CityLife

Tony Bennett

Tony Bennett

Tony Bennett
Bridgewater Hall
July 6, 2010

The house lights dim, the lush red backlight bathes the band in a kind of mythical warmth and tonight, the rather grandiose environs of the Bridgewater Hall adopt the intimacy of a Harlem jazz joint. 

First up, however, is not Anthony Dominick Benedetto but daughter Antonia (something of a Nat/Natalie, Nigel/Nigella dynamic at work here).  She’s not bad - no Nancy to Frank - but not bad, fronting the same pared-down ensemble as her old man: drums, double bass, guitar and a p-i-a-n-o-o-o (reference the Irving Berlin track I Love A Piano).

Bennett is a crooner, of course, but boy he wears it so well.  He croons, the crowd swoons, he had me at “hello”.  In a world gone slightly mad, these songs take you back to a simpler age: songs about love and warm evenings; a soundtrack of rainy nights and lost romance; songs to grow old to. 

Dipping liberally into The Great American Songbook – penned by Sondheim, the Gerswhin brothers et al - wherever Tony goes he takes us with him.  We leave our hearts in San Francisco… walk the Boulevard of Broken Dreams… fly with Tony to the moon.

Bennett is immaculately dressed – a red handkerchief in his top pocket the only splash of colour to break the muted tones of grey, wrinkles etched like melodies into skin, his nose as crooked as a Tin Pan Alley recording contract. 

Between songs he regales us with stories of Sinatra and Bob Hope, with letters from Charlie Chaplin.  He soft shoe shuffles.  At one point he lays down his mic and sings to the room au naturel, revelling in the lost art of vocal projection, known only to giddy drunks in early morning train stations.

An octogenarian crooner, Tony Bennett has been re-invented several times and still has a few fresh outfits left in the closet.  The music, the look – it was always classic and timeless in a way, perhaps, that punk rock was not and didn’t want to be.  By the same token, quality tailoring will always last.  Safety pins rust.