#0001: Frank Sinatra - In The Wee Small Hours (1955) [**]

...and I don't think I'll ever forget having listened to this one.  It is an arduous listen.  Drawling strings and painfully laborious vocals slowly torture each of the songs in turn in one continuous magma flow of melancholy.  It's not just that the album lacks variety.  Tender ballads, mournful laments and angst ridden dirges can all be wonderful listening experiences but don't let them drag.

Truly brilliant songs like What Is This Thing Called Love and Mood Indigo are butchered right in front of your ears.  Although the introductions and some of the incidental work is quite nice, it is Sinatra's balefully dull phrasing that puts the kibosh on any hope I had of enjoying them.

Two stars.  One for the notable orchestral moments and the other out of respect for the dead: i.e. those less fortunate than myself for whom the listening experience proved fatal.