There was no grand announcement, no farewell tour. He had tried that 20 years earlier, and it didn’t stick. But on February 25, 1995, after singing for more than 60 years for kings, queens, pirates, and presidents, Frank Sinatra stepped out on a stage in front of adoring fans for what would unknowingly be the last time.

As his drummer, I knew the day would come. With every year and every passing performance, Frank’s prophetic “My Way” lyric, “And now the end is near, and so I face the final curtain,” became more difficult to ignore. Sinatra graced thousands of stages, grand and gritty, over the course of 70 years. Let me tell you my story of the final few.

I first became part of Frank’s world in 1981 as a member of Count Basie’s band, then permanently a few years later after Irv Cottler, Sinatra’s close friend and drummer of over 30 years, died. It was a rough time for Frank on a personal but also musical level—he burned through four drummers and two bass players in six months. When conductor Frank Jr. called to offer me the gig with his father, I never for a moment considered turning it down.

“Let me think about it,” I joked. “Yes!”

Working for Sinatra was a coveted and cushy gig: first-class travel to glamorous corners of the world like Barcelona, Japan, Paris, or Hong Kong, extended stays at Ritz-Carltons and Peninsulas, and never having to wait (I mean never) for a table at an Italian restaurant. But it was never about the perks. It was all about the music.

A photograph taken by Gregg Field backstage of Sinatra on tour at the Barcelona Olympic Stadium, 1992. Courtesy of Gregg Field.

The musical relationship between Frank and his musicians, especially his drummer, was intense and personal. Frank loved the powerful rhythmic propulsion at his back, often driven by a cracking “back beat” on the snare that he wanted targeted dead in the middle of his unparalleled rhythmic sense. It was 80 percent reaction and 20 percent action. If I let up, even for an instant, he would turn my way looking for more heat. I never took my eyes off of him.

Yet despite our intense stage relationship, a year into my role I had never so much as lifted a glass with him, much less held a conversation. I thought it odd—I was a fan too, after all. But it was Bill Miller, Frank’s longtime pianist, who told me early on that “Frank needs a drummer, not another friend.” I got it.

That all changed one late night in 1992, at the Monaco Red Cross Gala, in Monte Carlo.

We had finished the concert and it was about two A.M. when I was walking through the lobby of the Hotel de Paris. As I passed the bar on the left, I saw that Frank was holding court with the usual suspects— Gregory and Veronique Peck, Roger Moore, Frank’s wife, Barbara, and her son, Bobby Marx. Bobby caught my eye and motioned for me to join the table. I instantly remembered the words of Bill Miller and waived him off. But Bobby motioned again, and the idea of joining that group was irresistible.

Bobby got Frank’s attention.

“Your drummer wants a drink!”

“My drummer doesn’t drink,” Frank said.

“Oh, he drinks Jack Daniels!”

The next thing I know a waiter comes to the table and presents a silver platter with a bucket of ice, an empty glass, and a fifth of Jack. Frank got up from the end of the table, walked over, pulled a chair up next to me and said, “It’s time I get to know my drummer.”