[It can’t be coincidental that I am learning my first Sinatra tune on the guitar? What happens when “Play Loud, Play Fast, and Get the Hell Off the Stage meets Ol’ Blue Eyes? Maybe I’ll show you one of these days. SB SM]
When I Discovered Sinatra
March 19, 2026
https://christianmcbride1.substack.com/p/when-i-discovered-sinatra
For years, older jazz musicians kept telling me the same thing:
“You gotta learn the correct chord changes.”
The problem was… nobody seemed to agree on what the correct chord changes actually were.
As a 17- and 18-year-old jazz bassist newly exposed to the sharp teeth of the New York jazz scene, I stepped on plenty of landmines playing the wrong ones. Many nights, playing jam sessions at Augie’s, or later on at Bradley’s with someone like Larry Willis, John Hicks, James Williams, or George Coleman, an old standard would be called and I’d confidently play chord changes that came straight from some Blue Note record, a Miles or Coltrane record, or even The Real Book—the Cliff Notes for jazz musicians.
Apparently, songs I thought I knew well—My Funny Valentine, Misty, My Foolish Heart and plenty of others—were interpreted differently by almost everyone I played them with.
More than once, the set break would feature a lecture.
“You better learn the correct changes, man!”
It was driving me nuts.
But who actually played the correct changes?
Miles Davis himself took liberties with even Thelonious Monk’s tunes. Most of us played Miles’s changes because, well… it was Miles. Particularly at jam sessions, so many people went to G7 on the bridge of Monk’s “Well, You Needn’t.” Yes, I knew that what Monk wrote went to D-flat, but on gigs it was about fifty-fifty whether Monk’s changes actually got played.
It depended on whose gig it was.
I was going crazy trying to figure it out.
Then came Ray Brown.
Besides being the iconic bassist (and second dad) that he was, Ray had instant recall of hundreds of tunes. Watching him pull standards out of thin air was something to witness. When I got to know him better, I realized he might be the man who could finally crack this mystery for me.
So one day I asked him.
Who played the correct changes to these old standards I was trying to learn?
Oscar? Miles? Bird? Coltrane? Hank Jones? Tommy Flanagan?
Help!
Ray listened to my question and said something that changed my musical life.
“You have to listen to singers. You can’t just learn the changes—you have to learn the melody and the lyrics, too.”
The thought had never crossed my mind.
I had been so worried about screwing up the changes on any given gig that even when I played with singers, I wasn’t really listening to the melody or the words. I was watching the piano player. Or the guitarist.
So I asked Ray who I should start with.
He said, “Nat, Ella… and Frank.”
Nat “King” Cole and Ella Fitzgerald I understood. But Frank Sinatra?
Nobody I was playing with ever mentioned Sinatra.
I paused.
“Frank Sinatra? Really?”
Ray looked like he wanted to slap me silly.
“Yes. Frank Sinatra.”
If Ray Brown says listen to Sinatra, you listen to Sinatra.
When I asked where to start, he said, “Listen to any of the records he made with Count Basie. You’ll like those.”
So I went to Tower Records and bought as many Sinatra CD’s as I could carry.
What immediately struck me was that Frank recorded so many incredible versions of songs many instrumentalists considered old, worn-out jam session tunes.
But the real turning point came when I heard Sinatra sing “Stars Fell on Alabama.”
I had already recorded that tune on my debut CD “Gettin’ To It,” but the version I knew came from Cannonball Adderley.
Then I heard Frank sing the lyrics.
And suddenly it hit me.
So THIS is how it’s supposed to go.
I was embarrassed.
It turned out I didn’t really know the song at all.
We lived our little drama…
We kissed in a field of white…
And stars fell on Alabama…
Last night.
The timing.
The phrasing.
And yes—the changes.
Why hadn’t I learned this before?
Well, I was only twenty-two, so I forgive myself. ☺️
After that moment, I fell hard down the rabbit hole—Ella Fitzgerald, Nat King Cole, Billy Eckstine, Carmen McRae… and especially Ol’ Blue Eyes.
From then on, I paid attention to everything Frank sang: the lyrics, the emotion, and the harmonic movement underneath it all.
And that’s when the final revelation came.
Ready for this?
Almost nobody plays the right changes.
Most of the changes musicians play are variations on what the original, Broadway changes were. Depending on who you’re playing with, those “right” changes can vary. Cats just play what they like. And that’s fine!
In the bebop era, when Bird, Dizzy, Monk or Bud wanted to play a Broadway show tune, they’d custom tailor the chord changes to fit jazz improvisation. Somewhere along the way, those chord changes became the “right” changes.
And even those changes have evolved.
But technically, those aren’t the “right” changes. Not according to the original published scores of Cole Porter or Irving Berlin.
I remember once being at a soundcheck with the late, great guitarist Herb Ellis. He verbally pop-quizzed me.
“You know “Georgia On My Mind?”
“Yes, sir.”
“In C?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You know the correct bridge?”
(Pause. This feels like a trap.)
If that question had come from Hank Jones, it would have been followed with “Just in case you’re not sure, it goes like this…..”
I said, “Yes, I believe I know the correct bridge.”
Mr. Ellis says….
“Say them out loud. Bar by bar.”
(I knew this was a setup! 😡)
After I recited them, he says….
“Ok, you DO know it!”
🙄
I don’t blame Mr. Ellis. He wanted to make sure I wasn’t going to play some “too hip” sharp 5 substitutions while he and Hank played the traditional ones.
Know who you’re playing with.
But back to Frank and singers—especially the great ones—they hold the key to musical maturity.
If you really want to understand the harmony of a song, learn the melody. Learn the lyrics. Understand the story.
The melody is the navigation.
Not the other way around.
As I fell deeper down my Sinatra rabbit hole, I started buying DVD’s of his television specials from the 1960’s. One night I was watching his 1969 NBC special simply titled “Sinatra.” At one point the camera pans across the orchestra behind him.
And there, clear as day, was the bass player.
Ray Brown.
I nearly jumped out of my chair.
I called Ray and said, “You didn’t tell me you actually PLAYED with Sinatra!”
Ray, completely unfazed, said,
“Yeah, a bunch.” 😂
Turns out he played on several of Sinatra’s albums and television specials. He played on the “That’s Life” album, the “Sinatra & Company” album – he played on almost all of his NBC television specials in the late ’60s—including the 1967, ’68, and ’69 shows—and later on the Ol’ Blue Eyes Is Back special in 1973 (which was also the name of an album released that same year.) Years after that, he was even on Sinatra’s final collaboration with Quincy Jones, the album, L.A. Is My Lady.
My two heroes.
Together.
And suddenly it made even more sense that Ray had told me to listen to Frank.
He wasn’t just giving me advice.
He had already been standing right there behind him and every other singer he told me to listen to—taking it all in himself.
I would fall so deep into a Sinatra hole, that it would eventually lead me to friendships with his two daughters Tina and Nancy, and Willy Rizzo, whose father, Jilly, was Frank’s closest confidant for decades.
In 2015, I received a call for one of the most prestigious gigs of my career, when I was named musical director for the Sinatra Centennial celebration at the Hollywood Bowl, conducting and playing with none other than the Count Basie Orchestra led by Scotty Barnhart. Seth MacFarlane, Seu Jorge, Carmen Bradford, John Pizzarelli, Luciana Souza, Jose James, and Kurt Elling were among the many performers that evening.
We dedicated a specific segment of that concert to Frank’s work with the late, great Gene Kelly, showing clips from On The Town, Anchor’s Aweigh and Take Me Out To The Ball Game.
Patricia Ward-Kelly, Gene’s wife, was also in attendance that evening. I was able to introduce her to Cecilia Brown, Ray’s wife. They became good friends, too.
Ray Brown, Frank Sinatra… melodies, lyrics, chord changes—all of it somehow bringing people together.
And that’s when it really hit me.
All those years I spent worrying about the “right” changes…
The answer was never just in the harmony.
It was in the story.
The melody.
The words.
The feeling behind every note.
Ray wasn’t just teaching me how to play the right changes.
He was teaching me how to understand the music.
And once I finally heard Frank…
I understood.
Thank you, Ray.
Thank you, Frank.