The hardest part about being a performer is that you are always under scrutiny. I try not to read my own reviews, because when someone writes about you, it’s not easy to be objective. I relish constructive criticism, but mostly from people I trust who have no other agenda than my best interests at heart.
History has shown how wrong critics can be; dating back to the earliest printed word, there are endless examples of write-ups that were so far off-base that it’s almost an honor to join the long list of successful artists who were told they’d never amount to anything. It takes a lot of self-confidence to forge ahead when someone out there deems your work unworthy, but for me, overcoming adversity has always come with the territory. In the end, it really builds character. What may appear as a negative event can have a positive outcome if you only learn to apply yourself in a proper fashion. I always try to keep an open mind, but it’s important to be determined to get things done in the way you envision them. Most of the time you just have to get it right for yourself.
Throughout my life, I’ve run into much criticism and many obstacles that could have made me give up following my dreams. There was a lot of pressure from some of my family members; when I first started performing, they even called me a gigolo. They said, “Why don’t you get a regular job and help your mother; she is working so hard.” But I always wanted to work at something I loved. I realized that I had to follow my passion and bliss, and take what others said with a grain of salt, in order to live my dream and do what I was good at.
Even as a kid, I ran up against people who discouraged my desire to perform. When I was in grammar school, I had one teacher who separated the class into “golden birds”—the children she felt could sing in tune—and “black crows”—those she thought couldn’t sing worth anything. After she heard me, she said, “You’re definitely a black crow.”
At first I was taken aback by that comment, but once I got over my initial discouragement, I decided to try to prove her wrong. After all, my family seemed to love it when I sang at home, so I figured I must have some talent in that area. Eventually that “crow” comment helped shape my attitude about persevering and believing in myself, despite the naysayers. And in the years to come, I ran into many of them. In fact, just before he died at the age of ninety-nine, Mitch Miller called up Danny and admitted that even though all those years ago he told me being a jazz singer would destroy my career, history has shown that it sustained my career instead, and that I was bigger than ever. Mitch concluded, “Boy, was I wrong on that one!”
After the teacher who made the “black crow” comment, I was lucky enough to have a teacher who was very nice. She gave me the role of the prince in our first-grade production of Snow White, and she treated me very kindly. Then when I was nine, another teacher, Mrs. McQuade, arranged for me to sing at the local Democratic club, and also alongside New York mayor Fiorello La Guardia at the grand opening of the Triborough Bridge in 1936. Three years earlier, then-candidate La Guardia had promised that if he got elected, he would finish construction, which had been sputtering along in fits and starts for a number of years. So it was a big deal when it finally was completed. There was a huge celebration, and Mrs. McQuade had me standing right next to the mayor when he cut the ribbon. After the speeches, I got to lead the group across the new bridge, singing “Marching Along Together.” Mrs. McQuade believed in me, and that early public performance confirmed my desire to be an entertainer.
When I was sixteen, I ran into a stumbling block when I had to drop out of the School of Industrial Arts to help my mom. She was working her fingers to the bone trying to make ends meet, and I needed to contribute to the family’s income. I worked as an elevator operator, but I couldn’t get the darn thing to stop in the right spot! People had to crawl out between the floors. That didn’t go over too well with the tenants, and it quickly put an end to that job.
Next I found work at a laundry, and after that I took a position as a copyboy for the Associated Press, running around with papers. I got fired from that one, too. It soon became apparent to me that I couldn’t hold down any of these jobs to save my life. It brought into focus the fact that if my heart was not in what I was doing, I would experience nothing but failure.
I found my true calling only when I began performing at amateur nights in Brooklyn, Queens, and the Bronx. People would get up onstage and perform in front of an audience, which would then vote on the performer they liked the most. The favorite got a small percentage of the door, and I was lucky enough to win a number of times. My biggest competition was from this guy who came on in a sailor’s uniform with a fake cast on his leg; he knew how to manipulate the audience to think he had been serving in the war. When he sang “My Mother’s Eyes,” he’d have everyone in tears. Whenever he showed up, I’d think, Great, there go my winnings for the week. I’d like to see anyone else try to follow that act!
It was at that time that I started working as a singing waiter at a restaurant in Astoria. A customer would request a song, and I’d run into the kitchen to work out the arrangement. There were a couple of great Irish waiters who taught me all the best standards. You know, it’s a funny thing; now whenever I go to Italy, I notice that all the waiters are great vocalists—they perform at the drop of a hat. They actually give me a complex, they’re so good.
Cutting my teeth as a singing waiter was the most valuable experience I ever had as a performer; it was a real trial by fire. I was literally singing for my supper. It was the best way for me to learn to follow my artistic instincts as I worked for the first time in front of a live audience that I had to win over. The experience was not unlike when I ended up singing in the armed services band a couple of years later.
It was during my stint overseas with the Special Services Band that I really caught the bug for entertaining. When I returned home, I was determined more than ever to do what I needed in order to be a performer—even if that meant knocking on the doors of every club and promoter in New York City. I went to audition after audition, but I got turned down every time. This was kind of surprising to me, since I’d received such good feedback when I was with the band in Germany. But the rejections didn’t stop me; I just kept at it. I even tried out for a chorus part in a Broadway show, but I didn’t get that, either.
I took every opportunity to sing in any club or restaurant—unpaid, of course—just to have the experience, and to work with some terrifically talented jazz musicians. I did many things the wrong way, but that was how I learned. Only by sticking with it would I accomplish what I wanted. Everyone is faced with challenges; I realized that I simply couldn’t lose heart.
It was tough getting started—it took about seven years to really get going. When I listen to early recordings of myself before I was signed to Columbia, I can’t believe how much I had yet to learn back then. But certain people were wonderfully supportive and encouraging. One was Barbara Carroll, the jazz pianist and vocalist. She’d always say, “Come on, get up and sing with me. Maybe somebody important will come in and listen to you, and give you a break.” For years she helped me out; she’s such a magnificent person, and a big talent in her own right.
Around this time I was hanging out with a friend from Queens, Jack Wilson, who also wanted to make it in the music business. Jack was a songwriter, and we scraped our money together to buy the latest records and memorize all the tunes. We’d sing on the street corners sometimes, and we’d go into midtown Manhattan and catch the big band shows. I also met Abby Mann, a struggling young screenwriter and director, and the three of us talked about doing a musical comedy. (Abby later won the Oscar for his great screenplay of Judgment at Nuremberg.)
Another friend from this time was Freddy Katz, whose parents were like family to me and hosted jam sessions in their home on Friday nights. I introduced Jack to Freddy, and we combined our efforts: Jack wrote the words, Freddy wrote the music, and then the three of us visited record companies in the city to perform our compositions in the hopes of getting a contract. Freddy was so talented that eventually he wound up playing with Lena Horne and Vic Damone.
I finally got a gig in a nightclub that was located right under the el train in Astoria. I had sung informally at the bar, and the band’s trombonist, Tyree Glenn, let me sing with them for a while until he joined Duke Ellington’s orchestra. Then I took another job as a singing waiter, and I got to perform at some bars and clubs in Manhattan. A tiny place in Queens, the Nestle Inn, let me sing with Stan Weiss’s group, which was playing there. During this period I’d go with my friends to hear great jazz on Fifty-Second Street, where all the best clubs were, and just dream about the day when I could be a professional performer. I never did get a paying gig on Fifty-Second Street, although I practically lived there for several years and sang for free in a few places, just to try to get some exposure.
All this time, I was living on one dime per day. My mother gave me some change before she left for work, but I never took more than ten cents. I’d go to the city and make my rounds, using the money to buy a bite to eat. Some family members, such as my mother’s relatives, complained about my pursuing a career as an entertainer; they thought I should buckle down and do something more useful. But I was determined to make it as a performer, even if I wound up being a singing waiter for the rest of my life. In fact, that’s exactly what I would have done if I hadn’t ever gotten a recording contract.
Eventually through Freddy Katz I found my first manager, Ray Muscarella, and finally I felt as if someone could get me some legitimate bookings. Ray thought my singing was a little rough around the edges, so he hired a coach to help me hone my act. After a while he got me a paying gig at a club called the Shangri-La in Queens, and then a spot on the Arthur Godfrey’s Talent Scouts program—the one I appeared on with Rosemary Clooney, and the model for shows like American Idol. As I mentioned before, Rosie and I wound up working together on a summer television show.
A while later, we both were signed to Columbia Records. Even though Rosie and I each ended up having a couple of million-selling albums, when we’d run into the masters, like Jack Benny or George Burns or Bob Hope, they’d say, “You’re doing great, but it’s going to take time before you really know how to handle an audience.” They told us not to rest on our laurels, and that we were just going to have to learn the hard way. They all had come from vaudeville; that’s where they cut their teeth. They would play in theaters all over the United States and the world on a nightly basis, where the people in the seats became the teachers. The audience let the performers know right then and there what they liked and what they didn’t like, if they were onstage too long, and how to give the audience just enough. I would learn from the audience, too, but it would take time. Sure enough, about six years later, Bob Hope came to see me at the Fairmont in Dallas. When the show was over, Hope confirmed, “You’ve finally become a consummate performer.”
My song “Boulevard of Broken Dreams,” from my first recording for Columbia Records, was a big hit, and I thought I had it made. I felt elated by my success, so I took two weeks off and went on vacation in Puerto Rico. After I returned, I released eight singles, one after the other, but none of them took off.
Columbia was about to let me go, and I was desperate. Thankfully, my next single, “Because of You,” went to number one on the charts. I relaxed quite a bit and the record label was happy for a while, but I had learned an invaluable lesson: never take anything for granted. I still had to earn my stripes every day. Almost being dropped from the label spooked me so much that I didn’t take another vacation until I was well into my seventies. That’s the honest truth! Finally I’m confident enough to travel every year to Italy with my wife, Susan, for at least a month. I relax, paint, and enjoy the food and the people. Better late than never, I guess.
But back then, I was still paying my dues. I started having a string of number-one hits, and I was playing clubs all day and all night; places like the Paramount and the Copacabana. At the Copa, you did three shows a night. We’d start at eight p.m., and we wouldn’t get out of there until four in the morning. If there was a blizzard, we’d go out the back entrance and have to wade through huge drifts of snow. Then at the Paramount, which was considered the big time, we’d do seven shows a day, ten thirty in the morning until ten thirty at night. That really separated the men from the boys. Nowadays it’s usually one show a night, which is a much better pace. But that kind of grueling schedule, as inhuman as it seemed, forces you to hone your performance.
By the mid-fifties, I was recording two or three albums a year, a pace I kept up for the next two decades. On top of this I was performing around two hundred dates a year. I’d come home, make a record, and leave; it wasn’t great for my family life. But there weren’t as many artists back then, so in order to meet the demand, you had to put out new material constantly. There were a lot of deadlines to meet, and it was a shock to me how challenging it was to make each record better than the last one. We singers aren’t machines; you can’t just crank it out every single time. Some records are right in there, and others you feel could have been a little better.
That said, unconstructive criticism can have a strong effect on even the best performers. It seems that many people who fail at what they try to do wind up critiquing. Recently I read a book about Fred Astaire that said that early on in his career, he was extremely upset by the harsh words of a bad review. It made such a deep impression on him that it haunted him for years. And that man was a genius!
I had a similar experience when I did my first concert at Carnegie Hall. I had prepared for that show like nothing ever before, and the audience loved the concert. But a critic from a major newspaper lambasted the performance, and it affected me for quite a while afterward. Yet fifty years later, the show is now widely acclaimed as one of the best concerts ever recorded. That just goes to prove that you have to believe in yourself.
Another test in perseverance came during the period from 1977 to 1986, after I recorded the second Bill Evans album. Although I continued to do concerts, this was a quieter time for me, and I didn’t put out any new material. My career began to take off again in the early eighties, but even so, it took a few years before my son and manager Danny set up recording The Art of Excellence and we truly hit our stride again. It felt great to be back in the studio, and more than anything, the experience showed me that if you stick to your guns about doing quality work, you will always have an audience.
Despite being told by my teacher that I had the voice of a crow, I ended up performing for every U.S. president since Eisenhower. I’ve come a long way. (Of all the presidents I’ve performed for, Bill Clinton has put me at the greatest ease. I don’t have to stand at attention, or feel that I’m talking to an emperor; he always acts like a human being. And by the way, Clinton is also fantastic at harmonizing. Once at a fund-raiser, I saw him waiting to go onstage while a band was playing, and he was humming right along in perfect key. He is a real musician.)
With all of my command performances, Grammys, and other awards, many people assume that I’ve been on top for my entire career. However, everyone has dips and curves, peaks and troughs. Still, I’m living proof that if you stick to doing what you love, and believe in yourself, you will come through victorious in the end.
The Zen of Bennett
Be determined to persevere, even in the face of criticism.
Realize that everyone has setbacks, particularly when starting out.
Don’t let the naysayers get you down.
Obstacles are necessary for success. Be persistent and you will reach your goals.
