Picture it. It’s 1992, I’ve just turned 14 years old, and I’m a high school freshman. Hair metal is dying out, hip hop is big and alternative is just hitting the scene. I haven’t worn my glasses for a year, I’m losing weight, and I’m finally wearing the trendy clothes that the salesman at Merry-Go-Round said would get me—and I quote—”much girls.”
(They did not, by the way.)
The problem was, they weren’t me. The bigger problem was, I didn’t know who “me” was.
One day I was flipping the channels, and for the life of me I have no idea why I stopped on an interview with Tony Bennett. I’d heard of him, sure, but I didn’t know any of his work. I wasn’t really into the whole “crooner” genre, unless you cound Johnny Fontaine from The Godfather.
But I stopped, and I watched. He was promoting his new album, Perfectly Frank, a tribute to what he called the “torch and saloon” songs of Frank Sinatra. What struck me was how genuinely kind Tony Bennett seemed to be; he talked about various collaborations he’d had, and different people he knew, and called them all “wonderful.” It made enough of an impression on me that I wanted to give the album a listen, despite the fact that I knew virtually nothing about Sinatra’s catalogue and even less about Tony Bennett.
I got the album that Christmas, and it was life-changing.
From the opening notes of “Time After Time” to the closing notes of “I’ll Be Seeing You,” I was transfixed.
Tony’s voice was smoky, experienced, strong and kind. It was filled with wonder. It was filled with melancholy. It was filled with love. It danced around the melodies of each number, and told a story with each song that you knew as well as if you had lived it yourself.
He was cool. He was mellow. He was confident. And he was clearly having a good time throughout the entire album.
I’d never heard anything like in my life, and it couldn’t have come at a more perfect time in my life. I was trying to figure out who I was (at 14, who’s not?) and what I liked that made me unique—not different, mind you; just unique.
Tony Bennett’s Pefectly Frank was exactly that. It was exactly what I needed. It opened me up to a whole genre of music of which I had only been peripherally aware (in my house—and my town in general—crooners were a staple on Sunday morning radio in kitchens while family dinners were being prepared) but in which I soon completely immersed myself.
As Tony Bennett came out with new albums—Steppin’ Out, Unplugged (which defied all logic with how popular that became, but it made completely sense because the world, you understand, had come to love Tony Bennett by that point) and so on—I bought them, and played the hell out of them, too.
I saw him in concert in Atlantic City in 1994, and I even had the chance to meet the man once.
It was 1997, and he was doing a signing at a Borders 15 minutes from my house. I was one of the first people in line. I told him I was a great admirer of his work. We shook hands, he signed my items, and we parted ways. That was 25 years ago, but it’s as clear as yesterday.
Tony Bennett died on July 21 of this year, a few weeks shy of his 97th birthday. When I learned of his death, I took my copy of Perfectly Frank out of my CD binder—the same binder I’ve had since high school, and the same CD I got for Christmas in 1992, still in wonderful shape with nary a scratch—and listened to it front to back; it’s currenly in my car radio on repeat.
I still know every word. Every note. And the stories he tells with every song feel even more familiar because, at 45, I have lived many of them myself, with all the wonder, the melancholy, and the love.
Perfectly Frank was a transformative album for me. It not only introduced me to Tony Bennett and an unexplored genre of music, it also—perhaps most importantly—introduced me to myself.
“Albums That Saved My Life” examines different music albums that, during the course of my life, have helped me through rough patches, acted as a salve for my heart or changed my life for the better.
jfberenato.wordpress.com 