An old Chinese proverb states, “If you want to learn something, go to someone older than you, because they’ve lived longer.” My grandfather and father were philosophers, so to speak; the entire neighborhood would come to them for advice. Throughout history the elders in any society were always granted that kind of respect. Only recently has society moved in the direction of discounting the elderly. This attitude really makes no sense; older people have lived longer and have more experience; they are entitled to and deserve respect.
At the same time, I feel it’s the responsibility of the elders to pass on the lessons they’ve learned, and not to disdain those younger than they are. George Bernard Shaw was known for saying, “Youth is wasted on the young.” To a certain extent, this is true, but it only serves to support the idea that we have a lot to teach those who are just starting out. I believe that a great deal of energy should be dedicated to doing just that.
When Rosemary Clooney and I first started out, the seasoned performers we met didn’t pull any punches with us; they told it like it was. They said, “It’s going to take six years before you become a consummate performer.” That came as a shock to me, but it turned out to be right on the money. And it was a tough pill to swallow, because we weren’t really allowed in the club until then.
Many years later, I realized that I was becoming the elder statesman, and I wanted to make sure the up-and-comers didn’t have to go through what I did. It’s inevitable—they’re going to become the masters eventually. I don’t want to act as if it’s impossible for them to succeed, which was the sentiment that some people expressed to me when I was coming along.
I’m offended by the way younger performers are often treated today. They’re led to believe by their agents and lawyers and managers that it’s all about the money and the fame. Most of them wind up failing miserably, while the people in the background are the ones cashing in. It should be quite the opposite: it’s the artists who give the power to the agents and lawyers and record companies. Without the artists, these handlers would be nothing.
It’s more dangerous out there than ever. One minute, a brand-new singer is an American idol; she may rise to the top of the charts and fill the stadiums in a year or so. But as soon as the crowds thin out and the records stop selling, she’s finished, and the company goes after the next act. This is just cruel. I believe in the importance of training young, raw talent so they produce work that will last; otherwise they’ll burn out fast, and find themselves left with no career to build on.
I want to help these artists learn how to simplify things; to understand the power of standing in a spotlight—just them and the music—and of singing a classic song. I advise them that fame comes and goes, but longevity is the thing to aim for.
I also stress keeping things relaxed. The more relaxed, the more peaceful, the better, and the more successful you will be. Like the Zen masters say, it’s like water flowing over a rock. The water is fluid and basic, but over time, it’s powerful enough to mold the rock to its shape. It just requires patience, and being able to learn from your mistakes.
I made so many mistakes when I was younger. I had a great desire to be a singer, but I went to many auditions where I didn’t get the job. Having the courage and faith to continue helped me hold on to my desire to sing. I realized that I would have to work at it. You start out as an amateur and have to persevere for a number of years before you become a professional.
An “amateur” can be defined as someone who loves what he or she is doing as a pastime. The difference for those who go on to be professionals is that they really have no choice in the matter. They were born to do what their passion is. They are driven beyond the point where failure is an option. I always say I had no choice but to be a singer; it’s what I was meant to do. It’s like breathing; it’s not something you think about.
People often confuse being a successful artist with being commercially successful, but they are not one and the same. I’ve known many magnificent artists who were at the top of their game but didn’t make a red cent from their work. Was Van Gogh “successful”? He sold only one painting in his lifetime, and that was bought for four hundred francs. Van Gogh died broke, but I dare anyone to challenge his genius. It’s a pity; I wonder what he would think if he could sit in the back of Christie’s auction house today and watch his paintings sell for multimillions of dollars. Sometimes there is no justice, but when you are coming up, it’s important to keep in mind the difference between being a successful artist and being commercially successful.
Those “amateurs” who have no choice but to do what they do will become the new masters eventually, so I say, why not help them along? After all, so many people helped me when I was starting out. I’ve mentioned that Pearl Bailey gave me my start at the Village Inn by insisting that I open for her. Bob Hope was another artist who helped me quite a bit. The first time I ever saw Bob in person was when I attended his show as a GI in Germany. It was absolutely the best thing that had happened to me over there. The show was wonderful, and it made me realize that the greatest gift you can give is to lift someone’s spirits with a joke or a song.
After Pearl Bailey brought Bob to catch my act at the Village Inn, he invited me to sing at the Paramount with him, which was another huge break for me. When I finished singing, Bob said to the audience, “Well, I was getting tired of Bing anyway!” Then, when the Paramount engagement was over, Bob took me on a six-city tour along with the rest of the troupe. He also introduced me to Bing Crosby when Bing stopped by the show, which was such a thrill. I didn’t really know how to act while I was singing, but Bob showed me that it’s important to be upbeat when you walk out on the stage. The audience needs to know that you’re happy to be there and that you can’t wait to entertain them; all these years later, I’m still using that advice.
It was Benny Goodman who taught me how to work a microphone. “Don’t eat it,” he said. “Just step away from it and be natural.” He taught me to hold the mic, not attack it. That way the audience can better hear how I sing. That technique also helps to hold the listeners’ attention because it’s not quite as loud.
My greatest mentor was Frank Sinatra. To me, he made the best music that ever came out of this country. He had a magical voice, and he was able to communicate exactly what he was feeling. He knocked down the wall between himself and his audience, and let people inside his head. Before he came along, no one had ever sung so personally or vividly.
In 1960, Sinatra did a wonderful thing for me. I was working with Duke Ellington at the Americana Hotel in Miami Beach, and he and Joe E. Lewis rounded up every hotel owner they knew and brought them to see me perform. From that show alone, for the next two decades, I got booked into places such as the Waldorf-Astoria in New York, the Hilton in Las Vegas, and the Palmer House in Chicago. It was a great boost for my career.
Sinatra was always supportive of me, but in April 1965 he did the unimaginable: he announced in Life magazine that I was his favorite singer. “For my money, Tony Bennett is the best singer in the business.” Sinatra told the interviewer, “He excites me when I watch him. He moves me. He’s the singer who gets across what the composer has in mind, and probably a little more.”
This statement blew me away, and literally changed my life. After Frank said I was his favorite, everyone wanted to hear me perform. It was probably the single most generous thing any artist had ever done for another.
When Frank broke his arm and couldn’t perform at a benefit for an Italian-American senior citizens’ home in Chicago, I agreed to do it instead. At the last minute Frank realized that he could do the show after all, so we decided to perform it together. Frank wanted to go on first, and after he finished, he said, “Ladies and gentlemen, the greatest singer in the business—Tony Bennett.” That was an honor I’ll never forget.
Frank and I never lived in the same place except when I was in Los Angeles in the early seventies, and we didn’t get to spend a lot of time together because we were both on the road so much. But it was always special to be in his presence, especially when we were performing together. In 1977, he invited me to sing on his ABC TV special, Sinatra and Friends. I did “One” from A Chorus Line, then Frank and I sang “My Kind of Town” as a duet. It was a thrill to be able to do the show with him, particularly since he had given me such great advice over the years about performing.
I always picked up lessons from people who’d been in the business before me, and now I like to pass along the friendship and generosity to a younger generation. I enjoy the fact that by doing the duets, I can showcase another artist and welcome them into the club. I encourage them to ask me about the trials and tribulations, the ups and downs, what to look out for when they get into trouble, or when to accentuate something that’s good. It feels great to be able to support this amazingly talented new generation of performers.
The Zen of Bennett
Fame comes and goes, but longevity is the thing to aim for.
By doing quality work, you’ll always be around.
You have to work at your art. You start out as an amateur, and need to persevere for a number of years before you become a professional.
If you want to learn something, go to people who are older than you, because they’ve experienced more and can pass on what they’ve learned.
