Here comes the Rat Pack, swinging in with three prime cuts of Frank and cameos from Dean and Sammy, not to mention both Gene Kelly and Fred Astaire at their nimblest. (I live for the Rube Goldberg rhythm of “Puttin’ On The Ritz.”) This is the sound of total world-beating confidence - you could even call it the peak of a certain tuxedoed brand of white American masculinity. But there’s vulnerability and introspection here too, soft as a distant velvet memory.