Although my career was at a high, my private life was falling apart. Christmas of 1965 was the lowest point in my life. Patricia and I were split up, I wasn’t welcome at my home in Englewood, and I spent the holiday in a lonely room at the Gotham Hotel. Being away from my boys was devastating to me.
I was alone in my hotel room and feeling sorry for myself, when I heard music. I thought I’d left the TV on, but it was off Then I thought it was my portable tape recorder, but that was off too. I finally realized the music was coming from the hallway, and when I opened the door a choir was singing the Burton Lane—Alan Jay Lerner song “On a Clear Day (You Can See Forever).” Duke Ellington was giving a concert of sacred music at the Fifth Avenue Presbyterian Church, and he’d heard from Louis Bellson I was in a bad way, so he sent the choir over to cheer me up. It was his Christmas gift to me, the most beautiful I have ever received. It was a moment that made me believe in people, no matter how difficult things might become for me.
My relationship with Sandra Grant continued to grow, and we became a couple. After I left Englewood and moved into the city in 1966, Sandra joined me. We lived on Riverside Drive for two years, then moved over to East Seventy-second Street.
But things weren’t perfect. It was a difficult relationship from the start, filled with the classic pushing and pulling that comes when two strong-willed people get together. Initially things were exciting, because Sandra took a great interest in my career. This really appealed to me, since I always felt better when I had somebody on my side watching out for my best interests. For a long time it had been my sister, Mary, but she had become too busy raising her own family to take care of my busy career.
Sandra wanted to take on more responsibility than I was comfortable giving her. It’s a rare couple who can remain emotionally close while arguing about the day-to-day running of a career—especially in show business. At least I’ve found that to be the case, and that’s the way it was for Sandra and me. It was a really difficult time for me personally, and I don’t think it would have been easy for any woman I was involved with.
After all those years of sparring with Columbia, I finally started to feel secure. I thought I was out of the woods—until I realized just how much rock and roll was dominating the scene. In 1966 an attorney named Clive Davis—originally head of business affairs for Columbia Records—took over as president of the label. It was the first time that someone without any musical background was put in charge of a record company. He took a trip to the Monterey Pop Music Festival in 1967, and when he returned he traded in his Brooks Brothers suits for Nehru jackets and love beads and signed Janis Joplin. He began to insist that all his artists record rock and roll tunes and was convinced that nothing else would sell. At one point he was even trying to convince Barbra Streisand to record an album of Bob Dylan tunes. The whole thing was ridiculous and resulted in chaos for most of Columbia’s top-selling artists.
It was a tough time for all traditional pop singers, and it took the recording industry years to adjust. But I continued to have a string of hits, and to perform to packed houses wherever I went. It was all about perception, and about the inability of the record companies to come up with some creative ideas to market my music properly. But I knew that never compromising my music would ultimately be the key to my success. Count Basie calmed me down when I asked his advice about whether I should change my act. He quickly replied, “Why change an apple?” His comment reassured me that I was on the right course.
What was happening at Columbia, and to me in particular, wasn’t due simply to Clive Davis. I had nothing personal against the man; if it hadn’t been Clive giving me a hard time, it would have been somebody else. The record companies thought that rock and roll was all anybody would ever want to hear from that point on: that’s the way the industry was headed; he was just the guy in the driver’s seat. When it occurred to the major labels that they could make a real killing with rock music, they gradually lost interest in anything else, including classical artists. Despite my proven success, there was never a time while I was at Columbia that they said to me, “You know what you’re doing. Go ahead, keep making the records you’ve been making.” Instead, they always insisted they knew what was best.
What was ironic about the whole thing is that there were a lot of first-rate traditional pop songs being written in the late sixties—enough so that I could still fill album after album. For instance, Johnny Mandel and Paul Francis Webster, after winning the Oscar for “The Shadow of Your Smile,” wrote two more songs together, “A Lonely Place” and “A Time for Love,” and I recorded them in 1966 for my album, A Time for Love. I also included “Georgia Rose” and “Touch the Earth” by the wonderful singer and piano player Jeri Southern. These were wonderful songs, so I just couldn’t understand why Columbia insisted that I do what I considered second-rate material.
A Time for Love also included two tracks from the best recording session I ever had with the great trumpeter Bobby Hackett. I was in London to do another command performance for the Queen Mother. We had British arranger Johnny Keating for the show, and the orchestra consisted of one hundred violin players, a rhythm section, and Bobby Hackett.
The performance was televised by the BBC, and since it was such an incredible experience—singing with Bobby and one hundred strings—I wanted to put it on record. The next day we all went into the studio and laid down “Sleepy Time Gal” and “The Very Thought of You.” I still get a thrill when I listen to those records. Bobby also played behind me on “The Shining Sea,” another song written by Johnny Mandel and Peggy Lee. He was determined to achieve a particular sound for his solo, and to do this he needed a special mouthpiece. He said, “If I can get that, I’ll get a sound you won’t believe,” and he looked everywhere for one. He eventually found it and he did get the tight, beautiful sound he was looking for. Last Christmas my current guitarist, Gray Sargent, gave me that very mouthpiece. Bobby once made an album of love ballads conducted by Jackie Gleason. Every record company turned it down, saying it was too slow, then Capitol Records reluctantly agreed to release it, and it sold millions of copies.
Bobby introduced me to Louis Armstrong. They were great friends, and he and Bobby spent hours listening to classical music together. They both lived in Sunnyside, Queens. When Bobby and Louis came over to my house to meet me, Louis turned to me and said in that raspy voice of his, “I’m the coffee, but Bobby’s the cream.”
Louis was a genius; he practically invented jazz single-handedly. When classical trumpet players first heard him play, they ran to their teachers and asked, “How’d he do that?” And the teachers replied, “We don’t know.” Louis was an original! People adored him. Bobby and I remained Louis’s loyal friends and fans for the rest of his life. In 1970 we had the honor, along with Miles Davis and Ornette Coleman, of being part of a big tribute choir of jazzmen and celebrities who sang and played behind Louis on his last album, Louis Armstrong and His Friends.
I once did a painting of Louis and presented it to him in London. He took one look at it and said, “You out-Rembrandted Rembrandt!”—a typically humorous thing for Louis to say. He hung the painting in front of the desk in his study so he could look at it every time he sat down. He showed the painting to anyone who visited him and he’d say, “Here’s a painting a boy who lives in my neighborhood did of me.” I loved that man.
Ralph Sharon’s wife, Susan, had asked him to get off the road and relocate to San Francisco. Living in California made it a lot more difficult for Ralph to hook up with me for gigs, since I was based in New York and air travel wasn’t as sophisticated as it is now, but we managed.
While I was filming The Oscar we weren’t doing many live shows anyway, so it didn’t affect us too much. I wanted the trio and myself to keep in shape while I was doing the picture, though, so I called my friend Hugh Hefner and he got the trio a gig at the Playboy Club in Los Angeles, and I came by and sat in whenever I could get off the set. Ralph and the trio did two albums for Columbia during this time, a collection of jazz instrumental versions of my hits, and an interpretation of the latest Richard Rodgers musical, Do I Hear a Waltz? With everything he was doing Ralph soon became well-known enough to get his own local music show on San Francisco TV. He was really settling in.
After the movie was finished it was time to get back on the road, but Susan was still pressuring Ralph to stay home. When Hugh Hefner opened a new club in San Francisco in the spring of 1966, he asked Ralph to become permanent musical director, and it seemed too good an offer to turn down. We were both terribly broken up over his leaving.
I had a number of pianists while Ralph was away. The most famous was Tommy Flanagan, one of the most marvelous accompanists of all time. He’d spent many years on the road with Ella Fitzgerald and didn’t really want to commit himself permanently to another singer after that. Who could blame him? But he did agree to play with me for a little while, and I was thrilled to have him.
He was with me for my most ambitious television project yet, Singer Presents Tony Bennett, a special that we taped for ABC at their studio in Brooklyn on May 3, 1966. It was produced and directed by Gary Smith and Dwight Hemion. I’d first met Dwight in the early fifties when he was camera director for Steve Allen and I was doing a guest spot on Steve’s show.
I’d had other offers over the years to do television specials, and while some of the things the producers proposed were interesting, they weren’t for me. But then I met Al di Scipio. He ran the Singer Sewing Machine Company, and was sponsoring the upcoming show. I said yes to ABC because Al, as producer, gave me as much creative freedom as any artist could ask. I told them I didn’t want anybody writing phony dialogue for me; I just wanted to sing and be spontaneous with how I presented each artist. Al heard my request, and the next day he handed me a script. I opened it and found only blank pages. Someone like Al comes around only once in a lifetime.
I added a couple of personal touches too. The show was going to be a combination of my big hits and my current repertoire, and I wanted to change some of the arrangements to make room for instrumental guest stars. I assembled six of the greatest jazz soloists ever: Bobby Hackett on “Because of You,” Buddy Rich on “Fascinating Rhythm,” master vibraharpist Milt Jackson on “Lost in the Stars,” guitarist Gene Bertocini on “Quiet Nights of Quiet Stars,” Candido on “The Moment of Truth,” and flautist Paul Horn and his quintet on “The Shadow of Your Smile.” I thought that using jazz guys would give the show a feeling of freshness and spontaneity, and I was right. To top it all off, Ralph Burns served as conductor and musical director, and the band featured such luminaries as Richie Kamuca, Frank Wess, Joe Wilder, Urbie Green, and Quentin Jackson.
At one point we broke away from the concert format to go into a little “travelogue” that featured rear-projection shots of me walking around San Francisco. As the audience saw these images on screen they heard me singing “San Francisco,” “Just In Time,” “A Taste of Honey,” and “Once Upon a Time.” During the photo shoot for this segment, they tried to get a picture of me sitting on a rock overlooking the sea, but one wave hit real big, knocking me over; it was worth it because it gave the audience a good laugh.
After Tommy Flanagan moved on I found a wonderful pianist named John Bunch. John was playing in Buddy Rich’s new big band, and he totally knocked me out. When he finished his engagement with Buddy I asked him if he wanted the job as my musical director, and he said, “Are you sure you want me? I haven’t worked with many singers, and I’ve never conducted at all.” But John had played with all the great big bands, including Benny Goodman, Maynard Ferguson, and Woody Herman. He could swing, and he had an elegant touch, and that was more important to me than anything else. Gentleman John Bunch was the man for me.
Sometimes when we were off for a few nights in New York, John took a gig with some local act. One night he told me he was playing for Zoot Sims and Al Cohn down at the old Half Note, and invited me to come down and check it out. Naturally, I went, and when Zoot saw me in the house, he introduced me to the crowd and said, “Tony, why don’t you come up and sing a song with us?” That was all I needed to hear! I jumped up on stage and started singing without even waiting for John to give me a piano introduction. John later told me that I’d started singing the song in the same key that Zoot and Al usually played it in, without having been given a pickup note or a downbeat. I guess I felt the vibe. I loved the way they played; to me they’re the most intelligent, romantic people in the whole world.
Around the same time Ralph left the group, my drummer Billy Exiner had to leave too. He hadn’t been well for years and was never really healthy the whole time I knew him. He’d been badly injured during the war, and the doctors were never able to get all the shrapnel out of his back. It was an incredibly painful injury, and he became addicted to morphine and other painkillers for the rest of his life. Still he was one of the most brilliant philosophers and kindest people I ever knew.
By the mid-sixties Billy’s ailments had developed into Berger’s disease, a circulation disorder that slowly cripples the limbs. He finally had to cut out in order to take care of himself. He got the best medical care, but it wasn’t enough to save his life. He died in 1985, and I still miss him. I’ve had a number of drummers since Billy’s been gone, including Sol Gubin, Joe LaBarbera, Joe Cocuzzo, and my percussionist of the last five years, the amazing Clayton Cameron. They are all ace players, but I’m not exaggerating when I say that Billy has never been replaced. He was closer to me than anyone.
After Billy, the drummer I had most often in the sixties was Sol Gubin, and I was glad to have John Bunch and Sol with me on my next album of jazz standards, Tony Makes It Happen, which we taped in late 1966 and early 1967. There was a song on the album, “Country Girl,” a tone poem by Henry Wadsworth, that was special to me because it was the first time I recorded a piece of music by Robert Farnon. Bob had written the song for a British music competition, and though it didn’t win, it got more attention than the tune that actually did. It’s a gem.
As touching a tune as “Country Girl” was, Bob’s number one asset was that he was one of the greatest orchestrators of pop music. Sinatra dubbed Farnon “The Guv’nor.” Recording with him was one of the high points of the late sixties for me. His music gives me the chills.
I had met Bob Farnon in early 1952, when I was playing the Casino in Toronto. He then came to the United States in 1954 to work with his friend Don Walker on the orchestrations for The Girl in Pink Tights, Tony T. found him a house right next door to my mother’s in River Edge, New Jersey.
Even back then, Bob wanted us to record together, but I had such reverence for his work that I told him I wasn’t ready. I just didn’t feel like I had developed enough as an artist to make an album with him. I thought I’d have to wait about twenty years before I sang with Bob, and I was pretty close, because we didn’t work together until 1967.
We decided to do a Christmas album together. The title, Snowfall, was inspired by Claude Thornhill’s most famous composition and struck me as a beautiful title. We taped six tracks in New York and four tracks in London. The project inspired Bob to work at his highest level, and his orchestrations were superb. I especially liked “Christmasland,” an original song Bob and his brother Brian wrote for the album.
The New York recording session for Snowfall was amazing. Farnon had conducted for American singers before, like Sinatra and Sarah Vaughan, but this was the first time he’d actually come to the U.S. to do it. The clique of New York orchestrators who’d studied Farnon’s writing—including Don Costa, Marion Evans, and Torrie Zito—all showed up at the session.
Everybody wanted to know how Bob worked, and the second he left the room the curious arrangers rushed up to the podium to study his score.
Quincy Jones threw a party for him, and every musician and orchestrator in New York City was there. There were so many celebrated music makers in that one room that Quincy cracked, “If a bomb goes off in this apartment, there won’t be any more records made!”
We went an hour overtime at the London session. Paul McCartney had booked the studio after us, but he was very obliging and agreed to wait until we were finished. I had met Paul a number of times before that; in fact, in 1965 I had presented the Beatles with their first award at an annual New Musical Express event. I recently ran into Paul at a party at David Frost’s house in London. For years people have been coming up to me and saying, “My mom thinks you’re the greatest!” and my automatic tongue-in-cheek response is always, “Tell her she has good taste.” When I met Paul, my good friend Susan told him that my son Danny is a big fan of his. He responded with the same line that I always use, “Tell him he has good taste.” From the beginning, I always felt Paul was the one in the group with real star power.
I was delighted with Snowfall but Columbia didn’t share my enthusiasm. They thought the title was too “uncommercial,” and again they didn’t like the cover illustration, which I’d had Bob Peak do. Columbia had nixed the one he did for When Lights Are Low, and again, they balked.
That Columbia didn’t put any effort into promoting Snow-rail was hardly a surprise. “For Once in My Life” had been my last hit single, and by 1967 it seemed that the company was ready to wash their hands of me. I was still making records for them, but they weren’t doing much about trying to sell them. Judy Collins tells a Duke Ellington story that I think applies particularly well to what was going on with me at this time. In the early sixties Duke was having trouble with Columbia. They asked him to come into their offices and sat him down and told him they were going to drop him from the label because he wasn’t selling enough records. Duke thought for a moment and responded, “I guess I must be mistaken. I thought I was supposed to make the records and YOU were supposed to sell them.” Right on, Duke. That sums up my situation in a nutshell.
Clive Davis took particular pride in getting what he called “middle of the road” artists—a term I dislike—to “cover” contemporary hits. In his book, Clive: Inside the Music Industry, he admits that he’d come up with a formula for figuring out exactly how many copies an album of cover tunes could sell and then went about making records according to that formula. He told me the only way he’d get behind me was if I agreed to record some of the current material he was pushing. I couldn’t do that, so we were at a stalemate.
In fact, all my recent albums, For Once in My Life, Yesterday I Heard the Rain, and Something contained wonderful new songs by great songwriters like Cy Coleman, Johnny Mercer, Richard Rodgers, Stephen Sondheim, Jule Styne, Leslie Bricusse, Anthony Newley, Michel Legrand, Sammy Cahn, Jimmy Van Heusen, Marilyn and Alan Bergman, Jack Segal, Bob Wells, and Gene Lees. They were all writing wonderful contemporary songs, but Columbia didn’t see it that way.
I had no objection to doing songs that were already hits, provided I thought they were good and that I could sing them with a different interpretation. I recorded a number of Burt Bacharach hits, but I did them in my own style. I had Torrie Zito write me a swinging big band version of “What The World Needs Now,” which I thought was really on the money, and it went over big every time I sang it. I even sang it once on the Ed Sullivan Show with Duke Ellington’s orchestra.
I was doing three albums a year, and all this pressure started bringing me down. On top of it all, I’d been separated from Patricia for close to three years, and we couldn’t seem to reach an understanding. Although the last thing I wanted to do was get involved in a nasty legal battle, attorneys entered the picture. I was served with divorce papers. After that, all I heard was “See you in court.”
In 1968 I celebrated my twentieth anniversary in show business, and I did a tour with Duke Ellington and his Orchestra. We opened a series of twenty-five concerts at the New York Philharmonic on March 3, and it was a sellout show. In fact I was selling out concert halls all over the world, so when Columbia claimed that they weren’t able to sell my records, I couldn’t help but wonder what they were doing wrong.
I’d first worked with Duke about ten years earlier, at the Bal Masque, part of the Americana Hotel in Miami, a dream come true. When I was a kid one of the greatest shows I ever saw featured Duke Ellington, Ethel Waters, and the tap dance trio Tip, Tap, and Toe. It was absolutely tremendous, and I was hooked on Duke’s music from then on.
Ralph hoped to realize a long-held dream of his during that engagement at the Americana, but it didn’t exactly work out that way. Since he was a jazz arranger and composer himself, he’d always wanted to have a look at Ellington’s music, so early one morning Ralph went down to the rehearsal room to sneak a peek. He looked everywhere, but there wasn’t a page of written music to be found. Later Ralph asked Duke’s great baritone sax player Harry Carney about it, and Harry said, “Oh, we don’t have music. We know all our parts.” When Duke wrote something new, the band had to learn it. They were playing the most intricate, intense music you’ve ever heard from memory!
Whenever I worked with Duke—or with Basie for that matter——I deliberately violated some advice that Louis Prima had given me years earlier in Vegas. He’d said, “Whatever you do, wherever you work, make sure you get top billing. Go ahead and work a smaller room, but even if it’s a sawdust joint, be the headliner.” But I went against his great advice where Basie and Ellington were concerned because I wanted to show respect for them. The only other times I settled for second billing were when I played with Bob Hope and Frank Sinatra, and I’m sure I don’t have to explain why.
Duke was a mystic. He told me that after he’d read the Bible, he knew everything he needed to know. We were on a plane together once and he told me a story about writing an upcoming concert of sacred music. When he started working, he called his writing partner, Billy Strayhorn, in New York and told him he wanted to start the concert with a musical motif inspired by the Book of Genesis. A month later he called Billy to see what he had come up with. Amazingly, they had written the exact same notes to the same opening words, “In the beginning there was God.”
Another time, Duke and I were both working in Boston and staying at the Somerset Hotel. I was hanging out in my room with Bobby Hackett, who was talking about how he’d really love to have a jam session. The phone rang, and it was Duke. He said, “I’m downstairs and I have a song for you. Come to the Grand Ballroom.” When Duke began playing he realized that the middle octave of the piano was shot. But that didn’t deter Duke: he played for us anyway, using the remainder of the keyboard. That song was “Love Scene.” He played a whole hour for us, everything he could think of. I looked over at Bobby, who was so moved he was quietly crying tears of joy.
Duke had a lovely habit of sending me a dozen roses whenever he’d written a new song. It was a beautiful gesture from a great man, and it later inspired me to do a watercolor painting of Duke in front of a bouquet of roses, which I entitled “God Is Love.” To this day it’s one of my favorite paintings, and though I always show it, I would never sell it. In fact, it’s the only one of my own paintings I’ve hung in my home. I’ve sung so many of his songs over the years, including “I’m Just a Lucky So and So,” “Sophisticated Lady,” “I Let a Song Go Out of My Heart,” “Don’t Get Around Much Anymore,” “Love Scene,” and “Reflections,” to name only a few. I’ve concluded many concerts with a special medley of Ellington songs, always climaxing with “It Don’t Mean a Thing (If It Ain’t Got That Swing).” When the great Louis Bellson was playing with me, that medley was a feature for him, and we still do it today to spotlight my wonderful drummer Clayton Cameron. Few people know that Duke composed more music that anyone else in the history of music, including ballet suites, tone poems, sacred concerts, and popular songs.
We got together whenever we could, whether it was on the road, in a club, or staying up all night jamming. Duke and I celebrated his seventy-second birthday together. I was working at the Waldorf-Astoria that night, and Duke was out in the audience. I introduced him and he came up and played a few numbers, charming the entire room. I brought out a huge cake, and everybody sang “Happy Birthday.” What a night!
By 1968 my life was in a complete uproar. My divorce battle with Patricia was raging in the courts, and in April, Sandra told me she was pregnant. My mom started to get really sick and became bedridden; all I could do was think back to the time when we were all in Astoria and she worked so hard to take care of us. Now the tables were turned. I ran back and forth between New York and Jersey to see her whenever I could. After every visit I rode back to the city thinking it might be the last time I’d ever see her. It was about as much as I could take.
My first daughter was born on January 9, 1969. At the suggestion of my friend and television producer Dwight Hemion we named her Joanna, inspired by my song “When Joanna Loved Me.” I’d always thought that was a lovely song and an enchanting name. Joanna was a beautiful child and it was really exciting and comforting to have a new daughter in my life.
In the late sixties, a new pop star’s career lasted about a year and a half; as soon as he started slipping, the label would drop him and move on to the next guy. It got to be like a supermarket. I called those kind of artists “overdogs” because they were so heavily promoted they couldn’t lose. It didn’t matter whether or not they had talent or how long they lasted; they were forced down the public’s throats.
After much disagreement, Clive Davis convinced me to do the kind of record he wanted. The album was called Tony Sings the Great Hits of Today, a collection of contemporary cover tunes. I started planning the record by listening to as many current hits as I could stand. I mean, some of these songs made me physically ill. Even Clive Davis says in his book that I became so nauseous before the first recording session that I literally threw up.
Wally Gold was the producer, and the poor guy was in the difficult position of having to serve as a buffer between me and the company. These songs just weren’t my style. The only good thing to come out of that project was that we hired the great orchestrator Peter Matz. He was perfect for the job.
Clive made sure to promote Great Hits so well that it sold more than my other recent albums had. I thought it was pretty corny because first he got me to do it his way, and then he printed up more copies of that album to make it look like the public was demanding it. Give me a break!
It wasn’t long before he wanted a follow-up, But there was no way I would go through another Great Hits of Today session—I just couldn’t do it. Instead I took the George Harrison song “Something” and made it the title song on my next album.
Peter once again did the orchestrations for Something, and this time everything turned out right. All twelve songs were my kind of contemporary songs, the best the times had to offer.
I ended the Something album with Louis Armstrong’s last hit, “What a Wonderful World.” Instead of just covering the song, I made it into a tribute to him, ending the song by imitating him: “Yeah, Louis Armstrong was right. It’s a wonderful world.” The album was released in October 1970. For the cover, I chose a shot of me cradling infant Joanna in my arms. It’s the best album cover I ever saw.
At the end of 1971 my divorce with Patricia became final. For all practical purposes my relationship with Patricia had been over for years, since that lonely Christmas in 1965. Patricia and the boys stayed in the house in Englewood, and as hard as it was to accept, I was determined to stay involved with my boys, and though at times it was tough to work everything out, I didn’t disappear from their lives.
While the pressure at the label continued to mount, I hired Derek Boulton, an Englishman, as my manager. Derek was also Bob Farnon’s manager; we’d met when I was working with Bob and we hit it off right away. We both agreed that it was time for me to put the “two shows a night” phase of my career behind me. I’d been doing nightclubs for twenty years. It was time to graduate to venues like Carnegie Hall, the Palladium, Royal Festival Hall, and Royal Albert Hall. When I worked in Vegas, the rooms were the size of concert halls, and I’d been gradually expanding my stage show so by this time I was using a thirty-two piece orchestra. I was also showing back-projection film clips during my performances, like scenes from the city of San Francisco, or scenes from Chaplin’s film City Lights when I performed “Smile.” Mr. Chaplin was so impressed with my version of “Smile” that he mailed me the last ten minutes of his film Modern Times, in which Chaplin gives a flower to Paulette Goddard and walks down the road into the sunset.
The old-time clubs like the Copa and Chez Paree were on their way out anyhow, since by the late sixties all the action had moved to Vegas. I was happy with my decision to stop playing the small nightclubs, and on Saturday, October 9, 1971, I gave a concert at Carnegie Hall. I was working with Bob Farnon, who conducted the fifty-piece orchestra and included some of his original compositions as well as his imaginative orchestrations of other works, like his wonderful suite based on Gershwin’s Porgy and Bess.
The first half of the show went great, but by my second or third number of the second half, I could see that the audience was getting up and leaving. Then I noticed a funny smell in the air. At first we thought it must be a fire, but eventually we figured out that somebody had sabotaged the concert by putting a stink bomb into the ventilation system.
Once we knew there was no fire, everybody calmed down. It was a warm autumn night, so the audience went outside while the Carnegie management cleared the air. After ten minutes everybody came back for the rest of the show—not one person gave up and went home. The great opera singer Richard Tucker was in the audience that night and came back stage and encouraged me to relax. His talk inspired me to come back out and sing my heart out! To this day I don’t know who it was that tried to break up my concert with a stink bomb, although I figured it was one of “the boys” trying to put a scare into me: it didn’t work.
Things were pretty much still at an impasse with Columbia, even after the release of Great Hits of Today and Something. We were soon embroiled in another disagreement, this one because of my longtime friendship with composer Alec Wilder.
Alec wrote “serious” concert pieces, mainly for chamber groups. I especially loved his song “While We Were Young.” He was a great wit, and a fixture on both the jazz and cabaret scenes and I’d met him in the early fifties. I had been doing his songs ever since.
In the late sixties, I introduced Alec to friends of mine in England, Ken and Renee Gordan, whose young son liked to write poetry. Alec was so taken with the boy’s poems that he decided to set them to music. The Vietnam War was on everybody’s mind back then, and the boy’s poems addressed the war from a child’s point of view: why he didn’t want his father to go into battle, why war was bad for children. Alec’s idea was to compose an octet around this boy’s recitation of his poems. He eventually included other children’s poems, and by the time he finished The Children’s Plea for Peace it had music for a full orchestra, a children’s chorus, and a narrator.
I was determined to record it. I wanted the part of the narrator, and Alec planned to compose some pieces for me to sing as well. He was thrilled that I wanted to do it. But when I brought the idea to Columbia, they immediately decided the piece was too controversial and too uncommercial—without ever hearing it. So I had to explain to Alec that Columbia just wouldn’t go for it, and he never quite forgave me for not getting that composition recorded. He later wrote about his life and criticized his closest friends: Whitney Balliet, Marian McPartland, and yours truly, and he let me have it in print for not coming through on The Children’s Plea for Peace.
But I had fought like crazy to record Plea for Peace. I fought, and I kept on fighting. I stormed out of the studio one day after an argument with Clive and his cronies, and on my way out I heard one of them say, “We gotta get rid of that wop!” The proverbial straw broke the camel’s back: I went to Columbia brass and said, “I want out. I don’t want to play this game anymore. I don’t want to make the records that sell the most, I want to sell the most records that are the best I can make. The public deserves it.”
After some long and loud negotiations we finally worked out a deal we both could live with. I was to give them two more albums, which I’d produce myself, and that would fulfill my contractual obligation to them. I decided to do both of these projects with Bob Farnon, and the first album would be live.
The Royal Albert Hall was celebrating its one hundredth anniversary in 1971, and Derek arranged for Bob and me to perform at one of the special concerts being given to commemorate the centenary. The London Philharmonic Orchestra was featured, and I supplemented them with fifteen of the best jazz musicians we could find in London, like the fabulous drummer Kenny Clare. The program included a lot of my big numbers, as well as some standards.
It was a sold-out concert, and one of the most exciting nights I’ve ever enjoyed in show business. The audience went wild; it sounded like all of Britain was there. We made arrangements for the BBC to videotape the concert, directed by Yvonne Littlewood, and Derek worked out a deal for NBC to broadcast it in the United States. It got top ratings. When it came time to design the album cover, I chose my boyhood friend Rudy DeHarak. His design was based on a black-and-white image of me taken off the TV screen. It was great.
On November 15, 1971, I had my final recording session for Columbia Records. It consisted of a single song, “The Summer Knows,” the theme from Summer of ‘42 by Michel Legrand and Alan and Marilyn Bergman. It was a fine song, and after twenty-two years it was an appropriate way to conclude a long relationship. Sandra and I were finally married in December of 1971. I was relieved because I really wanted the three of us to become a family. I had to believe that everything in both my personal and professional lives was going to work out for the best.