"You're Nobody ‘Till Somebody Loves You" bottles for all eternity the essence of mid-20th century cool: Dean Martin's 1960 classic is insouciance incarnate, a singularly swinging evocation of postwar America on the cusp of a new frontier. Sure, Martin's pal Frank Sinatra was the matchless pop stylist, the Chairman of the Board, the undisputed leader of the gaggle of crooners, movie stars and sycophants known as the Rat Pack - those golden gods in sharkskin suits and tilted Hamburg hats who defined style and swagger for generations to come. But Martin was the straw that stirred the drink, the unflappable, sleepy-voiced buddha who made fame and fortune seem so effortless, even meaningless. He was a man who had it all, and wanted almost none of it - what biographer Nick Tosches dubbed a true menefreghista, Italian for "one who simply did not give a fuck."
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