by Tony Bennett
Astaire lived near me when I had my home in L.A. He used to stop in at my little art studio, which was right by my swimming pool. In it, I had a radio and my easel, and Fred liked to spend time with me there. One day he came over to relax, but I could tell something was on his mind. “I love to go to parties,” he said. “But all the women want me to dance with them. I’m no longer an athlete, though. I don’t know what to say to them, and I don’t want to be rude, so I wind up having to leave early. It really bothers me.”
I commiserated with him for a minute, and then Astaire commented on how much he liked the song playing on the radio; it was by Big Joe Turner, the blues singer. Then we started talking about my new material. “Where’s that song you’re working on?” he asked. It was up in my bedroom, and he asked me to go up and get it so he could listen to it.
As I came back down to the studio, I happened to glance into the pool house window. There was Astaire, dancing just as he did in any one of his major films, to the tune on the radio. When I opened the door to the studio, he turned red in the face, and was so embarrassed that I’d caught him. “I can’t help it, Tony,” he said. “Whenever I hear the right beat, I just have to dance.” Astaire got caught up in the music and was doing these moves that most twenty-year-olds couldn’t pull off. That was one of the many instances in which it became clear to me that age really has nothing to do with anything; it’s all about your attitude and your love for what you do. Astaire’s energy and artistry will stay with me for the rest of my life.
Cary Grant was another who gave me good advice at a time when I was at a crossroads in my career. After I had done my first film, Cary gave me some great insights. “When you make a movie, you have to spend all day waiting around in your trailer just preparing to act for fifteen minutes, and you don’t get to spend time with people,” Cary said. “Take it from me—it’s no way to spend your life. Just keep performing and follow your passion, Tony. You love to sing and paint, so travel the world and be the best entertainer. You make people feel fantastic; you’re alive.” Cary’s counsel to do what you love, and concentrate on what you know best, is something that all of us would do well to bear in mind.
Once Cary and I went to the racetrack together. It was quite an experience to be out in public with him; all the women would practically pass out as he walked by. The track was very well kept, and everything about it was top of the line. I said to Cary, “Boy, this is a great place. Do you come here often?” Cary said, “Yeah, I would hope so. I own the track.”
I learned many a valuable life lesson from my close friend Nat King Cole. The first time I ever heard Nat’s voice was when I was a soldier stationed in Germany. I loved the way he revealed himself so honestly in his songs; he could sing like an angel. That’s really the whole idea—to let the audience know how you truly feel—and Nat accomplished that every time he performed. In fact, his daughter Natalie, with whom I sang some of the duets, told me recently that she thought I was a lot like her father, and that was why Nat and I got along so well. She felt that we made similar choices when we performed, and she also said that we acted the same way offstage as we did onstage. To me, that was one of the best compliments I had ever received, because I believe in the importance of an authentic performance.
Back when I was an eighteen-year-old kid fighting in the trenches, I never would have guessed that I’d wind up getting to know one of my musical idols. But once I returned to the States and my singing career got going, eventually Nat and I wound up with the same agent. Finally we met in person in the agency’s New York office.
We started talking, and I mentioned that I’d just come from seeing my mom in New Jersey. Nat asked me if I took a limousine. “I don’t use a limo; I take the bus,” I told him. Nat was shocked that while I had four hit records at the time, and was all over the charts, I still took a bus back from my mother’s house. He seemed to appreciate the fact that I didn’t put a lot of effort into acting like a big star. From that point on, we always got along extremely well. His approval reinforced my sense that keeping things simple and being humble about success were good qualities to strive for.
Nat did me a huge favor in the early days of my career. I was big in New York, but I hadn’t made a dent in Chicago yet, although the city was an important venue for musicians at that time. Nat was supposed to do some shows in the Chez Paree nightclub there, but after he’d accepted the date, he was asked to perform at the White House and had to cancel. He suggested to the club’s owners that they have me fill in for him. I was thrilled to do it, and the show went over really well. That was a wonderful break for me, and it was all due to Nat. His generosity inspired me to try to help other younger artists who are coming up in the music business. It’s a tough industry to succeed in, and I like to think that I’ve followed Nat’s example by giving a boost to those who are just starting out.
A funny thing happened at that first engagement in Chicago. Sophie Tucker was the headliner at the Chez Paree, but after I had been performing there for a month, my show was such a hit that the owners wanted to give me equal billing. We solved the problem by having Sophie Tucker and Tony Bennett on one side of the marquee, and Tony Bennett and Sophie Tucker on the other half of the sign. The club arranged to have Sophie’s driver always bring her in from the direction that featured her name on the top, so she never saw the side with my name first.
Nat and I performed countless shows together over the years. Toward the end of his career, when he had a huge hit with “Rambling Rose,” I found myself backstage at the Sands in Las Vegas, listening to him rehearse. “I’m going to walk through the audience while I do the song, and sing to people at each table,” Nat explained to the manager. But the manager didn’t want Nat leaving the stage. Suddenly there was a big conflict.
I remember thinking, I’m not going to say a word; I’m just going to sit here and mind my own business. But then the manager really scolded Nat. “Don’t do that tonight. It’s not going to work,” he said. “You can’t walk through the room; it’s ridiculous to do that.” But Nat, always one to stand up for his artistic vision, insisted, and they started to get into it.
At this point, I felt I had to jump in. From my seat backstage, I shouted, “Don’t worry, Nat. You have the number-one song in the country—you can do whatever you want!” Even the manager had to laugh, and that broke the ice.
In the end, Nat got his way. I was there at his show when he walked from table to table and personally made everyone in the audience feel comfortable. It created such a warm atmosphere in the room, and it worked out beautifully. Nat knew exactly how to make his audiences happy, and he wasn’t going to let some management type put a crimp in his style. I took note of his insistence on keeping it personal, and have tried to do the same ever since.
Later, after the show at the Sands, Nat told me that he wanted Ella, Count Basie, and me to perform with him in a new theater, the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion, which was opening in Los Angeles the following year. Of course I was thrilled to sing wherever Nat requested me to, and enthusiastically I agreed. But several weeks before the show was going to open, Dean Martin called to tell me that Nat was very ill with cancer. I was so sad when Nat died just a few days after Dean’s call. I crushed my pack of cigarettes, threw them in the trash, and never went back to smoking again. Frank Sinatra took over the planning, and the performance became a memorial to Nat. I think he would have been very proud of it.
Sinatra was actually my best friend in show business. Despite his tough-guy persona, he was one of the most kindhearted people in a position of enormous power that I have ever met. He encouraged me when I was new to the business, and as I’ll describe in more detail later, in a high-profile interview he told the whole world that I was his favorite singer—a career-altering statement that even now I can’t believe he made about me.
After fifteen years of performing, there were some people in the industry who still didn’t take me seriously. But once Frank named me his favorite, his audiences b
egan to listen to my music. To me, that was the height of true friendship and generosity, and also a confirmation of Frank’s self-confidence—a rarity in our business. It showed me the importance of encouraging and promoting younger talents.
Frank’s thoughtfulness has left a lasting impression on me. In the middle of one of his television specials in the mid-seventies, Frank stopped to tell the audience (and all the viewers watching at home), “Tony Bennett is my favorite guy in the whole world.” This alone was incredible, but it was even more meaningful because Frank knew that my mother and I would be watching together at her home, and he also knew that my mom was very ill. Every time I went to visit her, I wondered if it would be the last time I’d ever see her. My mom’s face lit up like a little child’s when Frank said those words. It was such a warm gesture, particularly since Frank realized that it would mean so much to her.
Frank was always looking out for me. During one of his shows in L.A., I had snuck into the audience and was swooning along with all the girls. Right after he finished singing “How Do You Keep the Music Playing?” he stopped and looked my way. “Hey, Tony, you should do this song,” he said. He blew me right out of my seat! I had no idea he realized I was in the audience. And, boy, if Frank told you to do something, you had better make sure you did it. But, kidding aside, I immediately worked that song into my repertoire. And do you know what? He was right—it was perfect for me. For many, it has become a highlight of my set, and one of my all-time favorite songs to perform.
I grew up listening to Ella Fitzgerald, but I never dreamed that I’d become a dear friend of hers. Ella and I first met when I took my mother to a show for her birthday. I had told my mom that I’d take her to see anyone she wanted, and to my surprise, she requested Ella Fitzgerald. So we went to watch her show at Birdland, in New York, and Ella herself came up to us afterward. She warmly wished my mom a happy birthday, and then said to me, “I love your recording of ‘Blue Velvet.’ ” I was so thrilled that she had complimented me that way, and of course it delighted my mother, too.
Later on, when I moved to Los Angeles, I became close with Ella, who lived only a few streets over. She was an incredible human being; in addition to being such an outstanding musician, she was very humble. When I told her that she was the best singer I’d ever heard, she’d reply, “No, everyone is good! There are so many fantastic singers out there.”
When Ella toured with Count Basie’s orchestra, she could have flown first class, but instead she stayed with the guys on the bus, to show her support for them. Hers was a version of Duke Ellington’s “proper involvement”—having mutual respect for the others you’re working with, and not setting yourself above anyone else.
When I lived in Los Angeles, my family always spent Christmas with Ella. On Christmas Eve I would take my daughters to her house, where she would be cooking up the best dishes with one of her friends. We’d go up to the door; she’d open it and greet us with “My daughters are here!” I have such warm memories of those times with her, as do my daughters, Antonia and Johanna.
Ella was a true musician, and her voice was her instrument. Although she sang all over the world, she communicated quite adequately to those who spoke other languages, through her amazing voice alone, and she never needed an interpreter. Her legacy of jazz recordings is a true gift to the world, and it goes without saying that they inspire me in my own work to this day.
Louis Armstrong was another musical genius whom I had the privilege to get to know very well. When classical trumpet players first heard him perform, they were dumbstruck: How did he do that? No one could figure it out.
Louis was a real original, and he just about invented jazz; he was such a virtuoso. He taught me that being true to yourself and letting your own personality shine through are essential for any performer to successfully communicate with an audience. If you just be yourself, he would tell me, you will automatically stand out in a crowd—because there is no one else just like you in the entire world. Everyone is an individual; never let anyone put you on a shelf. This was so reaffirming for me to hear, particularly when I was being pressured to record contemporary songs instead of the classics. I knew that I would get nowhere by copying others.
I first met Louis through Bobby Hackett. Bobby and Louis both lived in another part of Queens, and on the occasion when we met, they came over to my house so Bobby could introduce us. In his characteristic growly tones, Louis said to me, “I’m the coffee, but Bobby’s the cream.” From that point on we became good friends, and we would spend time together whenever we could.
At one point during our long friendship, I was inspired to paint a portrait of Louis. I thought so highly of him, and I worked very hard to make the painting meet my standards. When I finally gave it to him, his incredibly generous reaction put a big smile on my face. “You’ve out-Rembrandted Rembrandt!” he said. Louis put the portrait in his home office so he could see it whenever he was at his desk. He’d say to visitors who came by, “That was done by a boy who lived in my neighborhood.” Louis’s house is now a museum, and to this day you can see the painting where it was originally hung.
When I recorded Louis’s last hit, “What a Wonderful World,” with k.d. lang, she and I wanted to make the song a tribute to him instead of just a cover version. At the end of the song, I added, “Yeah, Louis Armstrong was right. It is a wonderful world.” I felt this was a fitting homage to one of the most important musical talents of all time.
Being an entertainer has allowed me the good fortune of becoming close friends with other performers whom I had originally admired only from afar. I had been a fan of Judy Garland long before I met her. She was only a few years older than me, but because she was a child star, I’d watched her in movies since I was a kid. We were introduced in the late fifties when she came backstage to speak to me after my show at the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles. I was excited to finally meet this entertainer whom I’d admired for so many years.
Judy had a great off-the-cuff sense of humor, and was incredibly bright and witty. Which is why I was surprised when she told me, once we had become good friends, how badly she’d been treated as a child when she was making films. Even though she was a minor, they gave her pills to stay up and then pills to go to sleep so she could complete a movie in record time. And in addition to the drugs, she had to deal with all kinds of abuse from the executives and producers. She wasn’t allowed to grow up normally at all. She always said that Mickey Rooney was one of the few true friends to her in her entire film career. Everyone else had tried to take advantage of her or use her in some way.
“I’ve never gotten to hold real cash in my hands,” Judy also told me. “Someone always pays my accountant a check, and he takes care of the bills. But I never get to see what I’ve actually earned.” So when a promoter asked me, “What do you think Judy would like as a gift?” I suggested he give her a portion of her fee in cash, knowing that she’d enjoy it. He did, and I got a kick out of seeing her in her dressing room after the show. She was throwing the money up in the air, acting like a kid. “Tony, this is the first time in my life that I’ve actually been allowed to handle my own money!” she said. It made me feel good to see her in such a great mood.
Most people don’t realize what a tremendous sense of humor Judy had; she loved practical jokes. I always laugh to myself when I remember the joke she pulled on the great Peggy Lee. Peggy had invited Judy to a birthday party she was hosting one evening. “For this dinner, we’re going to have a big crowd,” Peggy told Judy. “I’ve ordered two hundred chicken legs for the meal.”
Judy called me to invite me along. When I arrived at her home to pick her up for the party, she had me wait a moment so she could collect her present for Peggy. She got a shoe box, went into the other part of the house, and came back with something wrapped up with a big pink bow. When we got to Peggy’s house, she opened the door. “Here’s your present,” Judy said, presenting Peggy with the package. “Do you mind if I go ahead and open it?” Pe
ggy asked. “It’s your birthday; open it up,” Judy said. So Peggy opened the box, and sitting there in the middle of the shoe box was a chicken leg—Judy’s contribution to the meal. It cracked us all up, and Peggy went around showing everyone at the party what she’d been given.
Although Judy had a really good sense of humor, she also gave me some great career advice. “Of course you need to sing only the best songs,” she would say, “but once in a while it’s okay to do a number that hits the back of the house; a real showstopper.” She had a good point, and that’s why I don’t mind occasionally singing something like “Firefly,” which always goes over big. She showed me that you can maintain your integrity doing quality work while still including a few songs that leave the audience with big smiles on their faces.
One of the best compliments I ever received was from Judy, who was interviewed by Billboard magazine in their tribute issue to me. In the piece, she said that I was “the epitome of what entertainers were put on earth for. Tony was born to take people’s troubles away. He loves doing it; he’s a giver.” Given my respect for Judy and her talent, this was high praise indeed, and I always cherished her statement.
The very last time I saw Judy was in the late sixties when I was doing a televised special with Count Basie in London. After the show, she gave me a big hug and said, “You know what? You’re pretty good!” She died just a few weeks later, and I’ve missed her and her warm spirit ever since. She was such a close friend, one who taught me valuable lessons about how a sense of humor can get you through even the darkest of moments.
For a long time, I had wanted to perform with Count Bill Basie, whom I considered one of the most incredible bandleaders I’d ever heard. It was one of my dreams to record with him. But first we had to deal with Roulette, Basie’s label, and with the notorious record executive Morris Levy.