Connie Francis just died. I guess I just feel that attention should be paid.
She had a tragic life off the stage and out of the recording studio. Her Old Country father ended her romance with the man she believed was the love of her life; she was raped; she had serious emotional traumas. But I felt she was the greatest of all female pop singers, country singers, rock singers—hell, the woman could just sing. And that sob in her voice! I confess, every time I hear “Where the Boys Are” or its sequel, “Follow the Boys,” I get a pang.
I would have loved to hear Connie and Linda Ronstadt in their primes have a sing-off.
Neil Sedaka is quoted today in the Times as observing, “What struck me was the purity of the voice, the emotion, the perfect pitch and intonation, It was clear, concise, beautiful. When she sang ballads, they just soared.”
They just soared. Connie Francis never found love: her two marriages were to manipulative jerks, and both ended in less than a year. Like so many great artists, her own life was often miserable but her art made life a little better for millions, including me.
Connie Francis could sing in many languages, but none suited her style better than Italian: her real name was Concetta Franconero, and she grew up in Newark’s Italian section. I first heard that version of “Where the Boys Are” this year, on Pat Boone’s Fifties radio show. Wow.
Goodbye Connie, and thanks.
You were loved!
[And as a curtain call, “Follow the Boys…”]









