Frank The voice

Review by New York Times Review

The first volume of a new Frank Sinatra biography charts his rise, fall and comeback. ELVIS PRESLEY, Marilyn Monroe, Maria Callas, Judy Garland, Jack Kerouac: these and other giants of popular culture were long ago explored to death, yet biographers keep struggling to give the old stories a new spin. With most of the eyewitnesses gone, however, and the tattered clippings picked dry, writers are left to "reinterpret" the facts, leaning heavily on imagination. Many of their books enter a gray zone of shady credibility. In 1947, when Frank Sinatra was only 32, the New Yorker writer E. J. Kahn Jr. wrote the first book about him, "The Voice: The Story of an American Phenomenon." Kahn quotes a journalist who said foreknowingly, "Perhaps Frankie is more important a symbol than most of us are aware." Since then, dozens more authors have tried to crack the mystique of a star who barely made a move that wouldn't be deemed historic. Aside from revolutionizing the art of popular singing - which he took from strident and bravura to the most nuanced form of storytelling - Sinatra redefined prevailing notions of masculinity. His balance of tough, tender and cool made him the heterosexual male's ultimate role model. For women, he was the ideal: a sensitive man's man. His life is a biographer's field day. Among its details are a Hoboken upbringing with an abortionist mother; the hard-scrabble but exciting swing era, which ignited his career; his ascent to superstardom in the war years, when he awakened the lust in countless screaming girls; the youthful marriage (to the long-suffering homebody Nancy Barbato) that was torn asunder by Ava Gardner, over whom he attempted suicide. Mafia ties, arrests and other scandals kept his hands dirty for years. For an author to tackle this epic again would require, at the very least, a lot of nerve. And nerve is everywhere in the newest effort by James Kaplan, co-author of memoirs by John McEnroe ("You Cannot Be Serious") and Jerry Lewis ("Dean and Me"). "Frank: The Voice" takes more than 700 pages to tell half the story: that of Sinatra's rise, his late-1940s career crash and his phoenix-like rebirth in 1954, when he claimed an Oscar for best supporting actor in "From Here to Eternity." (Kaplan is now at work on Volume 2.) There's scarcely a fresh tidbit here; the source notes list fewer than 20 original interviews, while the bibliography contains about 125 books. But "Frank: The Voice" is more about the voice of its author, who sets out to view the familiar tale through a lens like none other. His goal, the publisher says, is to "make . . . the reader feel what it was really like to be Frank Sinatra." The tools he uses are questionable. They include relentless psychoanalyzing and mind reading, even to the point of putting words in his subjects' brains. (From the onetime Sinatra rival Eddie Fisher, who apparently wasn't interviewed for the book, Kaplan clairvoyantly draws the following: "Remember me. I used to be huge.") The author becomes a fly on the wall of ages-old bedrooms, boardrooms and verandas, observing and overhearing things no one ever reported. The good news is that Kaplan can tell a story. His passion for Sinatra keeps the narrative flowing; he's equally fascinated by his subject's seamy and artistic sides; and he evokes period atmosphere well. While adding nothing new to our understanding of Sinatra's singing, he offers a fair synthesis of whai's already been said. But the biographical content has grown hoary through overtelling, and Kaplan strains to pump new life into it. He tarts up his lines with profanities and Sinatra-like snarling: "He made good and goddamn sure that he understood the words to every song he sang." Kaplan grasps for pulp-novel intrigue: Los Angeles in 1947, he says, is "a city rife with decadence, moral ambiguity, drug use, racial tension and police corruption." Clichés pile into the hundreds; hyperbole flies. Of Sinatra's first big break, as Harry James's vocalist, Kaplan writes: "The singer was a genius, the trumpeter-leader a kind of genius. The band was terrific." Sometimes an eloquent passage pops out of nowhere, like his assessment of Bing Crosby's vocal breakthroughs, which laid the foundation ior Sinatra's style. "Under the old show-business conventions," Kaplan writes, "a certain remove from the audience, in the form of 'classiness,' as exemplified by heightened diction, was a quality to be cultivated. Bing Crosby caplured America's heart as no entertainer had ever done before by removing the remove, by seeming the most common of men." But such insights seem inspired by a book he calls "superb," Gary Giddins's mammoth biography, "Bing Crosby: A Pocketful of Dreams: The Early Years, 1903-1940." And Kaplan's reliability is no match for Giddins's. Kaplan notes that Sinatra rumors would keep gurgling up "like malodorous bubbles in a swamp," yet the whiff of the apocryphal rises often from these pages. Telling of Sinatra's trip to Havana in 1947, he drops this uncredited teaser: "There was even allegedly an orgy in his suite - 12 naked women, a number of gangsters, plenty of alcohol." Three pages later, rumor becomes truth: "On Feb. 14, the day an orgy unfortunately detained him in Havana. . . ." Semifictionalizing is a standard device in celebrity bios, and it happens here in every chapter. Kaplan recalls Sinatra's youthful stint as a singing waiter in a New Jersey nightspot, the Rustic Cabin: "The place oozed sex, and Frankie, showing the giggly couples to their booths in his waiter's outfit, felt horny just being there. It showed in his voice." He takes us into bed with Frank and Ava for a love scene worthy of a Harlequin romance: "They lay together quietly. . . . With the wind swishing through the pines, it seemed they could hear the earth turning. . . . She got up on one elbow and looked down at him, her hair falling over one eye." The author's own enrapturement with his subject can take amusing forms. Sinatra's "extraordinary endowment," as he puts it, moves Kaplan - a husband and father of three - to rhapsodize for over a page. Elsewhere, he marvels at Sinatra's "voluptuously beautiful" mouth and "extravagantly sensual lower lip." If nothing else, "Frank: The Voice" helps prove that a dozen years after his death, Sinatra is still setting both sexes aflame. No book has done eqtial justice to the personal, historical and musical depth of his story, but several deliver in their own ways. For sheer dish, nothing can top Kitty Kelley's "His Way: The Unauthorized Biography of Frank Sinatra." If some of her sources were dubious, Kelley's intentions never were: she bulldozed her way through his messy life, without feigning a shred of interest in his art. George Jacobs, his longtime valet, offered a true insider's view in the frequently hilarious "Mr. S: My Life With Frank Sinatra." Will Friedwald's "Sinatra! The Song fs You: A Singer's Art" boasts interviews with numerous musicians who recorded with the star. For the recent "Sinatra in Hollywood," Tom Santopietro pored over his subject's film work and found subtleties that no other author had. Those who know little of Sinatra's history probably won't care where Kaplan got his material; they may not even mind his shameless flights of fancy. "When the legend becomes fact, print the legend," he writes. His book made me wonder: should fantasy figures like Sinatra be fair game for this biopic approach to the truth? Any responsible biographer, I think, would have to answer no. James Gavin's most recent book is "Stormy Weather: The Life of Lena Horne." Sinatra was the heterosexual male's ultimate role model; for women, he was the ideal: a sensitive man's man.

Copyright (c) The New York Times Company [April 7, 2019]

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Review by Booklist Review

*Starred Review* Like Gary Giddins' masterful Bing Crosby: A Pocketful of Dreams (2001), Kaplan's fascinating account of Frank Sinatra from his birth in 1915 through 1954, when he won the Academy Award for Best Supporting Actor in From Here to Eternity, encompasses far more than the early life of a singing star. Giddins told the story of how Crosby invented popular singing, and Kaplan shows how Sinatra built on what Bing created a vocal style based on intimacy and naturalness by adding a unique blend of vulnerability and swagger ( Nobody got his personality into a song like Sinatra ) that produced our first teen idol, a precursor to both Elvis and the Beatles. But where Crosby was cool, Sinatra was volcanic ( the overaggressive, loud-talking bantamweight who snarls to hide his terror ), and that tempestuousness made his personal life a gossip columnist's dream. Kaplan tracks it all, separating truth from hyperbole and supplying astute psychological analysis: Sinatra's relationship with bandleader Tommy Dorsey (not quite as portrayed in The Godfather); his horrendous career slump in the late 1940s and early 1950s, only reversed by landing the role in Eternity; the crazed womanizing; and, of course, the passionate but doomed love affair with Ava Gardner, a star who burned as bright, drank as hard, and fought her perceived inadequacy every bit as violently as Sinatra. Kaplan vividly transforms the Sinatra-Gardner romance into something between a heavyweight championship bout and a tragedy of operatic proportions, something so much grander than the comparatively mundane couplings of the Brads and Angelinas who pass as stars today. For anyone who wants to know what popular culture and celebrity felt like around the middle of the twentieth century, this book is the new bible.--Ott, Bill Copyright 2010 Booklist

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.

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Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

In this riveting and fast-paced biography, Kaplan, coauthor with Jerry Lewis of Dean and Me, chronicles Sinatra's somewhat unlikely meteoric ascent to success, his failures, and his rebirth as a star of song and screen. With exhaustive, and sometimes exhausting, detail, Kaplan engagingly re-creates the young Sinatra's childhood in Hoboken, N.J., where young Frank was born, in 1915. By the time he was 12, Sinatra was singing for quarters on top of the piano in the bar in his father's tavern. At 21, Frankie joined a group that became known as the Hoboken Four, and everyone soon recognized Sinatra's great vocal gift. Kaplan expertly conducts us on a journey through Sinatra's early years with Tommy Dorsey and his long solo career; Sinatra's first marriage to Nancy Barbato and his more famous marriage to Ava Gardner; and through Sinatra's movie career and his rebirth in the early 1950s. Although Sinatra's career often faltered in the late 1940s, his partnership with Nelson Riddle and the release of the song "Young at Heart" in 1953 began Sinatra's comeback. Kaplan's enthralling tale of an American icon serves as an introduction of "old blue eyes" to a new generation of listeners while winning the hearts of Sinatra's diehard fans. (Nov.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

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Review by Library Journal Review

Singer and pop icon Frank Sinatra is hardly a neglected personage. While novelist and celebrity coauthor Kaplan (Dean & Me, with Jerry Lewis; You Cannot Be Serious, with John McEnroe) clearly respects Sinatra's enormous talent, the hagiographic tone common in Sinatra books is absent here, though he is not as negative as Anthony Summers and Robyn Swan (Sinatra: The Life). Kaplan covers Sinatra's life from his birth in 1915 until the resurrection of his career in 1954 (when he won an Oscar for his role as Maggio in From Here to Eternity). His youth, persistence in pursuing a singing career, relationships with women, work with bandleader Tommy Dorsey, the controversial reversal of his draft status during World War II, and relationships with musicians and mafiosi are all presented with panache and clarity. VERDICT While this book may be the fullest account of Sinatra's first 40 years, libraries will want to have other books-perhaps Richard Havers's Sinatra-for covering his career and more in-depth analysis of his music and films.-Bruce R. Schueneman, Texas A&M Univ. Lib., Kingsville (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

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Review by Kirkus Book Review

For better and worse, this ambitiously epic biography of Frank Sinatra (19151998) reads like a movie biopic.Over the course of nearly 700 pages, biographer Kaplan (co-author, with Jerry Lewis: Dean and Me, 2005, etc.) brings his subject up to 1954, when his Oscar-winning role in From Here to Eternity revived a career that had been on the skids (with the likes of Eddie Fisher and Perry Como far exceeding his popularity). So, is there anything new to say about 'Ol Blue Eyes? Not really, as the author draws heavily fromand frequently provides commentary onmany previous Sinatra biographies, as well as those of other crucial figures in his life, including Ava Gardner, Lana Turner et al. The distinguishing features of Kaplan's narrative are its psychological focus on the domineering mother who shaped the singer's psyche and its attempt to craft a literary style that echoes Sinatra's. Thus the author describes Gardner in her first encounter with Sinatra as "curvy, fleshy in just the right places" and later as "a sexual volcano [who] ruled him in bed." The inscrutable smile of Nancy Sinatra, the singer's first wife, "reminded him of that chick in the painting by da Vinci." His response to the passing of FDR: "death was such a strange thing: it gave him the creeps." And his reaction to the playback of "I've Got the World on a String," his revitalizing triumph with arranger Nelson Riddle: "'Jesus Christ,' he breathed, almost prayerfully, his eyes wide and blazing. "I'm back! I'm back, baby, I'm back!' " Whether readers find that such stylistic flair enhances the narrative or compromises its credibility, Kaplan humanizes his subject, illuminating both the insecure man and the artistic genius.Ring-a-ding-ding!]] Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

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1 A raw December Sunday afternoon in 1915, a day more like the old century than the new among the wood-frame tenements and horse-shit- flecked cobblestones of Hoboken's Little Italy, a.k.a. Guinea Town. The air smells of coal smoke and imminent snow. The kitchen of the cold-water flat on Monroe Street is full of women, all gathered around a table, all shouting at once. On the table lies a copper- haired girl, just nineteen, hugely pregnant. She moans hoarsely: the labor has stalled. The midwife wipes the poor girl's brow and motions with her other hand. A doctor is sent for. Ten long minutes later he arrives, removes his overcoat, and with a stern look around the room- he is the lone male present-opens his black bag. From the shining metallic array inside he removes his dreaded obstetric forceps, a medieval-looking instrument, and grips the baby with it, pulling hard from the mother's womb, in the violent process fearfully tearing the left side of the child's face and neck, as well as its left ear. The doctor cuts the cord and lays the infant-a boy, huge and blue and bleeding from his wounds, and apparently dead-by the kitchen sink, quickly shifting his efforts to saving the nearly unconscious mother's life. The women lean in, mopping the mother's pallid face, shouting advice in Italian. One at the back of the scrum-perhaps the mother's mother, perhaps someone else-looks at the inert baby and takes pity. She picks it up, runs some ice-cold water from the sink over it, and slaps its back. It starts, snuffles, and begins to howl. Mother and child both survived, but neither ever forgot the brutality of that December day. Frank Sinatra bore the scars of his birth, both physical and psychological, to the end of his years. A bear-rug- cherubic baby picture shot a few weeks after he was born was purposely taken from his right side, since the wounds on the left side of his face and neck were still angry-looking. Throughout Sinatra's vastly documented life, he would rarely-especially if he had anything to do with it-be photographed from his left. One scar, hard to disguise (though frequently airbrushed), ran diagonally from the lower-left corner of his mouth to his jawline. His ear on that side had a bifurcated lobe-the classic cauliflower-but that was the least of it: the delicate ridges and planes of his left outer ear were mashed, giving the appearance, in early pictures, of an apricot run over by a steamroller. The only connection between the sonic world and the external auditory meatus-the ear hole-was a vertical slit. Later plastic surgery would correct the problem to some extent. That wasn't all. In childhood, a mastoid operation would leave a thick ridge of scar tissue on his neck behind the ear's base. A severe case of cystic acne in adolescence compounded his sense of disfigurement: as an adult, he would apply Max Factor pancake makeup to his face and neck every morning and again after each of the several showers he took daily. Sinatra later told his daughter Nancy that when he was eleven, after some playmates began to call him "Scarface," he went to the house of the physician who had delivered him, determined to give the good doctor a good beating. Fortunately, the doctor wasn't home. Even when he was in his early forties, on top of the world and in the midst of an artistic outpouring unparalleled in the history of popular music, the birth trauma-and his mother-were very much on Sinatra's mind. Once, in a moment of extraordinary emotional nakedness, the singer opened up very briefly to a lover. "They weren't thinking about me," he said bitterly. "They were just thinking about my mother. They just kind of ripped me out and tossed me aside." He was talking to Peggy Connelly, a young singer whom he met in 1955 and who, for almost three years at the apex of his career, would be as close to him as it was possible for anyone to be. The scene was Madrid, in the spring of 1956: Sinatra was in Spain shooting a movie he had little taste for. One night in a small nightclub, as he and the twenty-four-year-old Connelly sat in the dark at the edge of the dance floor, she caressed his left cheek, but when her fingertips touched his ear, he flinched. She asked him what was wrong, and he admitted he was sensitive about his deformity. "I really don't think I had ever noticed it, truly," Connelly said many years later. "This was early on in our relationship." Sinatra then went on to spill out the whole story of his birth: his great weight (thirteen and a half pounds), the ripping forceps, the way he'd essentially been left for dead. "There was no outburst of emotion," Connelly recalled. "There was [instead] an obvious lingering bitterness about what he felt had been a stupid neglect of his infant self to concentrate only on [his] mother, intimating that he was sort of 'ripped from her entrails' and tossed aside; otherwise his torn ear might have been tended to." In the years immediately following the harrowing birth of her only child, Dolly Sinatra seems to have compensated in her own way: she became a midwife and sometime abortionist. For the latter activity she got a nickname ("Hatpin Dolly") and a criminal record. And while she sometimes refused to accept payment for terminating pregnancies, she could afford the generosity: her legitimate business of midwifery, at $50 per procedure, a substantial sum at the time, helped support her family in handsome fashion. Strikingly, two of her arrests, one in late 1937 and one in February 1939 (just three weeks after her son's wedding), neatly bracketed Frank Sinatra's own two arrests, in November and December 1938, for the then-criminal offenses of (in the first case) seduction and (in the second) adultery. Also remarkable is that all these Sinatra arrests were sex related-and that none of them would have occurred today. What was happening in this family? To begin to answer the question, we have to cast ourselves back into the knockabout Italian streets of Hoboken in the 1920s and 1930s-and into the thoroughly unpsychological household of Dolly and Marty Sinatra. But while it's easy to wonder what effect growing up in such a household could have had on an exquisitely sensitive genius (which Frank Sinatra indisputably was), we must also remember that he was cut from the same cloth as his parents-especially his mother, a woman he seems to have hated and loved, avoided and sought out, in equal measures, throughout his life; a woman whose personality was uncomfortably similar to his own. The first mystery is what brought two such disparate characters as Natalina Garaventa and Anthony Martin Sinatra together in the first place. Dolly (she acquired the nickname as a little girl, for being so pretty) was, even as a very young woman, loud, relentlessly foulmouthed, brilliant (she had a natural facility for languages), and toweringly ambitious. So-to what kind of star did she imagine she was hitching her wagon when she went after (for she must have been the aggressor in the relationship) Marty Sinatra? For he was a lug: a sweet lug, maybe, but a lug nevertheless. Short, with an obstinate-looking underbite and an early-receding hairline. A fair bantamweight prizefighter (he billed himself as Marty O'Brien, because of the anti-Italian prejudice of the times), frequently unemployed, who sometimes moonlighted as a chauffeur to make ends meet. A little man who had his arms covered in tattoos to try to look tough. Asthmatic; illiterate all his life. And exceedingly stingy with words. In his sixties, Frank Sinatra recalled listening to his parents through the bedroom wall. "Sometimes I'd be lying awake in the dark and I'd hear them talking," he said. "Or rather, I'd hear her talking and him listening. Mostly it was politics or some worthless neighbor. I remember her ranting about how Sacco and Vanzetti were framed. Because they were Italians. Which was probably true. All I'd hear from my father was like a grunt_._._._He'd just say, Eh. Eh." It's difficult to extract much personality from the few stories told about the elder Sinatra. He seems to have had a wry and quiet sense of humor, and photographs of him as a young man appear to bear this out-it's a sweet, though dim, face. Nancy Sinatra, in Frank Sinatra, My Father, tries to paint her grandfather as a lovable practical joker: There was the time Marty gave a pal a laxative and spread glue on the outhouse toilet seat. And then there was Marty's revenge on a deadbeat barkeep who tried to pay off a debt to him with a sick horse instead of cash: her grandfather, Nancy says, walked the horse to the saloon in the middle of the night and shot it dead in the doorway, leaving the carcass as a discouragement to business. Rough humor! The joke has a Sicilian tinge to it, and Sicily is where Marty came from, in 1903, aged nine, when he landed at Ellis Island with his mother and two little sisters to join his father, Francesco Sinatra, who-in the common practice of the day-had arrived in America three years earlier to establish himself. Dolly Garaventa's people were from the north of Italy, near Genoa. And the ancient, deeply held social prejudice on the part of northern Italians toward southerners makes it doubly difficult to imagine what was on her mind when, at sixteen, she set her cap for the eighteen- year-old Marty. Was it irresistible attraction? Or adolescent rebellion-the chance to stick it to her parents, the lure of the bad boy? It's said that little Dolly (she was under five feet, and just ninety pounds) used to disguise herself as a boy to sneak into Marty's prizefights, her strawberry blond hair stuffed into a newsboy cap, a cigar stuck in her mouth: a sweet story, with a ring of truth about it, bespeaking her willfulness, her force. And her originality. Against her family's outcry (and probably at her urging), the two eloped, ages seventeen and nineteen, and were married at the Jersey City city hall on Valentine's Day (a holiday that would loom large at two junctures in Frank Sinatra's first marriage) 1913. On the marriage certificate, Marty gave his occupation as athlete. In truth, he only ate regularly because his parents owned a grocery store. Soon the couple made it up with her parents, got remarried in the church, and set up housekeeping in the cold-water flat at 415 Monroe Street. Every family is a mystery, but some are more mysterious than others. After Dolly and Marty Sinatra's only child was born, theirs was a centrifugal household. Family lore says that the birth rendered Dolly unable to have more children, but it seems equally likely she simply decided-she was a decider-she didn't want to go through that again. Besides, she had many other fish to fry. Her skill with Italian dialects and her fluency in English led her to become a facilitator for new immigrants who had court business, such as trying to get citizenship papers. Her appearances in court brought her to the attention of local Democratic politicians-the Irish bosses of Hoboken- who, impressed by the force of her personality and her connection with the community, saw in her a natural ward leader. Soon she was getting out votes, petitioning city hall (as part of a demonstration for suffrage in 1919, she chained herself to the building's fence), campaigning for candidates, collecting favors. All the while roaming the streets of Hoboken with her black midwife's bag. It all meant she simply wasn't at home very much. In any case, home wasn't the place for Dolly: she was out, not in; she had the politician's temperament-restless, energetic, unreflective. And she had unique ideas about child rearing. Of course, to present-day sensibilities filled with the art and science of what we now call parenting, child rearing in the early twentieth century has a distinctly primitive look to it. Poor and lower-middle-class families were large, and with the parents either working or simply exhausted, the older children-or the streets-frequently raised the young. Neither was an option for Frank Sinatra. As an only child in Hoboken in the 1920s and 1930s, he was an anomaly. His mother paid him both too much attention and too little. Having wanted a girl, she dressed him in pink baby clothes. Once he was walking, there were Little Lord Fauntleroy outfits. He was the apple of his parents' eye and their ball and chain. Dolly had babies or votes to deliver; Marty had things to do. Italian men left the house whether they were employed or not, if only to sit somewhere and sip a beverage with pals. Late in the second decade of the twentieth century, Dolly borrowed money from her family, and she and Marty bought a bar, on the corner of Jefferson and Fourth, which they called Marty O'Brien's. While they ran the place, little Frankie was looked after by his grandmother or a cousin or, most regularly, a nice Jewish neighbor named Mrs. Golden. She taught him Yiddish. When Dolly was with her son, she alternately coddled him-beautiful clothes continued to be a theme-and abused him. In those days it was known as discipline. The child was spirited, and so was the mother. It's a miracle the child kept his spirit. Dolly once pushed her son down a flight of stairs, knocking him unconscious. She playfully ducked his head under the ocean waves, terrifying him (remarkably, he became an expert swimmer). And most regularly, she hit him with a stick. It was a small bat, actually, something like a policeman's nightstick: it was kept behind the bar at Marty O'Brien's. "When I would get out of hand," Sinatra told Pete Hamill, "she would give me a rap with that little club; then she'd hug me to her breast." "She was a pisser," he recollected to Shirley MacLaine. "She scared the shit outta me. Never knew what she'd hate that I'd do." If the primary intimacy was up for grabs, so was every subsequent relationship: Sinatra would feel ambivalent about women until the end of his days. He would show every lover something of what Dolly had shown him. It seems straight out of a textbook: an only child, both spoiled and neglected, praised to the skies and viciously cut down when he fails to please, grows up suffering an infinite neediness, an inability to be alone, and cycles of grandiosity and bottomless depression. "I think my dad desperately wanted to do the best he could for the people he loved," Tina Sinatra writes, "but ultimately he would do what he needed to do for himself. (In that, he was his mother's son.)" Yet that doesn't quite tell the whole story. Yes, Frank Sinatra was born with a character (inevitably) similar to Dolly's, but nature is only half the equation. Frank Sinatra did what he needed to do for himself because he had learned from earliest childhood to trust no one-even the one in whom he should have been able to place ultimate trust. Excerpted from Frank: The Voice by James Kaplan All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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