Remembering Tony Bennett and one masterful performance at 89

Maybe the only thing greater than seeing a living legend in action is being surprised with the opportunity to do so. I had the great surprise and honor of seeing Tony Bennett live in concert at Cincinnati’s PNC Pavilion during Labor Day weekend 2015.

I was living in Dayton, Ohio, at the time, and a friend shared that she had two tickets to the concert and was too sick to attend. It was just a couple of hours’ notice. I threw on a suit and hopped in the car.

I didn't even have enough time to find a taker for the second ticket, with everyone busy during a holiday weekend. I gave the spare ticket to a bartender at the venue, and when his shift ended, he joined me.

And these weren’t just any tickets, y’all. Pit. Fourth row. Center.

Bennett, who died Friday at his Manhattan home, had turned 89 the month before that performance, and man, he still had it all. For me, as a jazz singer and a student of the Great American Songbook, it was like a master class to have such an up-close study of its greatest living interpreter. This was a man who had met Cole Porter, spent time with Ira Gershwin, knew Duke Ellington, and knew that he was singing their songs with their personal approval, the way they were written to be sung. It was thrilling to know that, sitting in that pavilion, we were all part of a direct connection to the people who wrote the songs that built the 20th century.

The years and experience had tempered Bennett’s delivery in such a way that he had become something akin to an aged wizard — the Albus Dumbledore of American song. Even his lightest touches sizzled with a graceful, learned magic, and he could do more with two words than anyone else could with five minutes.

He moved slowly, carefully, but with tremendous conviction, though he was not to be mistaken for faded or weak — when the full battery of his power was required, he wielded it with the singular focus and force of a master. The PIPES on that guy! At nearly three times my age, he had greater lung capacity and breath control than I'll ever hope to achieve. When he hit his big notes, the years dropped away and it felt like he could level a building.

And his confidence was most evident in the evening's setup. Many aging singers typically rely more and more on showy, team-based performances as years go by, heavily featuring backup singers and instrumental soloists, or employing dancers, pyrotechnics, and any other number of bells and whistles to preserve their own energy and distract from their diminished vocal power. Bennett did no such thing. The huge stage at PNC Pavilion held a grand piano, an upright bass, a drum kit, a guitar, a singer, and nothing else. There was no opening act. The closest thing to assistance was his daughter, Antonia, who joined him onstage for a couple of cute duets.

Charming as ever, he occasionally chatted up the audience briefly, complimented his excellent musicians, or cracked a joke. During a piano break in "The Good Life," he offhandedly referenced the hit album he did the previous year with Lady Gaga (“Cheek to Cheek”) and added, "I thought I'd help her out 'cause she needed the money," which slayed the audience so hard that he chuckled through the entire second half of the song.

At the show's halfway point, Bennett told a story about a thank-you letter that Charlie Chaplin wrote him in the Fifties after he recorded "Smile,” (a song Chaplin wrote) and delivered a uniquely heartfelt rendition. In the final lines of the song, "You'll find that life is still worthwhile/If you just smile," singers usually emphasize the word "life," as it's the subject of the statement. In Bennett’s hands, it rose to something greater, an undying determination to overcome, to continue reaching in any age or circumstance: "You'll find that life is STILL worthwhile."

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It was that same week in 1951 that Bennett had his first #1 hit with "Because of You." But the first song he recorded, a year prior, was an old favorite of mine, Al Dubin and Harry Warren's "The Boulevard of Broken Dreams." I would never have guessed he still performed it, and was floored when the bass started walking a throbbing intro and he said, "This was the first song I recorded..." After the opening phrase — "I walk along the street of sorrow..." — I shouted "YES!!!!!" and the few of us in the audience who knew that one whistled and cheered. (He was wearing, by the way, the same outfit that evening that he wears in this video from 2013.)

His first recording. That was April of 1950 – 65 years before! Think about all that changed and came and went in music during that span. In 1950, Sinatra hadn't even made his comeback yet, and was still in his pre-Oscar slump — Bennett’s arrival on the scene must've terrified Frank. Ella Fitzgerald hadn't yet recorded her first Songbook album. James Brown wouldn't explode with "Please, Please, Please" for several more years. Ike and Tina would not meet until nearly a decade later. Elvis and Johnny were still jamming at rent parties in Memphis, John Lennon was learning long division, and Jimi Hendrix was in second grade.

That single was issued on a 78 record, and his 2014 duet album with Gaga went to #1 on iTunes.

The crowd was so rapt and reverent (I lost count of the standing ovations — I spent the entire final half-hour thinking each song was the last one) that the concert took on the feeling of a religious experience, a sermon of love. With 4,100 sold out seats, there was total silence in the house while he sang. We wept together at his heart-rending delivery of "But Beautiful." It briefly felt like we were all about to jump from our seats and dance during "Stepping Out With My Baby."

At one point, he gestured toward the band and said, "Wouldn't it be great if we woke up tomorrow and all American music sounded like this?"

A warm and overwhelming wave of applause rolled through the house like a tide, and the hair on my neck stood up, because for a moment, it felt like it was possible. Like it might actually happen. Like Tony Bennett, all by himself, through sheer will, could grab Time by the shoulders and drag it backward.

That feeling didn't shake off easily. Humming and singing could be heard throughout the hall as we filed out, many people sporting dreamy-eyed smiles that suggested they'd been transported to another time and place and would stay there as long as they could.

That's not just the lingering effect of a master...that's the mark of a magician.

This is not a sad week, and I will not mourn his passing, for I have great news: For 96 years, Anthony Dominick Benedetto sang his heart out, and we were blessed to be on this earth for part of that timeline. We will forever speak his name.

Contact Free Press arts and culture writer Duante Beddingfield at dbeddingfield@freepress.com.

This article originally appeared on Detroit Free Press: Remembering Tony Bennett and one masterful performance at 89