an exceptional voice and can sing pop songs like no one else can.” What I did not say or try to explain was that it was the whole Sinatra package, the skinny fellow from Hoboken, New Jersey; the unconscionable destroyer of teenage female hearts, wearing a white jacket, black trousers and black bow tie. I wanted to put my arms around him protectively, in spite of the big shoulder pads that broadened his shoulders.

My parents never said anything when they saw the glossy pictures of Sinatra I’d hung on my bedroom walls, other than that the scotch tape wouldn’t hold the pictures up for very long. There were no patronizing looks or opprobrious remarks from either of them. My mother, however, couldn’t resist the same comment every time she came into my bedroom and looked at the singer resplendent in gloss on the walls.

“He’s so thin,” she said. “He looks as if he’s about to expire.”

‘That’s part of his charm,” I said.

“Part of his charm? Being so skinny is part of his charm?”

“Yes, mother. I guess you just don’t understand,” I quipped.

“What is there to understand? Ills face is haggard looking and he appears to be malnourished. Where’s the charm?”

I said, “It’s a unique kind of charm,” and slammed the door as I left the room.

“Don’t slam the door again,” my mother yelled from my bedroom.

A cousin of mine who worked as a public relations assistant for a well-known realtor in Manhattan, was given coveted tickets by him for a Sinatra broadcast. When she invited me to go with her, I was vaulted into a state where I couldn’t feel the daily little pinpricks of unpleasure; they were supplanted by pure bliss. I would be physically close to the man I had such a crush on, although what I really wanted was to have him all to myself. The thought of this impending closeness sparked an explosion of fantasies in which I became part of Sinatra’s life. His wife and three children did not figure at all in this new scenario. They were blown away by my steamy exhalations of teenage omnipotence. Sinatra and me, Sinatra and I, Sinatra and me. What difference did a flaw in grammar make, as long as we were together. The endearingly stubborn theme of his song, “All or Nothing at All,” reinforced my determination to make him mine.

We sat in the first row of the broadcasting studio. My cousin was seventeen years older than I and seventeen years smarter. An amused, expectant smile settled on her face. I sat rigidly in my seat transfixed. “No screaming in the broadcasting studio,” my cousin whispered to me. “You can applaud, but that’s all.” I looked around the studio but didn’t see any other loungers; had there been, we might have broken all rules by screaming and howling; by running in the aisles toward the stage, climbing up on it and grabbing Sinatra by his padded shoulders and hair, throwing him off balance. A merciless kind of adoration. Teenagers gone amok

Sitting in that broadcasting studio was the closest I ever came to Sinatra. About eight years after I had removed all the glossies off the walls of my bedroom in Brooklyn, I very intentionally sat down right next to his wife, Nancy at a blackjack table in a casino in Puerto Rico. Nancy with the laughing face went the song, but she wasn’t laughing now, because she was losing at blackjack How did I feel sitting right next to Nancy Sinatra? She was no substitute for her husband, of course, and all I felt was profound disappointment. I looked around the room, but Sinatra was nowhere in sight. I did not disavow still having some kind of residual crush on him, but the delightfully stinging edges of that crush had burned themselves out long ago. What remained was a cool, immutable admiration for his voice.

The next time I saw Sinatra in person was at the renowned Paramount Theater in Manhattan; for a time, his name was synonymous with that theater. My friend Bobbie and I took the long subway ride from Brooklyn to Manhattan to see him at the Paramount. The line of waiting female teenagers that was many blocks long did not discourage us. We waited outside the theater for hours, shifting from one foot to the other. It was winter and very cold. Though Bobbie and I were both wearing those dark brown, chunky mouton lamb coats that were popular with teenage girls at the time, and that looked as if they would keep the stinging cold at bay, we still shivered. So many girls were wearing mouton lamb coats, we must have resembled a herd of long-suffering buffalo, sucking in drafts of the frigid air. Our faces were red, almost frozen into immobility; it was difficult to get a few words out and when they broke through, our warm breath collided with the cold air and created jets of puffy steam.

Through all this, we never had a thought of giving up on our mission and taking the train back to Brooklyn. After each show ended, we moved forward closer to the entrance to the theater. Finally, after hours in line we stood at the box office. No blood coursed through our toes and fingers any longer, only an icy stream that stung painfully as it circulated, importuning to be rescued from a imminent vascular catastrophe. We could barely get our gloves off to pay for the tickets of admission; our fingers had frozen into submission to the cold.

Finally, we were inside the theater, — Nirvana. There was a scramble for seats among the frenzied and frozen teenage girls, all of whom were impatient to start screaming their adoration, as soon as Sinatra came on stage. I looked around the theater, but didn’t see any boys in the audience. When the singer made his entrance, the collective screaming and ecstatic moaning began. A few pockets of quiet sobbing could be heard, also. The outburst of uncontained adolescent desire swelled and finally became an undifferentiated roar. Sinatra motioned far us to quiet down; we did just the opposite. The screaming and moaning gained in strength, rather than diminished. I felt proud to be part of the tumult of the frenzied crowd. As if an invisible signal prompted us, every girl in the theater suddenly climbed up on her seat and screamed louder. It felt wonderful to scream this way. It was such a different kind of screaming; not shrill like when I found a spider in my shoe and started to scream; and not a scream of terror and revulsion like when I saw a mouse dart across the kitchen floor. This was a unique Sinatra scream, the only one of its kind in my teenage repertoire.

It took sonic time until we quieted down, but some quiet moaning could still be heard. Sinatra grinned, gave some signal to the orchestra leader, and started to sing. Everyone was quiet; no one wanted to miss a note.

Bobbie and I wanted to sit through all of Sinatra’s performances that day. The herd instinct railed; nobody got up to leave. The theater was cleared out finally by a host of ushers who would not let the crowd stay for the next performance. The only way to get back into the theater was by going outside again, standing once more on a long line one couldn’t see the end of, and risking frostbite. Weather forecasters had predicted a very cold evening, much colder than it had been during the day; just thinking about the weather in store made the pelts of our mouton lamb coats quiver. It was 4:30 and already getting dark. We rushed toward the subway station wishing we were back in Brooklyn already.

The long subway ride back to Brooklyn seemed shorter than usual, because Bobbie and 1 talked non-stop about Sinatra all the way to our station. Though it was warm in the train, I shivered in my coat when I thought about him. “He’s so skinny, so lovable,” I said. “Those cheekbones in that drawn face. Aren’t they beautiful?” “He’s a dream, that golden voice,” Bobbie mused. “Let’s go see him again next Saturday. Will your parents let you go to see him again?”

“They have no idea we went to see him today,” I said. “I told them we were going to the Brooklyn Academy of Music to hear an afternoon concert.” “That’s funny,” Bobbie said, “1 told my parents exactly the same thing?”

“What am you planning to do today?” my mother asked me the following Saturday morning. Before I could answer, she said, “Why don’t we go to the Cloisters?” “What?” I shouted, “spend my Saturday morning looking at medieval art?”

“What’s wrong with medieval art?” she persisted, knowing she didn’t have a ghost of a chance of persuading me to go to the Cloisters. It wasn’t out of spite; I just automatically started singing softly, “I Don’t Have a Ghost of a Chance With You,” one of Sinatra’s beauties.

“In answer to your question what’s wrong with medieval art,” I said testily, “It’s boring.”

“So what’s not boring?’ she continued patiently, irritating me.

“When Frank Sinatra sings.”

“Who?’ she said pretending not to know who he was. “Oh, I remember. The skinny fellow with the cheekbones who doesn’t eat enough.”

“That’s right,” I said, “the skinny fellow from Hoboken with the cheekbones.”

Bobbie and I went to the Paramount Theater again that Saturday. That was our last chance to see Sinatra, because he was leaving New York. Well, we had seen him, I tried to console myself; we bad been part of it all. I was convinced I would have a crush on him forever.



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if you dont get an answer try emailing them, i'm pretty sure he did record it.