Past column in the Daily Pennsylvanian
From Malik Wilson's, "RosZ", Fall '99
From Malik Wilson's, "RosZ", Fall '99
On the surface, Tupac Shakur and Frank Sinatra could not have any less in common.
It seems almost anachronistic to talk about them within the same sentence. Sinatra's rat pack included Dean Martin and Sammy Davis Jr. Shakur's rat pack included Dr. Dre and Snoop Doggy Dog.
If Tupac's life seemed more out of control, if the choices he made seemed more painfully short-sighted, if the music he made seemed flagrantly violent -- it is because it was. Because his life and his times were more more desperately chaotic. Because death really was waiting behind every corner.
Tupac Shakur's world was more Jesse James than James Cagney, more movie-like than any of his movies. Tupac existed in a time and in a culture in which the physical immediacy of violence had to be displayed as prominently as the tattoos across his chest. Where one's manliness was determined by the damage you could potentially do, not by what your friends would do.
Gone was the casual swagger of manliness, the subtle hint of danger. In came the loud footsteps of confrontation, the wild glare of youth.
But Sinatra, beneath the evening clothes and innocent lyrics, represented something dangerous as well. To mainstream America, he was the embodiment of the hotblooded youthfulness that was jeopardizing a way of life.
In August of 1943, a letter arrived in Washington from an undisclosed writer. "The other day I turned on a Frank Sinatra program and I noted the shrill whistling sound, created supposedly by a bunch of girls cheering. I believe that those who are using this shrill whistling sounds are aware that it is similar to that which produced Hitler. That they intend to get a Hitler in by first planting in the minds of the people that men like Frank Sinatra are O.K. therefore this future Hitler will be O.K." This letter was the first placed in file #62-83219, dedicating to gathering information on the subject of Francis Albert Sinatra.
Over the next 40 years, the FBI would continue to add information to the file, information concerning Sinatra's associations with the Communist party, his fraternizing with mob bosses and his behavior in general.
Sinatra himself would never have posed with a gun in his hand. But to the degree that Sinatra could surround himself with men who did carry guns, he did.
Sinatra and Lucky Luciano, founder of the modern mafia, vacationed together in Havana in the '40s. During the '50s and '60s, Sinatra continued his infamous friendships with mobsters, often staying at the home of Sam Giancana, the boss of the Chicago mob. John Kennedy, who was friends with Sinatra and had stayed at his home, ended the friendship when rumors of a possible link between Kennedy, Sinatra and Giancana threatened to shake up the presidency.
Tupac never slept at the White House but he certainly had Washington's attention. In 1992, when the attorney of a Texas teenager accused of shooting a state trooper blamed his client's behavior on the Tupac Shakur CD in his tape deck, Dan Quayle denounced Shakur, noting that "this music has no place in our society." Both Tupac and Sinatra lived on the edges of that society and both had their share of run-ins with those assigned to keep society in line.
In 1938, Sinatra was arrested on what was then called a "morals charge" -- the police accused him of sleeping with a woman and promising to marry her before dumping her. In 1947, Frank Sinatra slugged a New York reporter and broke his nose. He found his writing to be "unfair" and "insulting." Constantly offering his middle finger as a statement, Shakur was also known to spit on reporters.
Tupac Shakur knew, like Frank Sinatra knew, that to be loved as a man, in the vaunted tradition of American men, meant staring harsh realities in the face and sticking up your middle finger. For Sinatra, the act was metaphorical, displayed by his unaffected posture, his don't-give-a-damn attitude, his insistence on hanging out with gangsters. For Tupac, it was real, captured on film and shown as his definitive moment. Both became famous for their uncompromising refusal to be wrong.
One man's stardom would become an epic odyssey spanning some 50 years. Another man's stardom would be eclipsed by violence at the tender age of 25. Their low points seemed achingly low, their high points unreachably high. Their tumultuous journey from success to failure and back to success only further convinced us of the inevitability of their triumph.
And more, what's more than that, they did it their way.
It seems almost anachronistic to talk about them within the same sentence. Sinatra's rat pack included Dean Martin and Sammy Davis Jr. Shakur's rat pack included Dr. Dre and Snoop Doggy Dog.
If Tupac's life seemed more out of control, if the choices he made seemed more painfully short-sighted, if the music he made seemed flagrantly violent -- it is because it was. Because his life and his times were more more desperately chaotic. Because death really was waiting behind every corner.
Tupac Shakur's world was more Jesse James than James Cagney, more movie-like than any of his movies. Tupac existed in a time and in a culture in which the physical immediacy of violence had to be displayed as prominently as the tattoos across his chest. Where one's manliness was determined by the damage you could potentially do, not by what your friends would do.
Gone was the casual swagger of manliness, the subtle hint of danger. In came the loud footsteps of confrontation, the wild glare of youth.
But Sinatra, beneath the evening clothes and innocent lyrics, represented something dangerous as well. To mainstream America, he was the embodiment of the hotblooded youthfulness that was jeopardizing a way of life.
In August of 1943, a letter arrived in Washington from an undisclosed writer. "The other day I turned on a Frank Sinatra program and I noted the shrill whistling sound, created supposedly by a bunch of girls cheering. I believe that those who are using this shrill whistling sounds are aware that it is similar to that which produced Hitler. That they intend to get a Hitler in by first planting in the minds of the people that men like Frank Sinatra are O.K. therefore this future Hitler will be O.K." This letter was the first placed in file #62-83219, dedicating to gathering information on the subject of Francis Albert Sinatra.
Over the next 40 years, the FBI would continue to add information to the file, information concerning Sinatra's associations with the Communist party, his fraternizing with mob bosses and his behavior in general.
Sinatra himself would never have posed with a gun in his hand. But to the degree that Sinatra could surround himself with men who did carry guns, he did.
Sinatra and Lucky Luciano, founder of the modern mafia, vacationed together in Havana in the '40s. During the '50s and '60s, Sinatra continued his infamous friendships with mobsters, often staying at the home of Sam Giancana, the boss of the Chicago mob. John Kennedy, who was friends with Sinatra and had stayed at his home, ended the friendship when rumors of a possible link between Kennedy, Sinatra and Giancana threatened to shake up the presidency.
Tupac never slept at the White House but he certainly had Washington's attention. In 1992, when the attorney of a Texas teenager accused of shooting a state trooper blamed his client's behavior on the Tupac Shakur CD in his tape deck, Dan Quayle denounced Shakur, noting that "this music has no place in our society." Both Tupac and Sinatra lived on the edges of that society and both had their share of run-ins with those assigned to keep society in line.
In 1938, Sinatra was arrested on what was then called a "morals charge" -- the police accused him of sleeping with a woman and promising to marry her before dumping her. In 1947, Frank Sinatra slugged a New York reporter and broke his nose. He found his writing to be "unfair" and "insulting." Constantly offering his middle finger as a statement, Shakur was also known to spit on reporters.
Tupac Shakur knew, like Frank Sinatra knew, that to be loved as a man, in the vaunted tradition of American men, meant staring harsh realities in the face and sticking up your middle finger. For Sinatra, the act was metaphorical, displayed by his unaffected posture, his don't-give-a-damn attitude, his insistence on hanging out with gangsters. For Tupac, it was real, captured on film and shown as his definitive moment. Both became famous for their uncompromising refusal to be wrong.
One man's stardom would become an epic odyssey spanning some 50 years. Another man's stardom would be eclipsed by violence at the tender age of 25. Their low points seemed achingly low, their high points unreachably high. Their tumultuous journey from success to failure and back to success only further convinced us of the inevitability of their triumph.
And more, what's more than that, they did it their way.
