Stars oft fade within their calendar lifetime; superstars influence the next generation; megastars are forever. So, in Songbook terms, ask musically literate people in the street who stars like Andy Williams and Peggy Lee were, and save for Songbook cognoscenti you will get blank stares. Ask them who superstars like Sammy Davis, Jr. and Lena Horne were, now gone a generation; their names will yield blank stares from most. But ask who enduring Songbook megastars were — think Frank Sinatra, Ella Fitzgerald — and most of the above-noted class of people will remember.
Davis was billed, from the late 1950s to at least the early 1970s, as “the world’s greatest entertainer.” On pure talent he matched the megastars, yet his name seems to have disappeared with passage of time. I heard him perform twice in Las Vegas at the storied Sands, in 1967 and on New Year’s Eve 1971-1972. A style change between the two dates may explain why he did not last as long in the public eye as others with megastar talent. (RELATED: Sinatra Turns 100: ‘Ring-A-Ding Ding!’)
In 1967, at his Songbook peak, I saw him do 90 minutes of song, dance, impressions, and monologue, all to great applause. Tops for the evening was a spectacular a cappella rendering of Cole Porter’s classic swing tune, “I’ve Got You Under My Skin.” (A cappella vocals are done without musical note or chordal accompaniment, but percussion is permissible.) Making it especially noteworthy was that the tune had been “owned” by Sinatra since his 1956 Capitol Records recording. Sinatra could match Davis’s singing, but he never sang the song’s serpentine melody a cappella. Compare his classic 1956 version with Davis’s a cappella version. (Here is another Davis a cappella showpiece, of songs from West Side Story.)
By 1972, Davis had altered his song selection, singing, and speaking style. He had received lots of criticism for not acting “black” enough — civil-rights radicals had taken over from the moderates, and demanded fealty above all from the famous. So Davis sprinkled his shows with soul-rock tunes, and his monologues with material reflecting the change. With that material, the relative quality of his performances declined below mega- and superstar level. His Songbook talent could match that of Sinatra and Ella, but his soul-rock talent could not match that of James Brown and Aretha Franklin. In this new role he was at best only a fading star. (RELATED: Teenage Dream)
Tony Bennett was the elder statesman of the exclusive megastar club. This New York Times obituary is a gem, capturing his singing style in a two-word label: “jazzy crooner” of the American Songbook. (Times obituaries have long been the platinum standard for print journalists, so long as politics are kept under control, and not used to flagellate the subject.) Bennett’s gentle public persona transcended politics, leaving his artistry as his memorial.
A personal note: I was fortunate enough to hear Bennett four times, over a span of 28 years: in 1969, appearing with Count Basie’s orchestra at the Diplomat, a resort hotel in Hollywood, Florida (just up the coast from Miami Beach); in 1975, appearing with Lena Horne and a jazz combo; in 1991, at Seattle’s Labor Day Weekend “Bumbershoot” Festival, with his own jazz trio headed by the superb piano accompanist and longtime Bennett collaborator, Ralph Sharon; and finally, in 1997 at the Kennedy Center, again with trio. It was Ralph Sharon who discovered “I Left My Heart in San Francisco,” the song that catapulted Bennett from simple stardom to superstardom. TB appeared in numerous Las Vegas nightspots; the city posted a collection of photos as its tribute to their dear departed friend. To remember Tony & Lena, here is a 1973 TV special (51 min.) they aired.
This New York Times obituary is a gem, capturing his singing style in a two-word label: “jazzy crooner” of the American Songbook.
Of his fellow megastars listed above, Bennett’s style incorporated major style elements of both Sinatra and Fitzgerald. I had firsthand knowledge of both: I heard FAS in 1966 at the Fountainebleau Hotel in Miami Beach, with Count Basie’s band; and at Carnegie Hall in 1980, with FAS’s own band — the latter concert was recorded under Sinatra’s Reprise label. I heard Ella in 1983 at Northern Virginia’s Wolf Trap outdoor arena, accompanied by the trio headed by legendary jazz pianist Oscar Peterson.
Bennett drew from Sinatra his saloon-song persona — a demimonde variant of traditional torch singing. He made his own sub-specialty of what might be called “revenge” songs, the quintessential example being “I Wanna’ Be Around.” Sinatra once called Bennett “the best singer in the business”; TB said that the quote gave his career a huge boost. The two sang together from time to time. In one live broadcast — undated, but likely the 1970s, as Sinatra did not do live TV in the 1980s, and Bennett’s modish mop was a 1970s hairstyle for him — they sang “My Kind of Town.” The song is associated foremost with Sinatra, who gave the tune its public baptism in his 1964 film “Robin and the 7 Hoods.” (For more of my take on Sinatra, see my Sinatra Centennial article.)
(READ MORE from John C. Wohlstetter: Fortnight With Freddy: Piano Glory in an Inglorious Age)
Bennett’s jazz side was drawn from Fitzgerald: both were at their best singing with small-scale jazz backing. Compare Bennett’s recording with pianist Bill Evans of the classic ballad, “My Foolish Heart,” with Fitzgerald’s recording of the ballad “Love for Sale” with Oscar Peterson. For swing style, listen to TB’s classic 1957 up-tempo version of the ballad “Autumn Leaves,” backed by the Ralph Sharon Trio. In 1991 the same players recorded the tune live in traditional ballad tempo.
Bennett’s one noteworthy film role, albeit one he hated — he never acted in another film, except to play himself — was the 1966 film, “The Oscar.” Panned by the critics, and a flop at the box office, it won a Razzie Award as one of the worst films ever, ranked 96. According to the film’s IMDB Trivia section, it also was ranked as one of the Top 10 “Best Bad” Movies of All Time. My own editorial assessment, having recently watched the film on TCM, is that while the film is an endless succession of shopworn plot and relationship cliches, it features a stellar cast of top stars, all of whom gave terrific performances that make the movie watchable — at least, once.
Bottom Line. All hail, Mr. Tony Bennett. Those of us lucky enough to have seen you in person have great memories to share. Your longevity is without equal at the top, having recorded best-selling albums and performed live in eight — count ‘em — decades: the 1950s, ‘60s, ‘70s, ‘80s, ‘90s, ‘2000s, 21st century ‘10s and ‘20s. This makes you the most “Forever” Megastar of our times.
So let’s give Mr. Bennett last call, via his elegant 1954 singing (long before Diana Ross) of “Stranger in Paradise” — a song with a rich history of classic and Songbook antecedents — aired on the top-rated variety show of the era.
That era, sadly, is long gone, and Tony Bennett, now sadly also gone forever, will serenade an audience of angels in perpetuity.
John Wohlstetter is author of Sleepwalking With the Bomb (Discovery Institute Press, 2d. ed. 2014)
