Like cole slaw, Connie Francis deserves a second chance, and I've been saying so for years. For every inanity such as "Lipstick On Your Collar" there is a "Fallin'" and for every overblown ballad like "Where The Boys Are", there is something like "You're Gonna Miss Me". To find the treasures amongst the dross, you only have to look at the lower end of her chart placements.
"You're Gonna Miss Me" almost closed out 1959 on a downward turn, peaking only at #34, so MGM rushed out the schmaltz of "Among My Souvenirs" in November which, of course, reached the top ten. More's the pity for the general public who failed to notice the knowing smirk in Connie's voice that not only suggested that she had a secret but that you'd never believe where she was keeping it.
But the public seemed to prefer not knowing that Connie was a woman, wishing to keep a pure - and eventually puerile - image prime for victimization during the dangerous days of hot rod delinquency and the morals of America's future being shaken free by the hips of Elvis Presley. That the events of her life - a brutal rape, as yet unsolved after thirty four years, and the bouts of paranoia and depression that followed and persist to this day - completed the image that her audience craved is the cruelest cut of all.
Miss Francis was rushed to hospital on July 23rd, one hour before the curtain was to rise on her Westbury, NY show. While the details are sketchy, doctors say the 70 year old woman is resting comfortably and receiving the best of care...
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