Life Is a Gift: The Zen of Bennett

by Tony Bennett

  I’ve been in three earthquakes, and one was in Japan with Count Basie’s band. It lasted for an entire minute, and the band ran out into the street in the middle of the night. Funny enough, I slept through the whole thing, and the band kidded me for the rest of the tour because I missed it. I was lucky it wasn’t a bad one.

  But the earthquake I’m known for was a big one in Los Angeles. The whole chest in the bedroom came down with the television on it and everything; it went bam! right next to my bed. It was four o’clock in the morning, and my hotel was evacuated. I went outside, and there was everybody in their pajamas and bathrobes. I was the only one who’d put on a suit. Most people were shocked, and asked me if I slept in my formal wear. When a reporter interviewed me about the incident, he asked why I had a suit on in the middle of the night. I said that it was because I was voted Best Dressed Man that year and had to live up to that image. But, joking aside, if you respect someone and also have strong self-respect, you’ll take the trouble to look your best. Putting that extra effort into my appearance translates into showing that I care about what I do—and the audience picks up on that.

  Speaking of zigging and zagging, Lady Gaga looked fantastic when she arrived to record “The Lady Is a Tramp” with me. She came dressed to the nines in a beautiful full-length black lace dress, and her hair was a striking shade of aquamarine. Gaga is someone who is not afraid to be different, and who has built a whole career around that. We realized we have a great affinity with each other on this front. When I told her that I loved the way she looked, she said, “Thank you, Tony. I thought I’d give it a little twist for you. I said, ‘What would Tony want?’ ”

  Then she told me I looked handsome, and wanted to know if I chose the yellow shade of my glasses intentionally. When I told that her I did, she gave me a knowing look of approval and said, “I figured.” She could tell exactly what I had in mind.

  Gaga was also intrigued by my past; she asked me what it was like with the girls when I started out. She wanted to know if they got nervous and started blushing around me like she was; she was imagining what it must have been like when I was a young pup. “I would’ve been chasing you around in this dress,” she said, which made me feel quite flattered. Lady Gaga was a joy to work with; she came to the session totally prepared, and the chemistry between us was all sparks.

  Later I painted Gaga’s portrait for a photo shoot for Vanity Fair with photographer Annie Leibovitz behind the camera. She was a natural model—and I’ll tell you, she was as professional and elegant undressed as she was dressed. We had a lot of fun together, and we have since become great friends.

  “Vive la différence,” I love to say. Hanging out with people who aren’t exactly like you keeps life interesting, and also keeps you on your toes. Andy Warhol once told me: If you have an idea, but you don’t execute it, then it’s just an idea. But if you do it, then it becomes a fact. That statement always stuck with me, and spurred me on to try new things. I’m always seeking to find new meaning in a song, every time I sing it.

  I’m very satisfied when one of my songs comes on the radio and people say they can tell right off the bat that it’s one of mine. Then I know that I’ve done what I set out to accomplish. If you strive to be yourself at all times, you’ll just naturally be different from the pack. Remember that no two snowflakes are alike!

  The Zen of Bennett

  Don’t imitate another person, because then you’ll just be one of the chorus.

  If you create good music, no matter what year it came out, it will always sound completely modern.

  Use the past to memorize the mistakes you’ve made, and make sure you don’t repeat them.

  When you are yourself, you automatically become different from everyone else.

  Sinatra

  15

  Mentor a Young Person

  An old Chinese proverb states, “If you want to learn something, go to someone older than you, because they’ve lived longer.” My grandfather and father were philosophers, so to speak; the entire neighborhood would come to them for advice. Throughout history the elders in any society were always granted that kind of respect. Only recently has society moved in the direction of discounting the elderly. This attitude really makes no sense; older people have lived longer and have more experience; they are entitled to and deserve respect.

  At the same time, I feel it’s the responsibility of the elders to pass on the lessons they’ve learned, and not to disdain those younger than they are. George Bernard Shaw was known for saying, “Youth is wasted on the young.” To a certain extent, this is true, but it only serves to support the idea that we have a lot to teach those who are just starting out. I believe that a great deal of energy should be dedicated to doing just that.

  When Rosemary Clooney and I first started out, the seasoned performers we met didn’t pull any punches with us; they told it like it was. They said, “It’s going to take six years before you become a consummate performer.” That came as a shock to me, but it turned out to be right on the money. And it was a tough pill to swallow, because we weren’t really allowed in the club until then.

  Many years later, I realized that I was becoming the elder statesman, and I wanted to make sure the up-and-comers didn’t have to go through what I did. It’s inevitable—they’re going to become the masters eventually. I don’t want to act as if it’s impossible for them to succeed, which was the sentiment that some people expressed to me when I was coming along.

  I’m offended by the way younger performers are often treated today. They’re led to believe by their agents and lawyers and managers that it’s all about the money and the fame. Most of them wind up failing miserably, while the people in the background are the ones cashing in. It should be quite the opposite: it’s the artists who give the power to the agents and lawyers and record companies. Without the artists, these handlers would be nothing.

  It’s more dangerous out there than ever. One minute, a brand-new singer is an American idol; she may rise to the top of the charts and fill the stadiums in a year or so. But as soon as the crowds thin out and the records stop selling, she’s finished, and the company goes after the next act. This is just cruel. I believe in the importance of training young, raw talent so they produce work that will last; otherwise they’ll burn out fast, and find themselves left with no career to build on.

  I want to help these artists learn how to simplify things; to understand the power of standing in a spotlight—just them and the music—and of singing a classic song. I advise them that fame comes and goes, but longevity is the thing to aim for.

  I also stress keeping things relaxed. The more relaxed, the more peaceful, the better, and the more successful you will be. Like the Zen masters say, it’s like water flowing over a rock. The water is fluid and basic, but over time, it’s powerful enough to mold the rock to its shape. It just requires patience, and being able to learn from your mistakes.

  I made so many mistakes when I was younger. I had a great desire to be a singer, but I went to many auditions where I didn’t get the job. Having the courage and faith to continue helped me hold on to my desire to sing. I realized that I would have to work at it. You start out as an amateur and have to persevere for a number of years before you become a professional.

  An “amateur” can be defined as someone who loves what he or she is doing as a pastime. The difference for those who go on to be professionals is that they really have no choice in the matter. They were born to do what their passion is. They are driven beyond the point where failure is an option. I always say I had no choice but to be a singer; it’s what I was meant to do. It’s like breathing; it’s not something you think about.

  People often confuse being a successful artist with being commercially successful, but they are not one and the same. I’ve known many magnificent artists who were at the top of their game but didn’t make a red cent from their work. Was Van Gogh “successful”? He sold only one painting in his lifetime, and that was bought for four
hundred francs. Van Gogh died broke, but I dare anyone to challenge his genius. It’s a pity; I wonder what he would think if he could sit in the back of Christie’s auction house today and watch his paintings sell for multimillions of dollars. Sometimes there is no justice, but when you are coming up, it’s important to keep in mind the difference between being a successful artist and being commercially successful.

  Those “amateurs” who have no choice but to do what they do will become the new masters eventually, so I say, why not help them along? After all, so many people helped me when I was starting out. I’ve mentioned that Pearl Bailey gave me my start at the Village Inn by insisting that I open for her. Bob Hope was another artist who helped me quite a bit. The first time I ever saw Bob in person was when I attended his show as a GI in Germany. It was absolutely the best thing that had happened to me over there. The show was wonderful, and it made me realize that the greatest gift you can give is to lift someone’s spirits with a joke or a song.

  After Pearl Bailey brought Bob to catch my act at the Village Inn, he invited me to sing at the Paramount with him, which was another huge break for me. When I finished singing, Bob said to the audience, “Well, I was getting tired of Bing anyway!” Then, when the Paramount engagement was over, Bob took me on a six-city tour along with the rest of the troupe. He also introduced me to Bing Crosby when Bing stopped by the show, which was such a thrill. I didn’t really know how to act while I was singing, but Bob showed me that it’s important to be upbeat when you walk out on the stage. The audience needs to know that you’re happy to be there and that you can’t wait to entertain them; all these years later, I’m still using that advice.

  It was Benny Goodman who taught me how to work a microphone. “Don’t eat it,” he said. “Just step away from it and be natural.” He taught me to hold the mic, not attack it. That way the audience can better hear how I sing. That technique also helps to hold the listeners’ attention because it’s not quite as loud.

  My greatest mentor was Frank Sinatra. To me, he made the best music that ever came out of this country. He had a magical voice, and he was able to communicate exactly what he was feeling. He knocked down the wall between himself and his audience, and let people inside his head. Before he came along, no one had ever sung so personally or vividly.

  In 1960, Sinatra did a wonderful thing for me. I was working with Duke Ellington at the Americana Hotel in Miami Beach, and he and Joe E. Lewis rounded up every hotel owner they knew and brought them to see me perform. From that show alone, for the next two decades, I got booked into places such as the Waldorf-Astoria in New York, the Hilton in Las Vegas, and the Palmer House in Chicago. It was a great boost for my career.

  Sinatra was always supportive of me, but in April 1965 he did the unimaginable: he announced in Life magazine that I was his favorite singer. “For my money, Tony Bennett is the best singer in the business.” Sinatra told the interviewer, “He excites me when I watch him. He moves me. He’s the singer who gets across what the composer has in mind, and probably a little more.”

  This statement blew me away, and literally changed my life. After Frank said I was his favorite, everyone wanted to hear me perform. It was probably the single most generous thing any artist had ever done for another.

  When Frank broke his arm and couldn’t perform at a benefit for an Italian-American senior citizens’ home in Chicago, I agreed to do it instead. At the last minute Frank realized that he could do the show after all, so we decided to perform it together. Frank wanted to go on first, and after he finished, he said, “Ladies and gentlemen, the greatest singer in the business—Tony Bennett.” That was an honor I’ll never forget.

  Frank and I never lived in the same place except when I was in Los Angeles in the early seventies, and we didn’t get to spend a lot of time together because we were both on the road so much. But it was always special to be in his presence, especially when we were performing together. In 1977, he invited me to sing on his ABC TV special, Sinatra and Friends. I did “One” from A Chorus Line, then Frank and I sang “My Kind of Town” as a duet. It was a thrill to be able to do the show with him, particularly since he had given me such great advice over the years about performing.

  I always picked up lessons from people who’d been in the business before me, and now I like to pass along the friendship and generosity to a younger generation. I enjoy the fact that by doing the duets, I can showcase another artist and welcome them into the club. I encourage them to ask me about the trials and tribulations, the ups and downs, what to look out for when they get into trouble, or when to accentuate something that’s good. It feels great to be able to support this amazingly talented new generation of performers.

  The Zen of Bennett

  Fame comes and goes, but longevity is the thing to aim for.

  By doing quality work, you’ll always be around.

  You have to work at your art. You start out as an amateur, and need to persevere for a number of years before you become a professional.

  If you want to learn something, go to people who are older than you, because they’ve experienced more and can pass on what they’ve learned.

  Triborough Bridge From Astoria, June ’86

  16

  Black Crows and Golden Birds

  The hardest part about being a performer is that you are always under scrutiny. I try not to read my own reviews, because when someone writes about you, it’s not easy to be objective. I relish constructive criticism, but mostly from people I trust who have no other agenda than my best interests at heart.

  History has shown how wrong critics can be; dating back to the earliest printed word, there are endless examples of write-ups that were so far off-base that it’s almost an honor to join the long list of successful artists who were told they’d never amount to anything. It takes a lot of self-confidence to forge ahead when someone out there deems your work unworthy, but for me, overcoming adversity has always come with the territory. In the end, it really builds character. What may appear as a negative event can have a positive outcome if you only learn to apply yourself in a proper fashion. I always try to keep an open mind, but it’s important to be determined to get things done in the way you envision them. Most of the time you just have to get it right for yourself.

  Throughout my life, I’ve run into much criticism and many obstacles that could have made me give up following my dreams. There was a lot of pressure from some of my family members; when I first started performing, they even called me a gigolo. They said, “Why don’t you get a regular job and help your mother; she is working so hard.” But I always wanted to work at something I loved. I realized that I had to follow my passion and bliss, and take what others said with a grain of salt, in order to live my dream and do what I was good at.

  Even as a kid, I ran up against people who discouraged my desire to perform. When I was in grammar school, I had one teacher who separated the class into “golden birds”—the children she felt could sing in tune—and “black crows”—those she thought couldn’t sing worth anything. After she heard me, she said, “You’re definitely a black crow.”

  At first I was taken aback by that comment, but once I got over my initial discouragement, I decided to try to prove her wrong. After all, my family seemed to love it when I sang at home, so I figured I must have some talent in that area. Eventually that “crow” comment helped shape my attitude about persevering and believing in myself, despite the naysayers. And in the years to come, I ran into many of them. In fact, just before he died at the age of ninety-nine, Mitch Miller called up Danny and admitted that even though all those years ago he told me being a jazz singer would destroy my career, history has shown that it sustained my career instead, and that I was bigger than ever. Mitch concluded, “Boy, was I wrong on that one!”

  After the teacher who made the “black crow” comment, I was lucky enough to have a teacher who was very nice. She gave me the role of the prince in our first-grade production of Snow White, and she treated
me very kindly. Then when I was nine, another teacher, Mrs. McQuade, arranged for me to sing at the local Democratic club, and also alongside New York mayor Fiorello La Guardia at the grand opening of the Triborough Bridge in 1936. Three years earlier, then-candidate La Guardia had promised that if he got elected, he would finish construction, which had been sputtering along in fits and starts for a number of years. So it was a big deal when it finally was completed. There was a huge celebration, and Mrs. McQuade had me standing right next to the mayor when he cut the ribbon. After the speeches, I got to lead the group across the new bridge, singing “Marching Along Together.” Mrs. McQuade believed in me, and that early public performance confirmed my desire to be an entertainer.

  When I was sixteen, I ran into a stumbling block when I had to drop out of the School of Industrial Arts to help my mom. She was working her fingers to the bone trying to make ends meet, and I needed to contribute to the family’s income. I worked as an elevator operator, but I couldn’t get the darn thing to stop in the right spot! People had to crawl out between the floors. That didn’t go over too well with the tenants, and it quickly put an end to that job.

  Next I found work at a laundry, and after that I took a position as a copyboy for the Associated Press, running around with papers. I got fired from that one, too. It soon became apparent to me that I couldn’t hold down any of these jobs to save my life. It brought into focus the fact that if my heart was not in what I was doing, I would experience nothing but failure.

  I found my true calling only when I began performing at amateur nights in Brooklyn, Queens, and the Bronx. People would get up onstage and perform in front of an audience, which would then vote on the performer they liked the most. The favorite got a small percentage of the door, and I was lucky enough to win a number of times. My biggest competition was from this guy who came on in a sailor’s uniform with a fake cast on his leg; he knew how to manipulate the audience to think he had been serving in the war. When he sang “My Mother’s Eyes,” he’d have everyone in tears. Whenever he showed up, I’d think, Great, there go my winnings for the week. I’d like to see anyone else try to follow that act!