(August 2, 1943)

In CBS's Manhattan playhouse, at the Paramount, at the Lucky Strike Hit Parade, hundreds of little long-haired, round-faced girls in bobby socks sat transfixed. They were worshipers of one Francis Albert Sinatra, crooner extraordinary. Their idol, a gaunt young man (25), looked as if he could stand a square meal and considerable mothering. A composite picture of his idolaters' reactions to his public appearances last week:

As Sinatra intoned Night-And-Day-You-Are-The-One, the juvenile assemblage squealed "Ohhhhhhh!" He aimed his light blue eyes and careless locks at a front row devotee. It was too much; she shrieked: "Frankie, you're killing me!"

Cocking his head, hunching his shoulders, caressing the microphone, Sinatra slid into She's Funny That Way, purring the words: "I'm not much to look at, nothin' to see." "Oh, Frankie, yes you are!" wailed the audience.

In various manifestations, this sort of thing has been going on all over America the last few months. Not since the days of Rudolph Valentino has American womanhood made such unabashed public love to an entertainer. It stared with Frank Sinatra's first solo appearance at the Paramount theater last December.

Whatever Sinatra's secret, he possesses one of the best microphone techniques in the business. It is studiedly informal, effortless, little-boyish. His tone quality is liquid, his delivery easy. He is also young enough and sentimental enough to believe the words he sings.

Of his status as America's No. 1 microphone lover, he observes: "It's a kinda exaggerated affair."