Imagine a hushed, smoke-filled Hollywood nightclub, one-thirty in the morning, 1965. From a corner booth, Frank Sinatra signals for a last round as a combo takes the small stage to close the night out with a loose, sexy half-hour set of Cole Porter standards. Russ Freeman slumps at the piano, delicately leading the way. Bud Shank closes his eyes and weaves his typically fluid sax lines, while the great Joe Pass follows on guitar. And at the microphone, smooth-as-silk, cool-as-ice, Julie London, enthrallingly world-weary, deliciously pitch-perfect. Who could ask for more?
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