Thinking back, they were the first pieces of vinyl I ever remember holding. They were my parents’, racked in a vinyl-coated, dark green box – with a cheap, goldish metal lock on the lid – just big enough to hold about 40 seven-inch singles. There were all sorts of singles in there, all in thin, brightly coloured paper sleeves, and most looked as though they’d been imported from America: Frank Sinatra; the Beatles; country star Roger Miller; folk “sensations” the Seekers; Dutch calypso duo Nina & Frederik; one-hit wonders Esther & Abi Ofarim (“Cinderella Rockefella”);
R&B singer Georgie Fame; and my mother’s favourite, Dean Martin.
Back in the Sixties, Dino was the man. Even though the world was being overrun with longhairs, guitar solos, free love and dope, most people’s idea of cool was bound up in a 6’, olive-skinned Italian-American named Dean Martin (that “personable baritone of Latin caste”, as an early review referred to him). Girls liked him, guys liked him and – more importantly, as far as I was concerned – Mum liked him.
Now, you might think you’re cool. You might be standing there in front of your full-length, bulb-lined, lava lamp-shaped mirror, in your one-button, peak-lapel, rope-shouldered, mohair, midnight-blue two-piece feeling enormously pleased with yourself. You might be admiring your brand-spanking-new patent leather loafers, high-collared shirt and skinny matt-black tie and feeling enormously smug. You’ve just been given a pair of Thomas Pink gold-bullion cuff links by your significant other, you’ve managed to approximate a fairly convincing spotted pocket handkerchief (the right way up this time), you’ve treated yourself to a new watch with a face the size of Belgium and all is well with the world.
But let me tell you my friend – you have nothing on Debonair Dino. He might not have been the Voice (he was never as dextrous as Sinatra), might not have been
the King (although Elvis copied his singing style wholesale), but he was the coolest man to ever wear a tux and, compared to him, you look about as cool as Jabba the
Hutt in a hoodie. Or a shell suit. Or anything previously worn by John McCririck.
Dean Martin invented cool. For 20 years, from the late Forties to the end of the Sixties, he was the epitome of louche sang-froid, a singer, actor and genuine star who conquered Hollywood, television and Tin Pan Alley. He was the first man to enjoy stardom on all four fronts: stage, records, television and films. If anyone epitomised the age-old adage, “It’s better to be born lucky than smart”, it was Dean Martin. He liked a drink; indeed, towards the end of his career it was his defining characteristic, and he was rarely seen on television without a drink of some sort in his hand (his personalised number plate read “DRUNKY”). And he liked his women. But most of all, he liked breezing through life without a care in the world. He was a star not just because he could sing well or act appealingly, but because he was the epitome of relaxed, funny sexiness – in
a word that first came into vogue during his rise, he was Cool. Cap C, double O.
You can read the full article in the August 2008 issue of GQ.