Theatre
March, 1961
Frank D'Rone's recent stint at Chicago's Mister Kelly's proved a remarkably effective exercise in verbal economy. D'Rone, a supersonic young man about to orbit into the Big Time, sang and accompanied himself on the guitar – period. No jokes, no table banter, no song introductions. The tunes, and D'Rone's forthright handling of them, spoke eloquently enough, with one song flowing into another as smoothly and felicitously as twelve-year-old Scotch into an eight-ounce tumbler. D'Rone's delivery, bo...
