I BELIEVE this is entirely generational, but no problem, I have dined with a real icon and I’m not sorry now. Abused and overused, the term icon readily applies to Ms. Connie Francis, whose soaring, shimmering soprano ruled the airwaves of the ’50s and ’60s. In front of her, I just had to tell her that much as the press were talking about how she finally has made it to this country, she never really left us. Her songs are there during Sunday programs, in taxis and radios.

The Paparazzi at Edsa Shangri-La had this eerie silence not befitting such an in-your-face name. Would a place like this be quiet if in the ’50s, for example, Connie was announced to be coming? Naaah. I could imagine throngs and throngs of fans outside This was the singer, after all, who was churning out hit after hit, each song carving its way into the hearts of lovers when lovers would make their vows on the wings of songs velvet and sweet, with passions elegantly checked.

At about 6:30, we were there waiting in a semiprivate quarter of Paparazzi, its elevation and a partition the only things that would separate us from the entire restaurant. The publicist made sure the singer would be seated against the wall, with us facing her. The journalists who were there belonged to different generation but the technology of CD and the preponderance of the Internet have created an awareness of this person we were to interview. A poster given by the people behind her concert at the Araneta Coliseum was soon being examined by everyone. We were going through each song, humming them upon recognition.

“Who’s Sorry Now.” We know this.  It opens with the ’50s customary chorus of men that soon leads to that languid syrup of a voice: Right to the end/Just like a friend/I try to warn you somehow. That word somehow is cut and into words—some and how, the singer exploiting it for what it’s worth. Toward the end, “right to the end” and “just like a friend” are raised in volume. There is no bitterness in this song, only a sweet reprimand from a woman whose heart is much too big for dark heartbreaks.

Then “Al Di La.” Jerry Vale sung this but it is that irrepressibly high opening of Connie Francis that drew her fans to the song. While most singers reserve their high notes toward the end, suspended in a universe of doubt and faith whether the singer indeed has those high money notes, Connie Francis is noted and well remembered by those who love her—and they are legions—for offering songs from rich promontories of belted melodies.

This does not mean, however, that she lacks the wistfulness of the great singers. Listen to her “Mama,” another Italian ditty that is part of her collection and was a hit when she thought it would not make good in the Hit Parade.

How much of you is Italian? “I think Italian,” Connie Francis would tell us. “Mama,” however, begins with an unusually soft, almost recitative-like opening “When the evening shadows fall.” Her voice in the many recordings of this song—an anthem to the glory of motherhood—plays against sumptuous strings and prepares us not only to that operatic feeling but to the trilling of the voice that goes on and on embracing the sad music.

Sadness and aloneness, two stereotypical themes we ascribe to singers from the glorious past, were far from shrouding the person sipping her Diet Coke to our questions about her past loves, her voice now, and Bobby Darin.

She poked fun at herself, easing what I told her was our unease in facing her. Ms. Francis, I said, didn’t you see that we were in awe of you when you just appeared from behind us. She flashed the sweetest of smile, giving us the girl that has always remained behind those songs. “Stupid Cupid,” “Lipstick on Your Collar” and many other songs are testament to this performer whose humor is there in those songs for the young of her generation. Remember this was the generation of young boys home after a long cruel war and young girls now easing into a life that vowed stability and happiness. Connie Francis was the assuring voice.

That night, we saw her again, Ms. Connie Francis, talking about the love of her life, Bobby Darin. Not marrying him was her greatest regret personally, and not singing with Frank Sinatra was her greatest regret in her career.

She will be singing to us on February 14 at the Araneta Coliseum, just the perfect person for Valentine’s Day, a day that I believe was created with Connie Francis in mind and her songs about love that never goes away. We just hum about it and sing it and smile a bit and sob a bit—and laugh and love a lot.

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