Tony Bennett. His life and talent soared. But, unlike so many denizens of the celebrity stratosphere, he had such decency of spirit and kindness of heart, he took us all along for the ride. He was an extraordinarily talented everyman.
A favorite son of Astoria, Queens, he never forgot where he came from, and he generously gave back—to youth, to the arts, to the city he grew up in. He mingled easily with all.
We went out to Astoria once on the subway, just to walk the neighborhood, and maybe grab a stoop to sit on, which made for some lovely pictures. While heading out there, a group of construction workers came over, somewhat hesitantly. “Are you Tony Bennett?” was the first, somewhat incredulous question. Tony hung with them, making small talk, along the way to the streets he grew up on.
When I photographed Tony for a LIFE story years ago, my dear friend and wonderful writer Bob Sullivan said of Tony that he was always a “belter and a plugger.” He could rattle the rooftop with that famed instrument of his voice, but he never took his gift for granted. He worked at it.
Dan Rather, in his ever-astute newsletter, Steady, wrote this of Tony: “His voice. His presence. His style. He was timely and timeless. He had an otherworldly talent of coaxing the sublime out of the music he sang. But he was also a consummate craftsman and tireless worker. He earned his longevity, and we all benefited from it.”
Longevity. The arc of his career seemed endless, which is a reason it’s so hard to grapple with the curtain closing. He remained a fixture, ever adapting. His ‘92 album, Perfectly Frank, a Sinatra tribute, is one of my favorites of all time. Then, thirty years later, he spun beautiful tunes with Lady Gaga.
I wrote a bit about Tony years ago on this blog. We were in San Francisco, and I asked him to come to the Golden Gate bridge, along with Susan, his wife. He immediately began to sketch.
Tony and Susan were deeply in love, and devoted to each other. I asked them to hug, and I shot quite a number of frames. Tony looked over and winked. “Keep shooting, Joe, this isn’t hard work.”
Then, later that night, I was photographing him performing from the back of the theater, and he stopped his performance. (He never did that. His shows ran like clockwork.)
He looked down at his shoes, and noticed there was mud on them. He said to the audience something along the lines of, “I’ve never done this before during a show, but I just noticed I’ve got mud on my shoes. I went to the Golden Gate Bridge earlier today with a LIFE photographer, and walked around and now my shoes are a mess.”
He reached down and quickly rubbed the mud off his shoes, laughing about it as he did it. The audience was right there with him, appreciating the humanity of this little break in the action. From the back of the theater, in the darkness, I had to smile.
He had just moved into his apartment overlooking Central Park about that time. I made a picture of him sketching at the window. It might have been his first sketch, ever, from that vantage point. It was a thoughtful moment, and I worked as quietly and quickly as I could.
There is sadness in his passing, to be sure. But that melancholy is inflected with a much larger joy in a life well-lived. His sublime voice radiated with an infectious love for all who might hear it, as well as a love of the simple act of singing. He lifted us all, with his talent, and his life. His like will not come this way again.
More tk…..
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