D.O.C.G.

Calabrian cool in a kid from Queens

Especially coming from New York City, home of Scorcese and Tony’s Di Napoli, it can be a surprise to arrive in Italy and recognize the more than continental gulf that exists between Italian culture and the Italian- American experience. So many things— food, language, clothes, customs— that  always seemed quintessentially Italian turn out to be largely Italo-American conventions.  Spaghetti and meatballs, the wise guy bada boom swagger, even the Feast of the Seven Fishes are often a mystery to those in the old country. They know them only through the movies or strange encounters at an “Italian” restaurant while visiting America.

But even in the New World, there’s something old bubbling just below the surface. Garlic bread, for example, is a purely American invention. Order it in Italy at your peril. Yet it turns out that this staple of red & white table-cloth Italian spots across the U.S. is rooted in the  Italian idea of bruschetta— toasted bread soaked in olive oil, and sometimes seasoned with garlic (and tomato) as well.

Bruschetta was traditionally served to workers in the field during olive picking season. Faced with a distinct lack of olive trees on the Eastern seaboard of the United States, the immigrants managed to preserve the spark of the idea and build a new, decidedly more fragrant fire. Sometimes, in its own indomitable way,  Little Italy can be just as authentic as its older, bigger brother.

Tony Bennett, who passed away last month at the age of 96, was American right down to  his name, changed from the original Anthony Benedetto by none other than Bob Hope. His story too was a classic Ellis Island immigrant tale: the New York-born son of a Calabrian grocer Giovanni and a seamstress Anna, who capped his opening round of show business success (there would be plenty to follow) with a song titled “Rags To Riches”.

But even with the name change, there was something about Tony Bennett that was old school Italian all the way. Not just in his singing, which carried the influences of the Calabrian and Neapolitan folk songs that his father taught him. But there was something in his style—the way he would angle over to  the piano, lean in, then snap his fingers like he was granting a wish.  He may have started as a singing waiter at Riccardo’s By The Bridge in Astoria, Queens rather than on a gondola in Venice.  But there’s no denying it: Tony was vintage Italian cool.

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Spend much time in Italy and sooner or later you’ll wander into a random spot for a coffee, only to  realize you’ve encroached on what feels like a private club. You’ve entered what my wife and I have deemed “the old man’s bar”. Every town, big or small, has one. There’s usually a card game in the side room, newspapers on the tables, and the regulars are mostly, if not exclusively, what the name would imply.

Somewhere in the corner of the bar is the capo—the maestro—the guy  who commands the room without saying a word. He carries his responsibility like a sport coat tossed over his shoulder. He has the unflappable confidence of someone who has seen enough of the world to know what matters and what’s not worth ruining a coffee over.

Italian cool is neither young and radical like the French version, nor  tortured and poetic like the Irish. Unlike it’s American counterpart, it’s not exclusive— it’s not a matter of fashion or fortune. Like the country where it’s cultivated, Italian cool is aged slowly in the sun; it’s easy and smooth, casual even when wearing a suit. It throws off charm like scent from a cologne.

The first time I saw Tony Bennett perform was at the Venetian Room at the Fairmont Hotel in San Francisco.  It was the mid-Seventies, and he ruled that baroque palace of a supper club like a doge, having debuted “I Left My Heart In San Francisco” there back in 1961.

Behind the scenes, those years were difficult for Bennett, who was battling drug issues, financial problems, and the dissolution of two marriages in one decade.  But to a 10 year old just cracking the title page of the Great American songbook, he was infallible, riding nonchalantly on the wave of a powerhouse big band or blasting out high notes with the bravura of a  heavyweight champ.

I saw him again in the late 90’s, during another of his career resurgences, which seemed to roll around as reliably as the spring. He was more relaxed in his delivery by then, even better than I remembered as a kid. His voice was worn in all the right places, and he sang each lyric as if savoring a sweet memory shared between friends.

My parents were visiting New York that week, and my wife and I had brought them along to the concert. When Tony sang “The Way You Look Tonight”, I saw my dad gently reach over and take my mom’s hand. I held C’s as well. If you need a definition of “soft power,” a Tony Bennett ballad is as good as you’ll get.

For many years, one of Bennett’s signature concert moves was to set down the microphone and deliver part of a song with no amplification, letting his bel-canto trained voice swell to fill even the biggest theater.  Tony Bennett’s cool worked the same way. No need for any enhancements. It could be heard by everyone, loud and clear.

And indeed, it was. Even into his final years, Bennett continued to attract new, surprisingly young, audiences. From his 1994  MTV Unplugged segment to his collaborations with Lady Gaga, Tony Bennett was open to all comers. Never pandering or grasping for relevance, he was always ready to share a song or the stage with a new generation.  If Anthony Benedetto was in the old man’s bar in his father’s hometown of Podargoni, he would be the guy who would look up from his cards, give a little nod of his head,  and motion you over to a table.

The last time I saw Tony Bennett I was working at Sony Music in New York. As I was leaving the office building, the elevator door opened and there stood the legend himself. He was smaller than I might have expected, but draped in a perfectly tailored black cashmere overcoat, and dangling a $5 bodega umbrella in one hand.

It’s always a little awkward running into a superstar.  Do you say something? Give them their space? He was flanked by two interns from the publicity department and they seemed a bit unsure as well.  I knew he was on his way to Carnegie Hall to perform that night, even if he seemed as relaxed as a guy heading out for cocktails.

With his unmistakable raspy voice, he greeted everyone and made a little joke about the weather. I congratulated him on his foresight in bringing an umbrella.   When the elevator door opened again, he gave a little wave, and ambled out toward Madison Avenue in his beautiful black coat, smoothly deploying his umbrella as soon as he stepped onto the sidewalk.  As always, he left everybody smiling.

Tony Bennett. Cool like that.