No. 122 - Frank Sinatra’s “My Way” changed my life

One New Year’s Eve in New York City, Johnny Adimando’s dad made it all make sense

Dec 26, 2025

This Song Changed My Life is an independent music publication featuring weekly essays from people all around the world about the songs that mean the most to them. Created (and illustrated) by Grace Lilly.

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• 5 min read •

New Year’s Eve. New York City. Park Avenue. Penthouse. Super random. Once-in-a-lifetime (although, it could have been a yearly event).

Turns out my dad’s favorite cousin received enough of an inheritance from her husband’s passing to live large. She hosted a party every New Year’s Eve, and we were always invited, yet we never attended. So why did we accept the invitation this one specific year? That I still couldn’t tell you, but what I can tell you is that this was a proverbial “red pill” evening for me. And, my “Morpheus,” so to speak, was Frank Sinatra. Well, sort of.

I mean I must have heard “My Way” at least a thousand times before. In this particular instance, with my particular dad, possibly a million times before. But not just from the record player or the radio; from the shower, in the car on the ride to school or work, and sometimes just thrown in on the side in a faint arabesque that would just fade right back into the current conversation as if it never was.

See, back in ’82 when I came along my dad was an aspiring singer. He was even recording. The man just loved a powerful voice, and Sinatra was like some mythological figure upon his vocalist Mt. Olympus. So I was tuned in, like-it-or-not, to all the “greats.” There was hardly a conversation that went by without the mention of Presley, Humperdinck, Dion, Perry, and, his arguable favorite voice of all time, Whitney Houston.

But let’s get back to the party.

Fueling this ritzy penthouse crowd were intermittent servings on silver platters of mini lamb chops (another red pill moment for me) and various other delicacies I never knew existed. All driven by a fairly splashy band with a seasoned pianist as leader. I recall the band being so good that at one point I remember thinking I didn’t like that I liked it. Ah, how much it went against my burgeoning heavy-metal leanings. What if my friends found out!?

(A parenthetical but perhaps massively important detail to note: Beverly, my dad’s favorite cousin, was also a singer.)

And, well, here is where it all goes a little pear-shaped.

All of a sudden, my dad is on the mic. And, we’re in it. He’s going full-tilt-boogie and I feel simultaneously like time is frozen and the universe is giving me a violent shake into coherence. I’m suddenly seeing with full clarity but momentarily blinded, and hearing for the first time yet periodically deaf. And then, like a jolt, it all comes rushing back to earth, and it’s him, right there, tuxedo-pressed, sweat-glistening, performing “My Way.”

He’s perfectly in tune. He’s vibing with the band. He’s got the crowd in the palm of his hands. My pops. My hero. This gargantuan but very real man that I thought I knew better than anyone in the world. I see him for the first time. Like, I really see him. I see command, and flourish, and, well, maybe most importantly, I see some regret. Or rather, I hear it. I hear it from his bowels; hunger, urgency, and a deep sense of longing for this virtue which has now become a vice.

I’m dumbstruck. I’m floored. And, right there in the middle of this posh crowd, I’m weeping like a baby (so they tell me later). Because until now, I only ever heard his version of the song echoing from those few-and-far-between private moments he steals away from the day-to-day, from the thresher, from the grind.

Humor me one more quick trip in the time machine back to ’82.

Dad takes a gig at the US Postal Service and drops his singing career for security and stability. He sacrifices, he pushes his dream aside, and he makes ends meet like a goddamn champ. He has mostly downs professionally, beats aggressive cancer twice, and still comes out swinging.

He always tells me a story about Elvis Presley being booed off stage at the Grand Ole Opry, and told by the judges to “keep his day job.” He always tells me he always knew I was an artist; like, long before I did. He always deflates my rejections and wears even my tiniest victories as a badge of honor amongst friends and family. He always tells me “not to be like him.”

Johnny with his dad (left), with his son (right)

I never really understood how to take the last one because, again, he’s got hero status. But now I have a son, and a completely different lens for understanding and navigating the world. And I think I get the sentiment. It’s not that doing it “my way” would necessarily mean perpetual acts of exhilarating and scintillating performance, but the quiet confidence in the agency, power, potential, and willingness to openly share the creativity you’re gifted through and along the pathways you’re capable, no matter what, and until the end. Perhaps, somewhat paradoxically, he was always telling me not to do it his way.

And now we’re back to the party.

And I mean, truly, in this moment, I have come online.

Every single word of this song now suddenly resonates a thousandfold. It’s not just a passing tune. It’s not just a secret hobby. To get to the point of the story, my life literally changes in this moment. I feel myself click in. I connect a hundred disparate dots in my thinking. Any doubt I have about my path just washes away.

Funny thing is, for all the fanciness, pomp, and circumstance, the party itself wasn’t all that memorable. But I will never ever forget that the guy too embarrassed to valet his car brought the room to heel for a few minutes with his voice. He grabbed the mic, cued the band, let the tiger out of its cage, and did it his way.

For me, some kind of cosmic floodgate opened and I understood, without question, why I have consistently chosen the life I’ve chosen and why art matters. Because it does. It just does. It’s the way we say there’s always a flicker somewhere to be found amidst the coldest, darkest, longest night. The song doesn’t ever die, sometimes you just may forget to sing it. So write the song anyway. Paint the picture anyway. Sing in the shower. Hang your paintings in your own house. Just make that one solemn vow to do it your way.

Sometimes I wish it was a less grandiose and more poetic Sinatra track that did it for me, but, you know, that’s life. ◆

About Johnny

Johnny Adimando is an artist and educator currently living and working in Rhode Island. His personal studio work is based in printmaking and sculptural practices, and references his passions for progressive rock music, science fiction films, and the power/virtue of ornament. His work has been exhibited nationally and internationally, and is in public and private collections.

Website johnnyadimando.com

Instagram @suneater_studio

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