Terry Clarke's music is infused with the warm, breezy subtleties of Johnny Mercer and Hoagy Carmichael and the rough-hewn, hard-living country of Johnny Cash. He has the kind of street poetry and vivid imagery at his fingertips that make a listener nostalgic for the golden age of the carefully weighted, finely drawn song. Whether he is calling up the spirit of the blues, tearing through a good, honest rock & roll song, introducing you to one of his flesh, blood and bone character studies or breaking your heart with a lonesome lament, his work has the weight of history behind it - the history that gave us Son House, Dion DiMucci, Springsteen, Johnny Cash, Jimmy Webb and Mercer - it was only a matter of time before he collected his thoughts and feelings about Mr Frank Sinatra, the most important singer and interpreter of song of the modern age. “But”, he says, “it takes a lot of years to work up the courage to approach Frank Sinatra. And even then, you should do it carefully. “But,” he adds. “If you do write with Frank Sinatra on your shoulder you have no constraints stylistically because he did everything. Musically he mapped every territory. These recordings comprise a 16 piece song cycle, observations of and impressions of the world and life of Frank Sinatra. Imaginings of a father talking to his children, the memories of Trini Lopez, the Frank Sinatra who was a painter and Clarke’s own time spent in Hoboken, New Jersey inform these songs. One song has him staking his claim on his life from the grave, another is a reverie for his love of desert life in Palm Springs. They speak of the man who could whisper a bossa nova or stand in front of Count Basie’s band and ride it like a rocket ship. It’s said that on Saint Patricks Day, everybody wants to be Irish … with bloodlines to Sligo on the west coast of Ireland, Clarke has that. If you grew to the groove of Dion and Frankie Valli you wished you had some Italian blood. Elvis loved Dean Martin and Mario Lanza in equal measure. David Bowie, Scott Walker, Jim Morrison and P.J. Proby are all Frank Sinatra’s children from Terry Clarke’s viewpoint.