After years of performing, I’ve realized that it’s not how many notes you’re playing that counts, but how you play them. Or, as Louis Armstrong would say, “It’s not whatchya do, it’s how you do it.” It’s very important to know what to leave out, accenting what remains—whether you’re talking about singing, painting, or just about anything you do. In almost anything, less is truly more.
It’s more than just how I sing a song to an audience that gets a good reaction. Many times the order in which I sing the songs makes all the difference. I read the audience and can decide, based on their reaction, whether to skip a song or add another. Or I might have to move a song that’s at the beginning of the show to the end. It’s amazing how sometimes, by putting a number into another section, you can make a song a showstopper. But in a different place in the set, that same song is just another melody. For me, it’s always a matter of trying to arrive at a pacing that’s just right for the listener; knowing what to omit so you don’t stay out onstage too long.
When I was younger, I would open up with a real hot number like “From This Moment On.” I would go out and hit the stage full force, and the band would be wailing. After that number, I thought I would have the audience in the palm of my hand, but when the song was over, I wasn’t getting the reaction I felt I should. I remember talking to Basie about it. He looked up at me with those big bright eyes of his and said, “Never open with a closer.”
Basie went on to explain that at the beginning of a show, the audience is just walking in, finding their seats, and getting comfortable; they’re checking you out. He said that I should stay there right with them and open with something mellow. For the next song I could pick it up a bit, and by the third, I should do a ballad. Then it would be time to hit them with swinging tunes. He told me to save that highly energetic tune for last. And, boy, was he right. The next night I did as he suggested, and the audience went crazy.
So in addition to learning not to overstay my welcome, I also learned about pacing. No one knew better than Bill how to do it right. He had a pure instinct as to what to leave out, and what worked on an emotional level.
Basie just got it. He understood pacing, balance, and how to give the audience what they wanted. Basie told me to focus on the singing and not to talk too much, but to make sure I put a little humor in the set—that it will get them every time. And with his advice always at the front of my mind, I continue to try to do the unexpected, so my set never gets old or boring. By the time the night is over, I want my audience to feel satisfied—and when they feel that way, I feel good.
It took me a while to learn how to edit myself. It’s one of the toughest chores to get right. In the first year of my recording career, I released eight singles, but none of them broke through on a national level. By spring of the following year, I was told that I would be dropped from Columbia if I didn’t have a hit soon. Percy Faith was my arranger-conductor, and I went to see him in his office to discuss what to do.
“The time has come, Tony,” Percy said to me. “You really have to deliver now. And we just have three songs; we need one more.” I poked through some music on his desk and picked up a sheet. “Why don’t I do this?” I said. The song turned out to be “Because of You.”
“Because of You” was released at a time when Columbia had totally lost its belief that I would be able to break out. The song didn’t get on the radio immediately, but despite that, people started to play it on jukeboxes. A tune didn’t normally become popular before it got airplay, but in this case, that’s what happened. After listening to it on jukeboxes, people started calling radio stations and requesting it.
The song reached number one on Billboard’s charts and stayed in that position for ten weeks. It remained on the charts for a total of thirty-two weeks in a row. Finally I had my first big hit. The record wound up selling a million copies, and I was put on the cover of Billboard, which was a big boost for my career.
In a way, everything is a matter of editing. No one is perfect; you can’t bat a thousand. So if you hear something you’ve done and it’s not right, just get rid of it. I remember talking with Fred Astaire after one of my shows at the Hollywood Bowl. Astaire was always a gentleman, and he would never overtly criticize anyone, but in this case he told me a story from which I gleaned valuable advice. He told me that whenever he worked on a new show, he would struggle hard to come up with the best batch of material he could find. Then, when he was happy with it, he would force himself to cut out fifteen minutes. “No matter how much you love what you’ve put together, doing that will tighten it up so you don’t stay on the stage too long,” he said. I caught his meaning, and from then on, I became my own worst critic. It made a big difference in my creative life to realize that it’s always good to leave people wanting more, as opposed to the other way around.
It’s the same way with painting—after all, as I mentioned earlier, John Singer Sargent used only six colors. The Impressionist artists used brushstrokes to suggest; it was up to the viewer to fill in what was missing, just like when you sing in syncopation. You don’t have to emphasize every beat; the listener knows it’s there. By carefully editing your work, you wind up with the essence of your message.
I’m always sketching, and I edit as I go along. My art teachers taught me not to show anybody work that isn’t finished; the artist should choose the best take, and the rest should be tossed. I’m still working on determining when a song or painting is done; it seems I’m never really satisfied. But at a certain point, you have to stop asking yourself, “Have I got it right yet?” There are a lot of questions that can create feelings of insecurity. You can drive yourself crazy and become insecure, questioning whether something is perfect. You have to understand that at times you’re going to hit a bull’s-eye, and at other times you need to tear up your work and start all over again.
Occasionally I take a trip to the warehouse where I store my paintings and review them with a fine eye. If there’s a painting I have any doubts about, I take a razor and rip it up. That way, I make sure that in the future, there is no chance I’ll be misrepresented. This takes a lot of discipline, but I take my work very seriously. I don’t want to leave behind anything that I’m not happy with. With a painting, I ask myself what’s not essential to the overall composition, and then I work to eliminate it. I always think: What can I take out? Then I leave in the one or two things that I feel make it interesting.
In the fifties, Liberace ushered in the over-the-top performance. He was a master showman, and he was the first singer of his kind to play Madison Square Garden. He had been in smaller places with his candelabra and mink coat, but then he decided that he needed a larger venue. After he filled the Garden with his lavish stage production, all the suits at the record business wanted to jump on the bandwagon because they knew artists could make a lot of money by playing huge stadiums. Just like that, intimacy with the audience—in theaters where you could be very subtle and do magnificent things—went out the window. Everything became a quest to see who could fill the biggest arena. I feel that we lost a lot in terms of quality when artists started moving in this direction. Just because you’re playing to a large crowd, it doesn’t make you the best. My audiences have always responded to the sets that were well edited. Less truly is more, and by cutting back to the essentials and leaving in only the most outstanding part of your performance, you’ll wind up with your best possible work.
The Zen of Bennett
It’s very important to know what to leave out, thereby emphasizing what remains.
Try to do the unexpected, so people are never bored.
No one is perfect; you can’t bat a thousand. So if you do something that’s not right, just get rid of it.
Keep in mind that the great artist John Singer Sargent used only six colors to create his masterpieces.
By paring back to the essentials and leaving in only the most outstanding elements, you’ll wind up with your best possible work.
