Photographs by Nigel Parry/CPi
|
Tony Bennett
By John Lewis, July-August 2003
His daughter is breaking out as a singer. His sons resurrected his career. For Tony Bennett, it’s the good life.
|
Tony Bennett's life is damn near perfect. He nabbed his 11th Grammy Award in February, his concerts sell out, his paintings hang in galleries around the world—what could be better? His view of Central Park is so stunning he should charge admission. Sitting on his sofa, dressed in green slacks, beige turtleneck, and green sports jacket, Bennett is sipping coffee and nibbling at a scone from a plate of pastries. When his beloved dog, a little Maltese named Boo, appears at his feet and barks, Bennett flashes his trademark smile, the one that squints his hooded eyes and dimples his cheeks. "I know what you want," he says softly to Boo. "I shouldn't do this, but..." He breaks off a piece of scone, glances over his shoulder, and hands the treat to Boo, who grabs it and scampers to the kitchen. Life is good for Boo, too.
About the only way to even mildly shake the unflappable 76-year-old Bennett is to ask about his youngest daughter, Antonia. An aspiring jazz singer, Antonia is hoping to break into the business that made, and nearly broke, her father. He's proud of her, of course. And he's optimistic about her career. And because he's both pop icon and concerned pop, he worries.
"She's struggling along, learning the ropes," says Bennett of Antonia, 29. "We're keeping our fingers crossed."
Bennett knows the ropes. That's why he worries. He's spent his life chasing a dream that has, at times, turned nightmarish. There have been numbing road trips, broken homes, and tax troubles; drug problems, self-doubt, and rejection. In fact, if Danny, his son, hadn't resuscitated his father's career in the 1980s, there's no telling where Bennett might be today—probably on the casino circuit, bouncing endlessly from Vegas to Atlantic City and back again.
Bennett leans back on the sofa. Sunlight pours through the window and reflects off a black baby grand piano. Artwork by David Hockney—a playful, mostly black and white rendering of a dog next to a table with a tea set and folded newspaper—hangs behind him, while a needlepoint pillow on a chair says "Too Much of a Good Thing Is Simply Wonderful." When asked if he sees himself as Antonia's mentor, he turns philosophical. "There's a proverb that says if you want to learn something, go to someone older," he says. "It's important to pass things on."
Sounds good. But Antonia's success, if it comes, won't be because of Daddy's charity. Bennett has stressed, mantra-like, the importance of self-sufficiency to his daughter: "A lot of parents who are well-off give their children whatever they want. Those children don't have any identity, and they can get a car and whatever new gadget comes along. But that silver spoon is dangerous. There's no real foundation to it."
No one ever spoiled Anthony Dominick Benedetto. He grew up in Astoria, Queens, in a neighborhood that was somewhat suburban but by no means affluent. The youngest of three children, he lost his father to congestive heart failure when he was 10, and his mother worked as a seamstress to support the family. Money was tight. But on Sunday, an extended family of aunts, uncles, and cousins would descend on the Benedetto home for dinner. Everyone brought food, the mood was festive, and Bennett remembers his aunts and uncles forming a circle around him and his siblings. "They would clap like this," he says, clapping a steady beat with his hands, "and we would sing for them. We couldn't wait until Sunday to be with all the relatives."
He shakes his head and smiles. "It was a warm and wonderful feeling. I realized, this is natural, the way it's supposed to be. There was never a touch of loneliness, never a thought of what's going to happen to me? It's funny that, in the middle of deep poverty, it was the warmest time of my life."
After a stint in the Army during World War II, he began honing his skills as a singer. Partial to jazz, he haunted the clubs lining 52nd Street in New York. "My music teacher suggested I imitate musicians, not singers," he recalls. "That way, I'd have more of a unique style." Bennett mimicked Stan Getz's sax and Art Tatum's piano when he sang—an approach that puzzled some listeners and club owners. But the "unexpected phrases" became an integral part of a style that allows him to improvise, in almost conversational tones, as he interprets a song.
The big break came in the late '40s, when he was working with Pearl Bailey in Greenwich Village. After a show one night, Bailey strode into his dressing room with Bob Hope. The comedian raved about the singer and promised to get him booked at the Paramount Theater, uptown. But Hope didn't care for his stage name—Joe Bari—and told him Anthony Benedetto wouldn't fit on a marquee. "We'll call you Tony Bennett," said Hope, and a star was born.
At the Paramount, Bennett did seven shows a day. "I remember doing a narration about how it was great being home from the war with all your army buddies, and I started getting booed," he says. "They just wanted to hear love songs. See, everybody was tired of the war. So I took it out of the show."
Bennett committed himself to singing songs that appealed to all ages, a principle that would guide him for the next 50 years. Since scoring with a string of singles in the early 1950s—and despite record company pressures to sing insipid pop songs—the 21st century Tony is not so different from the Ike-era Tony. Bennett once asked Count Basie if he should change his act. Basie said, "Why change an apple?"
This year, Tony won a Grammy for Playin' With My Friends, duets with the likes of B.B. King and Sheryl Crow. Superstars themselves, they view him not only as the torchbearer of the American songbook tradition, but as show business royalty. "To be near him is a highlight of my life," says King. "I've met two presidents in office, I've met the Pope, Pavarotti—and Tony Bennett."
The reverence comes from the style and professionalism of Bennett's craft. "He's like Joe DiMaggio coming to bat," says Phil Ramone, who produced the duets CD. "He sings from the heart, and you want to be in the company of his voice, no matter what age you are."
Bennett sips his coffee and motions toward an open suitcase on the floor. A formidable piece of luggage, it's nearly overflowing with merchandise: a satellite radio system, hair care products, a coffeemaker. "That's my Grammy goody bag," he explains. "Can you believe all the stuff they give you?"
He seems impressed and somewhat humbled by the booty—the humility of someone who's gone without. His life may seem charmed, but the highs have been matched by aching lows: by two divorces and—because of his career—extended time away from his four children. "Being away from them was the loneliest feeling in my life," he says.
By the late 1970s, Bennett's career was ailing. He had no record label, no manager, and he was performing almost exclusively in Vegas. Living in Los Angeles, he had a drug habit, a disintegrating marriage, and mounting debts. When the IRS started proceedings to take away his home, he nearly overdosed, and had a near-death experience. "A golden light enveloped me in a warm glow," he wrote in his autobiography. "I had the sense that I was about to embark on a very compelling journey. But suddenly I was jolted out of the vision…. I knew I had to make major changes in my life."
He reached out to his sons, Danny and Daegal. Then living in New Jersey, they played in a rock band together. Danny managed the group, setting up rehearsals and booking shows. They recall flying in for an emergency meeting at their father's art studio. "He said, 'Look, I'm lost here,' " says Danny. " 'It seems like people don't want to hear the music I make.' "
Danny suggested that his father curb his spending and jump-start his career by appealing to a younger audience. Bennett hired Danny as his manager. The son put the father on a strict budget (Tony moved to a one-bedroom apartment in Manhattan), took him out of Vegas (right money, wrong image), scheduled concerts at colleges and small theaters, and got him re-signed to Columbia Records in the mid-1980s. At the time, Bennett hadn't recorded an album in 11 years. Danny also got him on hip shows like The Simpsons, and when Tony wanted to be on MTV, Danny made it happen. Bennett recorded one of the network's Unplugged segments in 1994, and his Unplugged disk won a Grammy. "We didn't make it cool to like Tony Bennett," says Danny. "We just put him in places that were cool to be."
Bennett was shocked by the positive reaction."Then I realized that young people had never heard those songs. Cole Porter, Gershwin—they were like, 'Who wrote that?' " He chuckles at the notion. "To them, it was different. If you're different, you stand out." It's a lesson he's passed on to Antonia. "He told me, 'You have to figure out how to do this on your own,' " says Antonia, who's been playing clubs in New York for five years. "As a man who grew up in the Depression, he's a firm believer that anything can happen to anybody."
Still, he finds ways to help. He passes on news about new clubs and sometimes suggests songs. "Being my father's daughter, I've always been scared to find my own voice," says Antonia at Daegal's studio, where she's recording her debut album. "But recently, and especially with this recording project, I've been able to put that aside and not worry so much about what other people think."
How's this for finding her voice: Her fresh take on John Lennon's "Whatever Gets You Through the Night," as well as her versions of Noel Coward's "Sail Away" and Sammy Cahn's "You're a Lucky Guy"—two of her father's favorites—blend her breathy vocals with nuanced Cuban rhythms. It's a unique mix that pleasantly surprised her dad, who told her, "This sounds good. No matter what happens, you'll listen to it in 15 or 20 years and you'll still think it's good." And did her father offer any tips on singing? "He said to keep three things in mind: Breathe before each phrase; sing as you speak, as if you're telling a story; and if you sing the word 'love,' make sure you mean it."
Just like Dad does. With his four kids living nearby, and a long-term relationship with Susan Crow, a New York City teacher, Bennett seems especially content. Now financially secure, he can spend more time on his other passion—painting. In his studio, he points to oil paintings of Antonia and Susan that hang on the wall, then pages through drawings of restaurant interiors—the Oyster Bar at The Plaza and an Oscar Peterson show at the Blue Note. "I've always had a passion to sing and paint," he says. "Through the years I've sort of analyzed myself, and I finally just said, 'That's all I'm going to do—sing and paint.' And I feel very, very satisfied I've been able to do that."
The front door opens, and Bennett turns as Antonia enters the room. She's dropping off a CD of her latest recordings. With her hair pulled back and her thin frame bundled into a long coat, she's as casual as her father is refined. She's herself, not a replica of her dad.
It brings to mind something he said earlier, while musing about material reward. "I don't want to minimize financial security, but when you can finally be yourself, that's the height of success. Hank Williams, he was himself. Billie Holiday, Bing Crosby, Rosemary Clooney—they were themselves. That's why I love Antonia so much. She understands that."
Bennett takes her coat, backs up, and says, "You look so nice." His eyes squint, his cheeks dimple, and he flashes that trademark smile, full blast.
John Lewis has written for The Oxford American, Rolling Stone, and Spin.
Now, check out Tony Bennett's artwork in our web-exclusive image gallery.
|
