by Tony Bennett
I visited him in the hospital every day, holding his hand tightly and praying that he would recover. After several days he seemed better, and the doctors said he’d be able to come home with us soon. The next morning we got his bedroom ready and went to the hospital to bring him home. The doctor came out to the waiting room, and to our complete shock, told us that my father had died in the night.
We were just so heartbroken; I couldn’t believe he was gone. That evening the whole family came to the apartment, and in her despair, a family member told John and me that we had killed our father. I was horrified; I had just lost my dad, and now I had been told it was my fault. I don’t think my mother even knew this had been said to us. The awful idea that I had killed my father was planted in my mind, and this caused me extreme pain for quite a while afterward.
After Dad’s funeral, my uncle Dominick decided to bring me to live with him and his wife in Pyrites, a small town in upstate New York, so my mother would have one less child to look after. I assumed my mom would never go for this, but in her anguish, she agreed, and I was sent away with them.
My uncle and aunt probably meant well, but they didn’t have children of their own and they didn’t know how to deal with a child. They owned a grocery store and also farmed, and since it was summer and I wasn’t in school, I spent the day helping out with the chores. One day my aunt asked me to sing to her while she was preparing food in the kitchen, so I began singing. My uncle came in and yelled at me for not working, and after that, he made me sleep on the floor.
I was miserable there and missed my family something awful. I stayed in Pyrites for the whole school year before I got to return to my mom and siblings, and, boy, was I glad to get back home. They had moved to a smaller apartment, and my mother was still working all day long and bringing extra sewing home at night, but at least I was in familiar surroundings again with people who loved me.
Somehow I got through that period. And when I look back on it, I realize that the lesson I learned through it all was how to cope with loneliness. I used that skill throughout my life. Although I love traveling around the world, most people don’t realize how lonely it can be out there. I learned how to deal with “the blues” for the first time upstate, in Pyrites.
Christmas of 1965 was another extremely low point in my life. My career was thriving, but my marriage of thirteen years to Patricia, the mother of my two boys, was falling apart. We were separated, and I spent Christmas and New Year’s in a lonely hotel room in New York City. I was absolutely miserable about not being able to see my sons.
I was all alone in my hotel room, feeling very blue. Suddenly I heard glorious music. I got out of bed and checked the television to see if I’d left it on, but it was turned off. Then I realized that the noise was emanating from the hallway. I opened the door, and standing there was an entire choir, singing “On a Clear Day, You Can See Forever.” It’s a moment I will never forget.
Duke Ellington was giving a sacred music concert at the Fifth Avenue Presbyterian Church, but I hadn’t been able to muster the energy to go to it. My friend Louis Bellson had told Duke that I was feeling down, and he’d sent the choir over to cheer me up. It was one of the most moving gifts I’ve ever received. That night was as bad as it gets, but this wonderful gesture revived my spirits, no matter how hard things were for me at that moment.
This period of my life was particularly challenging. Trouble really started to brew for me and my recording career in 1966, when the new head of Columbia Records, former lawyer Clive Davis, became president of the label. As I mentioned earlier, he began to make all of the artists, no matter what their background, do rock and roll songs. It was a difficult time for all of the traditional singers, and by 1967, I realized that the company was not looking after my best interests.
Clive sat me down and told me that the only way he’d promote me was if I would record some contemporary music. I didn’t have a problem doing songs that were hits, as long as they were good ones and I could interpret them my way. But Clive wasn’t content with that, and our standoff continued. I asked Count Basie what he thought I should do. Basie told me in his wise way, “Why change an apple?” So I stuck with what made sense for me.
By 1968, it seemed everything was going down the drain. My divorce was still dragging on. My mother had become very ill. Whenever I went to visit her, I thought it might be the last time I’d ever see her. Then, too, there was the ongoing dispute with Columbia Records.
Finally I caved under the pressure from Davis and agreed to do an album called Tony Sings the Great Hits of Today. That’s when I literally regurgitated before the first recording session, I was so upset about it. Davis pushed the album so that it sold well, and of course then he wanted me to do another, but I couldn’t go through with it.
One day after an argument with Clive and his buddies, on my way out of the office I heard one of them say, “We have to get rid of that wop!” That was the final blow; I told them I wanted out. After long negotiations, we agreed that I’d give them two more records, produced by myself, and then I would be free. After twenty-two years, I decided to take a break from Columbia Records. I knew I had to pick myself up and get ready to start all over again.
It was during these years that Lena Horne and I went on tour together, and she was a great inspiration to me. She had recently lost three important men in her life—her father, her son, and also her husband of twenty years. But even after enduring that, she was the most professional artist I’d ever worked with. She always gave her all, even when she was just rehearsing. I was very impressed with her grit. By example, she taught me a lot about discipline and simply carrying on, even when you don’t think you’ll get your head above water.
One of the very worst events of my entire life was Thanksgiving night, 1977, when I found out that my mother had died. I was just about to go onstage at the Fairmont Hotel in San Francisco when I heard the news. I just burst through the door of the hotel and when I got outside, I ran for miles. My mom had been the one person in my life who kept me grounded. I thought I would never get over her death.
On top of my grief over my mother, my second wife, Sandra, and I were not getting along at all. And for the first time ever, I wasn’t signed with a record label. I had started an independent record company, Improv Records, but it had folded earlier that year, and it was badly in debt. I had fallen behind in my taxes, and the IRS wanted payment. I began to experience severe bouts of depression.
One night I overindulged in drugs and passed out in the bathtub. I could have died, and after that, I realized I had to get my life in order. I recalled the great business advice that my son Danny had always given me, and asked if he and my other son, Dae, would want to come to the West Coast to help me figure things out. They agreed, and arrived the next day.
I told them what was happening, and they said they would look into things. Back in New York, they met with my accountant, and Danny organized all the facts and figures. As I described earlier, he explained to me that I was spending too much, both on the road and personally. He worked out a plan to pay back the IRS, and a new budget for us to stick to. Soon thereafter Sandra and I separated. I moved back to Manhattan, got a one-bedroom apartment, and lived much more frugally than before.
From such a low point, Danny helped me reinvigorate my career. When I look back, even though I struggled to keep my integrity, it has really paid off to stick to my guns. Believe me when I say I’m speaking from experience that you can recover from even the bleakest moments in your life if you simply persevere and believe that you can.
The Zen of Bennett
This too shall pass. Even in the lowest times, realize that things will get better.
The difficult times make you stronger. From failure you can correct yourself and become a better human being.
You can recover from even the bleakest moments if you simply persevere and believe that you can.
Ronnie White
23
I Sing to the Whole
Family
I do not like the whole notion of demographics. As a performer, I play to the whole audience. When I was growing up, the main source of entertainment was the movie houses. For a nickel, you would buy a ticket in the morning and stay all day if you wanted to. That meant that whatever they were showing had to appeal to everybody. They had newsreels, human-interest shorts, cartoons, serials, and then at least two feature movie presentations. Sometimes they even had live performers appear between films. But an act wouldn’t go over well if it didn’t appeal to the entire family.
That’s the only thing that makes sense to me, and it makes for smart business, too. The more people who buy your product, the more money you’ll make. When you’re an entertainer, you want to reach as many people as possible. By only playing to young people, and forgetting their parents and grandparents, you’re eliminating a lot of your audience, on purpose. If something is excellent, it defies demographics. Just consider The Wizard of Oz, Snow White, or any Fred Astaire–Ginger Rogers film. They still look like they were made yesterday, and undeniably they remain the favorites of all ages.
I think that it was a huge mistake for Alan Freed, the deejay who coined the term rock and roll, to invent the whole demographic concept. I don’t like the idea that one type of music is for a certain age group and no one else, and that your parents have to like another kind of music. Who came up with that? When you’re an entertainer, you want to reach as many people as possible. I love performing in a concert hall where I see all the generations coming to hear my music, and where no one needs to be left out.
When I did a date in Palm Beach, Florida, at Donald Trump’s Mar-a-Lago Club, which has an older audience, I announced, “If anyone has to go to the bathroom in the middle of the show, I’ll understand.” But the very next night at the Broward Center for the Performing Arts, also in Florida, every seat was packed with people of all ages. Look at classical music; when you listen to Bach, you think, That’s incredible. How could anybody be that great? It’s not dated in the least. If music sounds dated, that means it wasn’t very good in the first place. If something is really good, it’s always going to be good; it doesn’t change according to who’s listening to it.
The whole industry’s doing demographics, and that’s why they’re going bankrupt—but I’m anti-demographic. The television and newspaper people think demographically when they want to attract an audience, but their most successful shows and publications are the ones that the whole family enjoys. It’s simple math, but they never seem to learn the lesson.
Mitch Miller always wanted to put me into a commercial box. My passion was for jazz, but they positioned me as a traditional pop singer because I’m white, which isn’t the preconceived idea of what a jazz artist should be. Yet the music that I made with the giants of jazz, such as Stan Getz and Bill Evans, are still the best records in my collection.
It was the jazz singer Annie Ross who made the suggestion to Bill Evans and me that we record together. And as I’ve said, of all the recordings I’ve ever made, this one is considered the most prestigious, with the highest-level musicians. I did a television show a while ago with the London Symphony, and on the first break of rehearsal, a few of the classical musicians came up to me with that album for me to sign. It was such an honor that these great musicians had chosen this album out of all of my records for me to autograph.
Back in the sixties, I was told I had to change my music for the kids to accept me. Yet through the years, every age responds to my singing, even though I haven’t changed a thing; I just continue to be myself. Kids today are like those from any era: they’re open-minded and excited. And they don’t want to be put into a box about their music or books or films, any more than I do—they want to enjoy what they like, and to be free to choose. Each new generation of young people has accepted me into their hearts and lives, which is incredibly gratifying.
My recording of “The Way You Look Tonight” connected me to many of the kids. During the red carpet and wrap-up for the Academy Awards one year, they used my version of the song the whole time. As a result, I still have college students coming up to me and saying, “Could you sing ‘The Way You Look Tonight’?” Young people are very smart; if they’re given something hip, they’ll respond to it.
Louis Armstrong created one of the most enduring styles of music when he invented swing. When you have that in your bones, there’s nothing like it. There’s a whole army of Americans who love swing when they hear it. Their parents danced to it for years and years, and they grew up hearing these songs. And if you combine a swing tune with great lyrics, then you’ve got yourself a hit. When Duke said, “Sing sweet, but put a little dirt in it,” that’s what he was talking about. Always make it swing. Then when you add a well-crafted lyric, you also become a master storyteller, and your work will last for a hundred years.
It’s fortunate that today there’s a whole group of younger artists who play on a more mature level, like Diana Krall and Michael Bublé. These musicians are really communicating with the public, and they are enjoying success because they’re playing to the entire family. Time is a great leveler; you can be assured that the cream will always rise to the top.
The Zen of Bennett
If something is excellent, it defies demographics and categorization.
If music can be dated, it wasn’t very good in the first place.
Young people don’t want to be put into a box about their music or books or films—they want to be free to choose what they like.
Clifford Brown
24
I Never Worked a Day in My Life
I feel that I have so much more to learn. Here I am at eighty-six, and it’s like starting all over again when I look at the knowledge that I’d like to acquire. I’m studying more now than I’ve ever studied in my life—and I have at least another ten to fifteen years before I accomplish what I want to.
I like challenges; I don’t want to be put on a shelf. I never think, Okay, I’ve done it all, so let me just retire. I could have done that twenty years ago. But work eliminates my headaches—it’s what keeps me sane. When you are constantly studying and expanding your mind, you’re never really finished. No matter what level you reach, there’s always the next level to aspire to.
As a young person, I realized that education was the way to go. My sister, Mary, who was a librarian, instilled that in me, so I became a perpetual student. I’ve just recently taken up sculpting. It’s like starting all over; it’s not like painting or photography. You have to learn the anatomy of the shoulder, the muscles, how they’re all connected and how they’re made. Studying anatomy makes you realize what a monument the human body is. So many people are unhappy with themselves physically, but when you realize what you’re walking around with anatomically, and that everyone has a different physique that makes them an individual, you learn to appreciate yours a lot more.
I am also always reading, which is the most wonderful thing anyone can do, because you constantly learn from the masters that way. When I first met the poet Allen Ginsberg, we became fast friends after we found out that we shared a love for William Blake. We spent hours just talking about his poems and the imagery he painted with words. I’ve connected with many people over books, all across the world.
You can’t plan life; life plans you. If you stay flexible and roll with it, you can survive. As the great cellist Pablo Casals told me, “At any given moment, you can learn.” Isn’t that wonderful? And on his deathbed, when Leonardo da Vinci said, “Does anybody ever finish anything?” he realized that there was a lot he still didn’t know. This coming from a man who is famous for his artistic and scientific genius.
Michelangelo also understood the concept of lifelong study. He started to paint the ceiling in the Sistine Chapel when he was thirty-three. He would set himself on top of the scaffolding, lying on his back with a candle mounted on his head so he could see in order to complete his masterpiece. Then he went back to paint the Last Judgment on the wal
l nearly thirty years later, at the age of sixty-one. After he finished what was probably his greatest achievement, he said, “I’m still learning.”
I’ve met artists who are so talented that it makes me shiver. They know so much, and being in their presence makes me realize how much I have yet to achieve. It keeps me even more committed to learning; to honing my performance. Aretha Franklin recently told me that she’s taking classical music lessons at Juilliard, which proves that the greats understand the importance of perpetual education and growth.
When the magnificent Japanese painter Hokusai was in his seventies, he said that he was just learning how to paint. That’s what I’m trying to do—I’m still looking to grow. Growth takes time. You start by figuring out your motivation—why you want to paint or sing, or do anything in life. And then you hone in on what you’re seeking and attempt to become skilled at what that is. Then you find ways to push the envelope further and challenge yourself.
My son and manager Danny, who has managed me for over thirty years now, came to me one day wanting me to try something new. “Why don’t you write a song?” he asked. “Well, I can’t compete with Cole Porter or Jerome Kern, you know; give me a break,” was my reply. But he wouldn’t let me off the hook so easily. “Why don’t you just try it?” he encouraged me. “We have something in mind.”
At first I felt skeptical about it, but then I received my inspiration. After I played a concert in Hawaii, I went to hear a wonderful jazz group perform. One of their songs in particular spoke to me. When I asked the piano player for its name, he told me it was called “Dark Eyes,” and was written by Django Reinhardt.
Reinhardt was the great musician and guitarist from Paris who played with Louis Armstrong. In fact, Willie Nelson recently told me that Reinhardt was his favorite guitar player of all time. When Willie was looking for a guitar, he wanted one with a similar sound to Reinhardt’s that he could play either onstage or in his hotel room. When he finally found the perfect guitar—which he named Trigger, by the way—he said that Django would have loved the instrument, and I had to agree. So when this pianist in Hawaii told me that this tune was by Reinhardt, it all seemed to come full circle.
