The Good Life

by Tony Bennett

  During the sessions I’d name a tune, and Bill would say, “That’s good, let’s do that.” We’d find a key, work it out, then play it through and work out all the changes. After three days we had nine songs in the can.

  I remember how the intensity of the whole experience kept mounting. I told the engineer, “Don’t wait for us to do a take, just keep the tape running all the time.” But all he said was, “I can’t. I’ll run out of tape.” My one regret is that we didn’t record all those rehearsals and run-throughs. It was fascinating to hear Bill work on songs, He was always improvising and revising, changing and improving his approach.

  In June 1976, Bill and I opened the Newport Jazz Festival at Carnegie Hall, Bill came on for the first half, then I did the second, and we finished up together. Bill and I worked a number of other appearances together; the Smithsonian in Washington; on a TV concert in Holland; a half-hour special for the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation. Around the time of the Carnegie Hall show I was doing a radio interview with the celebrated disc jockey William B. Williams on the old WNEW, and Bill came along with me. William B. was smart enough to put Bill on mike as well, and I’ll never forget what Bill said about me when William B. asked, “Working with Tony Bennett, is that a jazz sound?” Bill replied:

  As far as I’m concerned, it is. Occasionally fans will act surprised by the fact that Tony and I have joined together for this particular project, because they tend to see Tony in the superstar pop singer image. But you know, every great jazz musician I know idolizes Tony. From Philly Joe Jones to Miles Davis, you name it. The reason is that Tony is a great musical artist. He puts music first, and has dedicated himself to it. He has great respect for music and musicians, and this comes through, and it’s just a joy to work with somebody like that. To me, it’s music.

  Bill finished by saying, “This is one of the prime experiences of my life.” I still haven’t gotten over that. Thank you, Bill.

  The only downside about working with Bill Evans was watching his addiction destroy him. I once asked him, “What happened? Why did you start doing drugs? Did someone hurt you?” “Hurt me?” he said. “I wish they did.” He bitterly regretted the course his life had taken. “I wish somebody had broken my arm instead of sticking a needle in it for the first time, I wish somebody would have knocked me right out so that I’d never touch it again.” In those last few months he was so sick that after a set he’d have to go right back to his room and lie down. It was a nightmare. He finally ran out of the energy to keep living.

  The last time I talked to Bill, I was passing through some little town on the outskirts of Austin, Texas, of all places, and he called me. I was surprised he was able to track me down, and I said, “Bill, what are you calling me here for?” He answered me in a voice that sounded desperate and full of despair, “I wanted to tell you one thing: just think truth and beauty,” he said. “Forget about everything else. Just concentrate on truth and beauty, that’s all.” I’ve tried to live by those words ever since. Shortly afterward he died of an overdose. Imagine how much great music he would have created had he lived. It made me think hard about my own drug use. I knew that somehow, something had to be done.

  In 1976 I turned fifty and Sandra threw me a big party. I couldn’t believe the celebrities that were filing through my own home! Everybody in show business was there. It was a lovely summer evening, and we were all sitting at tables set up around the swimming pool. I was talking with Johnny Carson, whom I’d known since 1962. He got everybody’s attention, pointed his finger, and said, “Look.” Cary Grant and Fred Astaire were sitting on the other side of the pool, their ties loosened and shirt buttons undone, cracking jokes and breaking each other up. Wow. Unforgettable.

  The seventies were the only decade that Frank Sinatra and I actually lived in the same town, but because of our extensive touring schedules, the only time our paths crossed was when we were on the road. The major exception was in 1977 when he invited me to sing with him on his ABC-TV special, Sinatra and Friends, I sang “One,” from A Chorus Line, and Frank and I did a duet of “My Kind of Town.” One night when I was back in New York in August 1974, I was visiting my mom for the evening. We were watching Sinatra’s Main Event special on television. Frank knew that my mom was really sick at this point, and he knew that I’d planned to watch the show with her, and during a break between songs he turned to the audience and said that Tony Bennett was his favorite guy in the whole world. My mother’s face lit up like a Christmas tree, and that image will stay with me for as long as I live. That was a perfect example of the kind of small things that Frank would do that made such a big difference in people’s lives.

  I was playing the Sands in Las Vegas in February 1979, and while I was singing I noticed something funny going on between John, my bassist, and Joe, my drummer. It turned out John had a note, and he was telling Joe, “This has to get to Tony right now!” Joe said no way was he going to interrupt me, but John said, “I think you better give it to him. It’s from Sinatra!”

  I opened the note, and boy, were they right to give it to me. It said that Mr. Sinatra was listening to the performance at a party on a yacht off the southern coast of France. He’d gotten his friends at the Sands to set up a shortwave hookup. They were broadcasting our show directly to Frank.

  The note also said that Frank wanted to hear me sing Terries arrangement of “My Way” I was only too happy to oblige, and I made the announcement to the crowd that Frank had requested a song, and everyone turned around to see where he was. I explained he was thousands miles away in France, but he was listening along just the same!

  Sometime later I was asked to do the fabulous show at Radio City Music Hall called “The Night of One Hundred Stars.” It was kind of a funny setup: I was brought out on stage in a Central Park carriage being pulled by a live horse. I was frightened because I thought the horse might get spooked by the lights or the crowd and go bananas, and I’d wind up in the orchestra pit with the horse. Orson Welles was backstage, and he stood there smoking a big cigar and staring at me. He could tell that I was having a case of the butterflies, and with perfect grace he said to me, “I go to every party at Sinatra’s house, and he plays nothing but Tony Bennett records.” Just at that moment the announcer said, “Ladies and gentlemen, Tony Bennett!” Orson knew exactly what to say to help me get through. What wonderful timing. No wonder he was such a great director.

  Frank and I met up another time in Chicago. There was a home for Italian-American senior citizens there called the Mother Cabrini Old Age Home. They were putting on a big benefit so they could raise enough money to pay off their mortgage. Originally Frank was going to do the show, but when he canceled because of an arm injury, they called me, and I agreed to do it. But Frank decided he could do the show with his arm in a sling. Since I was already booked, we decided to do it together.

  When we were planning the show, Frank decided that he’d go on first. I don’t know why; maybe there was someplace he wanted to be. When he finished he turned to the crowd and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, the greatest singer in the business, Tony Bennett.” It was just about the greatest honor I’ve ever received.

  But even “the greatest singer in the business” wasn’t doing so well.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  On Thanksgiving night 1977 I was about to walk on stage at the Fairmont Hotel in San Francisco when I got the news that my mom had died. I was in shock. That night I hit the street and just started running, and I ran for miles in a daze. My mom had been my one guiding star through all my ups and downs. She’d kept me grounded and was always able to put everything in focus for me. When she passed away, I thought I’d never recover. I was so overcome with grief that I actually wondered if I might be losing my mind. And I found that I was using drugs to ease my pain.

  Her death could not have happened at a worse time. Sandra and I couldn’t get along. I was again without a manager and that meant it was up to me to mind the store. My new record company had folded earlier tha
t year and I was without a label for the first time in my career. All of Bill’s business expertise and all of my dedication weren’t enough to keep the label alive. To my dismay, I learned that the company was in debt, and now I was responsible for my share of it. On top of everything else, my accountants were telling Sandra and me that our Hollywood lifestyle was beginning to take It’s toll and we were spending way too much money As a result we had fallen behind on our taxes, and the IRS was banging on our front door.

  I had a press agent from Toronto named Gino Empry for a while during this time, and he introduced me to my new agent Roger Vorce at Agency of the Performing Arts (APA) who was now booking my dates. John Giuffrida, my bass player, handled the logistics of touring, but there was nobody looking out for the big picture. The strain was getting to be too much for me, and I began to experience long bouts of depression.

  As hard as I tried to stay current with my taxes, my financial situation only got worse. The accountants called to say that the IRS was starting proceedings to take away the house. That night, in frustration I overindulged and quickly realized I was in trouble. I tried to calm myself down by taking a hot bath, but I must have passed out. And I experienced what some call a near-death experience; a golden light enveloped me in a warm glow. It was quite peaceful; in fact, I had the sense that I was about to embark on a very compelling journey. But suddenly I was jolted out of the vision. The tub was overflowing and Sandra was standing above me. She’d heard the water running for too long, and when she came in, I wasn’t breathing. She pounded on my chest and literally brought me back to life. As I was rushed to the hospital, the only thought on my mind was something my ex-manager Jack Rollins had told me about Lenny Bruce right after Lenny’s death from an overdose. All Jack said was, “The man sinned against his talent.” That hit home. I realized I was throwing it all away, and I became determined to clean up my act.

  It took me a couple of weeks to get my feet back on the ground I knew I had to make major changes in my life. It was 1979 and my sons Danny and Daegal were now twenty-five and twenty-four, respectively. I remembered the clearheaded suggestions Danny had given me during the Improv negotiations, and how he was always so defensive anytime there was a wise guy hanging around. I called my boys in New York and asked them to come out to talk things over and see if they could lend me a hand.

  All of my kids have a natural affinity for music. Joanna and Antonia grew up hanging around with Sammy Cahn, Frank Sinatra, and Dean Martin. They sang with Basie’s band at the age of nine and ten. Danny and Dae were privy to some amazing jam sessions in their own home. Dae once sat with Duke Ellington at his piano. Count Basie’s great drummer, Sonny Payne, had been the first person to put a pair of drumsticks in his hands. The boys also got to see the business side of the music industry and watched promoters, agents, bookers, and road managers at work.

  By their twenties, Danny and Dae were well versed in all aspects of music; performance, business, and even the everchanging technology. And by now, Danny had experience with contract negotiations. When I asked them to come out to California, they didn’t hesitate; they arrived the next day.

  The three of us met in my art studio, my sanctuary. I told them the whole story I tried to explain what was going on, but the truth is, even I wasn’t totally aware of all the problems plaguing the business side of my career. When I finished talking, Danny said to me, “Well, the only thing I can do is look at the situation and try to find where things went wrong.”

  Danny and Dae met with my accountants back in New York, whom I’d instructed to reveal all. I wanted the boys to understand exactly what was happening. Danny understood numbers. He called me up and said, “If you make a hundred dollars and you only spend ninety-nine, then you’re a buck ahead. But if you make a hundred dollars and spend a hundred and one, you’re in trouble.” My accountant told Danny that he could look at the books as much as he wanted, but things weren’t going to get any better. He told him I was going down. Danny said, “That’s your opinion.” He spent a week in New York sorting the whole thing out, and when Danny laid out my entire financial situation on a spreadsheet, I could finally see it clearly.

  Danny told me that the road gigs weren’t profitable because we were spending too much on road expenses, and he also told me exactly how much Sandra and I were spending personally. No one had done this for me before. He explained that we had spent exactly the same amount that I’d earned that year, leaving nothing for the tax man. Danny stated the obvious when he said the only way things could get better was by cutting expenses and budgeting the rest. He worked out a three-year payment plan with the IRS and we put my new budget into action.

  The hard part was getting Sandra to comply. I had to go back on the road that week, and I called her and said, “This is the way It’s going to have to be. It’s the only way we can save the house.” One week later she served me with divorce papers. That’s how quick it was. But the trial dragged on for many years.

  Another chapter in my life had come to an end. I left the house in Beverly Hills and found a nice one-bedroom apartment on West Fifty-fifth Street back in Manhattan, right up the street from Columbia’s “Black Rock” headquarters. The minute I got back to a lifestyle I was comfortable with, I never wanted to get high again.

  Torrie Zito decided to get off the road. That was a major loss musically. By then we’d been working together for ten years. He’d written over a hundred arrangements for me, many of which—unfortunately—were never recorded. The last thing Torrie and I did together was my second English TV series in 1979. It was called Tony Bennett Sings..., and it was also directed by Yvonne Littlewood. The shows were built around different themes, like “Tony Bennett Sings Saloon Songs,” “Tony Bennett Sings Songs from Broadway,” and “Tony Bennett Sings Song Stories.”

  When the rest of the trio broke up, I was worried that I’d never be able to put together a group as good again. I found it significant that I was returning to my roots—going from Hollywood back to New York—-and it made sense that I’d also go back to Ralph Sharon. Oddly enough, at the very same time, Ralph had been debating whether or not he should get in touch with me.

  It had been Ralph’s wife, Susan, who had pressured him into quitting the road, but they were now divorced and he had married a woman named Linda. I decided to give him a call and ask if he’d consider coming back with me. He talked it over with Linda, and soon we were back on the road together. It was 1980, and he’d been gone for fifteen years. It was a comfort to have him back.

  Our new trio featured John Burr, then later Gene Cherico on bass, and the fantastic drummer Butch Miles. Eventually Joe LaBarbera, who had been Bill Evans’s drummer, took over on drums, and Paul Langosch, who has been with me for almost fifteen years now, took over on bass. They’re all exquisite musicians, and put an end to the doubts I’d had about finding the best to work with again.

  When Danny first began helping me out, there was never a deliberate plan for him to manage me. He just fell into the role. He turned out to be really good at putting it all together. Not since my sister, Mary, managed my affairs in the sixties had I felt so confident that everything was on the up-and-up. It was such a relief, and my head began to clear.

  We became a team, artist and manager, as well as father and son. He and I had extensive talks and worked out a game plan. Danny asked me point blank, “What do you want to accomplish?” I answered, “I want to do what I do best, nothing more and nothing less. Above all else, I never want to compromise my musical integrity.” I told him that despite the modern notion of demographics, I was taught that it was important to perform for the whole family I told Danny that I wanted to be able to bring my music to as many people as possible, regardless of their age.

  I meant that too. I wanted to reach all ages. I wanted to do it for myself, naturally but I don’t think I’m being disingenuous when I say that I also wanted to do it for Cole Porter, Duke Ellington, and all the wonderful composers, arrangers, and instrumentalists I�
�d ever worked with. I wanted to be one of the keepers of the flame when it came to great music. I knew that if I brought the best songs and the best orchestrations to people, they’d respond to it, because great music transcends generations.

  I was singing at the Sahara in 1979, and I had a television special that year called Live at the Sahara, Even though I wasn’t recording and hadn’t had a major appearance in New York in a few years, I was still hot enough that the Suma Corporation, owner of the Sands, lured me away from the Sahara with a spectacular new contract. What made it unique was the amount of time they wanted me to work in their room—eighteen weeks a year, a big commitment.

  But I thought I was spending too much time in Las Vegas. It was tough for me to say no at first—it was, after all, four months a year of guaranteed income. But there was good reason for me to work less in Vegas. Business was decreasing, fewer people were coming in, and no new hotels or casinos were being built. Even the Suma people eventually sold out to the Hilton chain. Remember, this was fifteen years before Vegas started booming again in the mid-nineties; the town was going downhill, and if it did hit bottom, I didn’t want to be one of the entertainers to get blamed for it.

  And there was always the danger of becoming strictly a Vegas act, and that wasn’t the route I wanted to go. I was looking to broaden my audience, not narrow it, so I went to the Suma people and renegotiated the deal so that I worked fewer dates.

  I knew that my core audience would support me. As long as I was presenting songs from the Great American Songbook, I’d fill up every seat wherever I played. There were a number of labels who could give me a deal, but I thought it would serve me best to go back to Columbia Records because that’s where my catalogue was, and it would give me a chance to exploit the masters to maximum benefit and regain control of my own destiny.