For those who don’t get up in front of an audience night after night, performing can seem like a frightening prospect. I realize that it must seem completely unnatural for most people to put it all out there and expose their emotions in front of a large crowd. A lot of people ask me how I can just get up there and not get nervous.
Well, to be absolutely honest, any of the great performers I’ve known do get nervous. This is something most people in the audience aren’t aware of, but that’s what happens—you get what I call the butterflies. That’s really the thing that drives you to do your best. It’s the hope that everything will turn out as planned—that I’ll remember all the words, and that the orchestra blends with me properly.
At first, I was thrown by feeling like this. But I learned early on that there is a big difference between being scared and being worried that you will do your best. I learned how to welcome the butterflies, because really what it means is that you care, and the show is going to be all right. If you’re not nervous, you’ll be too overconfident, and your energy level onstage will reflect that.
Everyone who’s starting out gets the butterflies, but eventually learns that it’s a healthy thing. All the artists (except for Elton John) who recorded with me on my latest duet albums told me they were nervous before we began. I told every one of them, from Lady Gaga to Amy Winehouse, that I was nervous as well, and that it’s good, because that means it’s going to work. k.d. lang said that the pressure to perform as an artist was similar to being an athlete and having to be on your toes, which I thought was a good comparison. I adore singing with k.d. She is such a talent; she has a great outlook on life and a fantastic sense of humor. She always jokes that the only thing that she and I have a hard time figuring out is who’s going to lead when we dance together.
Early in my career, I had a bad case of the butterflies. I had been invited to fill in on the summer replacement show for Perry Como’s variety hour, although I’d never done that kind of performance before. When I was having a first bit of success, a drummer I knew told me that Frank Sinatra liked my style. I decided that maybe I could ask Sinatra for some advice, since I was anxious about appearing live in front of a television audience with only a bare stage and a minimal band. He was performing at the Paramount in New York at the time. I had never met Frank before, and I decided to try to talk to him. I went over to the theater and was promptly sent back to his dressing room.
Frank looked at me and welcomed me graciously. “Hello, Tony,” he said. “Come on in, kid.” (He loved to call me “kid.”) I told him how nervous I was about doing the Como replacement show. Right off the bat, Frank said that I shouldn’t worry about it. “It’s when you’re not nervous that you’re in trouble,” he told me. “If you don’t care what you’re doing, why would the audience care? Then when they see how much the show means to you, they’ll love you and support you.” I thanked him profusely, amazed at his generosity in taking the time to meet with someone just starting out.
I took Sinatra’s advice to heart, and it has helped me immensely throughout my career. It’s like a Thoroughbred horse: the one that’s nervous and jumping around before the race is the one that usually wins.
The thing about a live performance is, if you sing a wrong note on the stage, you can’t just say, “Oh, well that didn’t work—let’s take it again.” You don’t want to make that kind of mistake in front of a big crowd. Instead, you want to show the audience the full continuity of what you’re doing, so they feel connected with you. You don’t want to walk out there like it’s just another night. But if you treat them with respect, they’ll treat you the same way.
Prior to one concert, Ralph Sharon, my pianist at the time, reminded me that all performers get insecure. “You feel as if someone has to push you onstage some nights,” he said. But then he told me, “Someday you’re going to look back at all of this, and you’re going to like those nights and every one of the records you made. You’ll realize that the nerves fueled your best performances.” And it turns out he was exactly right. I just released a boxed set of all the records I ever made, and I can honestly say that I’m proud of every one that’s in it. Each has the best fidelity, and none of them sounds dated. I can’t ask for more than that.
I vividly recall the times throughout my career when I had the worst cases of the jitters. One of those was when I was getting ready for my debut at Carnegie Hall. In those days, most performers played clubs like the Copacabana in New York; it was unheard of for an artist such as Judy Garland or Frank Sinatra to play a concert hall. So it was a very big deal when the promoter Sid Bernstein started booking us in prestigious venues like Carnegie Hall.
To a musician, playing Carnegie is like climbing Everest or planting the flag on the moon, so I wanted it to be just right. Before the engagement, I poured my nervous energy into the date. I figured out the songs I wanted to sing, and I honed them until I felt I was ready. Carnegie Hall had never invited a pop soloist to perform there, so I put everything I’d been studying for the past twenty years into that engagement, which was held on June 9, 1962. In spite of a major case of the butterflies, when I got onstage my jitters disappeared, and it all went very well. My family was in the audience and I was thrilled that my mother was there, too; it was one of the highlights of my life. My mom was so happy that I’d made it to Carnegie Hall. In the end, it was, for me, my most memorable performance.
Another performance I’ll never forget was “The Night of One Hundred Stars” at Radio City Music Hall. They had gathered one hundred of the top names in showbiz to perform on one stage for one night; everyone from Frank Sinatra to James Cagney and Gregory Peck was there. I was supposed to come on in a carriage pulled by a horse, and I was concerned because I thought the horse might be frightened by the audience and I’d wind up in the orchestra pit with the creature kicking and thrashing on top of me.
Orson Welles was also part of the show, and while I was waiting to go on, he was backstage. He took one look at me and realized that I was very anxious. “I go to every party at Sinatra’s, and do you know, he plays nothing but your records,” he said calmly to me. Immediately I felt more relaxed. Then the announcer’s voice blared: “Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Tony Bennett.” And I just flowed with it. I got into that carriage, and everything went perfectly. No wonder Welles was such a great director; he knew exactly what to do to calm me down.
You have to walk out there acting confident, and belt out those songs like it’s the first time you’ve ever performed them—but at the same time make it feel effortless. And having a bit of nervousness helps you to do that. Even if I’ve sung a song for the past forty years, I have to put everything into it, every single time I do it. That way, the audience knows I care about what I’m doing—it can’t be rote or mechanical. That’s why I try to reinvent a song a little differently each time, so that it stays fresh and challenging for the audience, as well as for myself. I’ve learned that if you accept what is normally regarded as a negative and find a way to learn from the experience, it will always be to your advantage.
Facing one’s fears and taking chances can open up doors that you could never have imagined. One thing is for sure: if you don’t try, it’s a guarantee that it will never happen. My good friend Quincy Jones has been known to say, “You have to be willing to get an F if you want a chance to get an A.” And he has a pretty good report card, as far as I can tell. As best you can, always try to turn that frown upside down.
The Zen of Bennett
Everyone gets the jitters when they’re first starting out.
If you don’t care what you’re doing, why should the audience?
If you walk out there like it’s just another night, the audience is going to treat you the same way.
You can use “the butterflies that make you famous” to fuel innovation and creativity.