Life Is a Gift: The Zen of Bennett

by Tony Bennett

  “How come?” Duke asked. “Well, you’re not selling enough records,” Davis replied. Then Duke said, “I think you have it turned around. I thought I was supposed to make the records, and you were supposed to sell them.”

  The funny thing was that I was giving it my all for those guys; 100 percent of my creative effort. They just didn’t seem to appreciate it. That’s what happens when the bean counters take control—things go down the tubes. It’s still happening today, but if everyone who holds the reins in this business would put their faith in the artists that they sign, things would be in a much better place. Movies and books need powerful stories, and great records need the best songs. If I really adore a song, I’m able to get into the creative zone and deliver the definitive version—one that conveys what the composer originally had in mind. That way, the public will know they’re hearing the real thing, instead of some put-on. It’s obvious when a record producer thinks that the public is stupid, because they’ll try to dumb things down. But that type of work never endures.

  I’m not saying I was the only one that this kind of thing happened to. Every artist has to deal with producers who know it all, and who just want to try to make a quick buck. Even the greats like Fats Waller, Nat King Cole, and Billie Holiday had to deal with it. I’ll tell you another classic: Fats Waller was having a jam session up in Harlem, and he wrote “Ain’t Misbehavin’ ” on the back of a paper bag. The record company paid him two bottles of gin for that song. Every artist who performed popular music sang it, and it became a huge Broadway smash that eventually toured the world. The label made millions and millions of dollars from that one song, and he got paid two bottles of gin. That’s just a sin.

  By bucking the advice of Mitch Miller and Clive Davis, and sticking with the good songs, I’ve been able to have top-selling records with every generation from the fifties until now. I have been privileged not only to contribute many hit songs to the American Songbook but to have a catalog that I can be proud of. There isn’t one record from 1950 until now that is dated. They’re all done with the best composers, great musicians, and top engineers, and there isn’t one that I’m embarrassed by.

  Honing my performance and refusing to compromise have paid off for me, and now I’ve been discovered all over again by yet another generation. I recently released my complete collection boxed set that contains everything I’ve recorded. There are sixty-three albums, and there isn’t one song where I thought, I wish hadn’t put that in there.

  Duke Ellington used to quote Toscanini, who said, “Music is either good, or it isn’t. It’s not someone’s opinion.” What he was saying is that there shouldn’t be any categories in music; that’s not what it’s supposed to be about. Quality music will still be heard a hundred years from now, and still be relevant. The cream will rise to the top, and history will reveal those that endure. And that’s where it’s at.

  I believe Toscanini’s statement with all my heart, which is why I love to sing from the vast catalog of American music. In fact, in the sixties, Alec Wilder, renowned New Yorker music critic Whitney Balliett, and I did a radio show in which we were the first to articulate the importance of and coin the phrase “the Great American Songbook.” I travel all over the world, and wherever I go, people know all those songs by heart. There isn’t an instance that they don’t start singing along with me. These tunes are so well known that they are our best ambassadors.

  I compare this songwriting period that began in the 1920s to the time of the post-Impressionist painters, when a true renaissance in art was taking place in France. Those changes were happening not only in art but in music, too, with Debussy, Tchaikovsky, and Ravel. I regret that we don’t have that kind of emphasis on quality nowadays. Instead, greed rules most of the industry. Often the music is intentionally disposable; it’s forgotten two minutes after it comes out—whereas the songs that became the Great American Songbook will continue to endure.

  During the recording of my last duets record, Willie Nelson and I discussed the fact that although he and I come from different places in the country, musically we are cut from the same cloth. Artists like Frank Sinatra and Ray Charles were on his radio or record player when he was growing up, because his parents and grandparents were musicians, and they listened to good music. Willie would sit at the piano stool with his guitar in hand while his sister played “Stardust” or “Moonlight in Vermont,” and he’d learn them along with her. He says he got a fantastic education just listening to her play those tunes.

  Frank Sinatra, Nat King Cole, and Ella Fitzgerald were ten years older than I was. They were the ones who inspired me to say, “Someday I’d like to be like that.” Today you can listen to a Sinatra or Nat King Cole album, and it sounds like they recorded it yesterday. Nat singing “Lush Life” is just gorgeous, and the same holds true for Sinatra’s “In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning.” Their music will be appreciated until the end of time.

  The public might get the impression that singers only want number-one hits, but that has never been my premise. Instead of being number one, I only wanted to be one of the best. I just keep being myself, and I never compromise. I never strived for a hit song, some novelty tune that would hit it big but be forgotten in two weeks; I wanted a hit catalog. If I do something, I want it to be top quality.

  The Zen of Bennett

  There should be no planned obsolescence; don’t just pick up the money and run. Instead, create something of lasting quality and you will reap the rewards.

  Despite what others say, refuse to compromise your high standards.

  People will reward you if you consistently produce high-quality work.

  Instead of focusing on being number one, attempt to be one of the best.

  Ralph Sharon

  Dick Hyman

  2

  I’ve Always Been Unplugged

  I started performing in 1950. I’ve seen the whole music business change, from recording in monaural to stereo, to quadraphonic to digital, but I’ve always loved recording to two-track tape. It sounds much warmer, and I like going for the warmth. It’s very intimate, friendly, and simple; it doesn’t sound metallic or electronic. I think tape captures what the ear hears more accurately than a digital recording does. Tape reproduces sound with feeling, as if it’s being performed in a concert hall; for me, it’s the most natural sound possible.

  Technology took a big leap when the microphone was invented. Bing Crosby invented the art of “intimate singing,” as he was able to hold a microphone up to his mouth and sing softly. It really made the public go crazy. The point is, he used the new technology in ways that brought out the best in his technique.

  The important thing to understand is that technology can’t guarantee you a good take, or transform a take that isn’t good to one that’s better. It all boils down to how you’re singing that day, how much you’ve prepared, and how much talent you have to put into it. Sometimes we lose that notion, in this era of mixing and everyone recording single instruments in different rooms at different times. But it really isn’t about the technology at all—it’s all about the performance. That’s why, when I won the Grammy for the MTV Unplugged album, I made it a point to remind the audience during my acceptance speech that “I’ve always been unplugged.”

  Years ago, artists and composers just wanted to capture a good, pure performance. I met Ira Gershwin once in my life, when I was at the Chappell Music offices. “Get that song for Mr. Bennett that I’m thinking of for him,” Ira said to his assistant, Frank Military. So Frank ran off, and when he came back, he said, “Mr. Gershwin, we not only have the music, but we have a record of it. And it’s in stereo!” Gershwin turned to him. “I don’t need stereo,” he said. “I have two ears.” Instead of worrying about the recording technique, he just wanted a good performance from the artist. That was all that mattered.

  A lot of performers like to show off, but it’s not about how many notes you’re playing; instead, it’s how well you can construct a meaningful interpre
tation of a song. As far as I’m concerned, less is always more. My art teacher, Everett Kinstler, always reminds me that he doesn’t like paintings where the artist used twenty-seven different colors. As he often says, “John Singer Sargent used only six colors.” By doing something in a minimal way, you can get closer to the feeling of it. You don’t have to search for emotion; somehow it reveals itself when you keep it simple, and the work of art or the song ends up being soulful.

  I insisted on recording all the duets albums live with my partners. This is not how albums are recorded today, but it keeps the performance vibrant. These days, most artists record all the instruments separately first, and add in the vocals later. But with jazz, everybody’s in the room, and we just play spontaneously. What you hear on those CDs is exactly what we put on tape that day.

  That’s how I did all my recordings over the years—in the studio and live. My favorite studio was the CBS 30th Street Studio in New York. CBS converted a grand church into a recording space, because it had the most amazing acoustics. Artists from Toscanini to Duke Ellington to Bob Dylan made their best albums there. Sadly, CBS decided to sell the building, and it was torn down to make way for an apartment complex. (With its history, it should have been designated a landmark historic site and never touched. Corporate greed is everywhere we look, but we need to appreciate our American traditions and historic contributions in a much better way.)

  Frank Laico, my recording engineer at 30th Street at the time, would set up the entire orchestra with my vocal mic placed right in the center so I could hear and feel every note. We would let the tape roll, and in one or two takes, we’d be done. We would complete a whole album’s worth of material in two days, tops. That’s why those records live and breathe to this day.

  Most of the duet artists were shocked that we planned on recording everything in two or three takes—most artists might take twenty-five weeks to finish one record. But not all; Elton John sat down at the piano and did “Rags to Riches” in only one take. When the Dixie Chicks came in to sing “Lullaby of Broadway” with me, one of the band members, Emily Robison, wasn’t used to the way I recorded, but when they got going, they sang so well that it felt so natural. It was the first time they’d done a swinging tune, and it wound up selling millions of records. They were very pleased with the way it came out.

  Natalie Cole found the live work in the studio very different, too, but she really enjoyed it. She noted that because you can’t keep the musicians there all day long while you figure out how to work the song, you really have to be on point with your material and do all of your preparation before getting to the studio, so you can hit the ground running. Josh Groban told me how much he enjoyed not having to worry about wearing earphones. It was a relief for him just being able to feel the energy and relative pitch in the room. Willie Nelson compared the way we taped the duets to working in a small club. He said he felt as if there were people sitting with a couple of drinks in front of them out there at the tables.

  Overall, the reaction to recording live has been universally positive, despite the fact that nowadays everyone uses a very different method of laying down the material. I think it all comes back to the fact that you have to have a strong performance in order to get a good take. All the technology and mixing in the world can’t create something if the talent isn’t there in the first place.

  The Zen of Bennett

  If you win over the audience, then you’ve got it made—regardless of what management says.

  You can’t get a good take from technology, or transform a bad take into something that’s good.

  It all boils down to how you’re singing that day, and your preparation for it.

  Duke Ellington—Black Rain

  3

  Proper Involvement

  As you can imagine, I’ve run across a great many people throughout my career—from fellow performers, actors, painters, world leaders, and presidents to royalty. Some were mere acquaintances; others professionals; others turned out to be lifelong friends. I can’t stress enough the importance of friendships throughout my life. I have had so many wonderful relationships with all sorts of people—and, funny enough, the most enduring friendships I have to this day were with the kids I knew growing up in Astoria, Queens.

  Over and over again, it’s been made clear to me that you can’t go it alone. No matter what obstacles I run up against, my friends have been indispensable, and have been there for me at every turn. In different ways, each one taught me how to be a better person, or how to become a better performer.

  Some of my most lasting relationships, and people I’ve learned quite a bit from, came through the music business. Duke Ellington, who became a good friend of mine through the years, was one of those people. I idolized him, as did every other musician in the world at the time. Duke was the Jazz Age—and I learned so much from him.

  Once, in the early days of my career, Duke and I were slated to do a live Ed Sullivan Show together. A few minutes before I was to go on the air, I went to stand by Duke, and he could see that I was nervous. He just put his hands on my shoulders and said, “Eliminate all negativity. Stress is a killer; just be positive.” The lights went on and the cameras started rolling, and somehow we made it work. I never forgot his calming influence in that crucial moment, and that was the beginning of a long and fruitful collaboration.

  Duke and I got to know each other well through playing a lot of gigs together, and eventually he embraced my whole family. He said that my mom was one of the most spiritual people he’d ever met, and his sister also became close with mine. It was what he would call “proper involvement”—a warm friendship based on mutual respect.

  Once Duke and I happened to be staying at the same hotel in Boston. I was talking to my dear friend and jazz cornet player, Bobby Hackett, who had come to visit me. My phone rang, and it was Duke. “Come down to the ballroom in the lobby; I have a song for you,” he said. So Bobby and I went down in the elevator to meet him.

  Duke was already sitting at the piano, ready to play his new piece. But when he started to play, he realized that the middle octave of the piano was totally out of tune. That didn’t stop him, though; he played the whole song for us without the middle eight notes! The music flowed out of his fingers for over an hour, and I was in seventh heaven. As for Bobby, tears were streaming down his face, he was so happy listening to those creative sounds. Nothing stopped Duke; whereas most people would get totally bugged, he just laughed it off and found his way around the bad notes. He kept everything positive—that was Duke.

  When I celebrated my twentieth year in show business, I did a tour with Duke and his orchestra. Whenever I worked with Duke Ellington or Count Basie, I gave them top billing. Other people in the business had advised me never to do this, saying that I should always make sure my name was on top of the marquee. But my respect for them outdid showbiz politics. It gave me such pleasure to see their names headlined in the bright lights.

  Duke and I played twenty-five concerts starting in New York City with the New York Philharmonic, continuing across the entire United States. My genius pianist at the time, Ralph Sharon, was a jazz composer, and he’d always wanted a chance to see Duke’s music, so early one morning he went to the rehearsal room to have a look. He spent a while poking about, but he couldn’t find one piece of written music lying around anywhere.

  Later Ralph asked Harry Carney, Duke’s baritone sax player, about it. “We don’t use sheet music,” Harry said. “We know our parts.” Ralph was shocked. When Duke wrote a new piece, the band would learn it entirely by heart. Duke would play it for them a few times, and they would just pick it up. They were performing the most complicated music ever, and they were learning it all by memory. Ralph and I were in awe of the level of musicianship and sheer brilliance of Duke and the members of his band; it set a high standard of excellence that raised the bar for all of us.

  Duke also had a habit of making sure we kept in touch. He was as creative in that department as
in everything else he did. Every time he wrote a new song, he would send me a dozen roses; it was a little tradition he began. A bunch of flowers would arrive at my house, and I’d say, “Duke’s been at it again.”

  I was always incredibly flattered that he would make this thoughtful gesture for me. That’s why, on the occasion when I painted Duke’s portrait, in tribute to his generosity, I painted roses into the background. Of all the portraits I’ve painted, Duke’s is my absolute favorite; I was inspired by the peaceful expression on his face, and that is why I inscribed it with the words “God Is Love.” It now hangs in the National Portrait Gallery in the Smithsonian. Whenever I see it, it reminds me of this beautiful man and the legacy of amazing music that he gave to the world.

  I was presented with another opportunity to honor Duke on his seventy-second birthday, which we celebrated in New York at the Waldorf-Astoria. I sang some songs to him as he was sitting in the audience, and he came up and played several numbers. Then I brought out a cake and everyone in the crowd sang “Happy Birthday” to him. It was a moment I will always remember.

  When I lived in Los Angeles, I made a number of good friends in the entertainment business, all of whom came to my fiftieth birthday party. I was in my backyard taking in the crowd and chatting with my friend Johnny Carson—I’d known him ever since I was the first guest, along with Groucho Marx, to appear on his show—when Johnny noticed Fred Astaire and Cary Grant standing by the pool with their sleeves rolled up, laughing together about something. “Look, Tony; you can’t beat that image of those two standing next to one another,” Johnny said. “Everyone in the business is here.” I could have pinched myself. It’s hard to describe the quiet pride I felt in having earned the friendship of these legendary figures.