Ma. It's Tony Bennett

I remember pressing that doorbell. I remember everything that happened that morning starting with the phone call demanding I get my self immediately to his Upper East Side Manhattan apartment. Thirty seconds after I hung up I was speeding cross-town in a cab.

“Michael, you are a genius!” was my greeting from the singer Frank Sinatra called “the best in the business.” This was going to be a good day.

It all started about a week earlier in August of 1973. Tony Bennett needed to add a little energy to his then fading career. His audience had mellowed and so had he. Personally and professionally he needed rejuvenation.

His idea was to rent Alice Tully Hall at Lincoln Center in September for a full orchestra two-night tribute to Rodgers and Hart. Some people thought this would be a tough sell. In those days Tony was not at the top of his career. All the expenses, every dime was going come out of his pocket. It would be my job to stretch his very limited dollars.

To do the best I could with such a small budget I turned to John Moran. John was the real genius. He had what you might call a gray profession. Broadway shows, major motion pictures, rock concerts and politicians of all parties entrusted John to get the word out throughout the city. His “snipers” worked invisibly from midnight till dawn covering the temporary walls hiding every construction site in Manhattan with one-sheet posters heralding the latest hot show or with it politico of the day.

Tony’s budget allowed us to print only 300 black and white three sheets, not nearly enough to blanket the city. John suggested I print three additional larger nine-sheets and not worry. So I didn’t worry … too much.

The posters were placed around Manhattan the night before Tony beckoned me to his apartment. I hadn’t seen one poster them on the cab ride over.

At exactly 10:00 am Tony invited me in. He introduced me to his wife, telling her I was a genius.

This is not real. I’m in Tony Bennett’s apartment and he is calling me a genius.

“Let me show you around,” he says.

I am floating on air but still have no idea why I am a genius. He leads me from the living into a small room cluttered with dozens of oil paintings piled against the wall. I was immediately impressed realizing these were “his” paintings. He painted under his given name Anthony Beneditto.

“These are amazing’” I said. “Just pick one out and it’s yours,” he said. I can’t believe Tony Bennett is going to give me a painting I thought. “Which one do you like,” he said. I pointed to a primitive of an old woman. He actually hugged me. Tony Bennett hugged me. “I knew I liked you,” he said, “This is a portrait of my mother. Sorry You cannot have this one.” Wait, he wasn’t going to let me have a second choice. I would take away no Benneditto that day.

He continued to lead me across the small room right over to a wide window overlooking the construction site across the street. Putting his arm around me he reminded me again, “Michael, you are a genius.”

Staring back at me from the other side of the street several floors below was one of the three nine-sheets John Moran had convinced me to print.

“The posters are everywhere. You covered the entire city,” Tony almost sang. At least I covered his entire world I thought. John Moran was the genius.

When Tony Bennett, the guy Frank Sinatra felt was the best singer in the business, asked if there was anything else he could get for me I didn’t want this terrific morning to end. “How about a scotch on the rocks?” I asked looking forward to adding a shared drink to my memory.

The carved leaded glass the crackle of the ice cubes as he handed me my drink are still with me today. “Can I borrow your phone?” I added. When he handed me a beige rotary dial telephone I dialed.

“Mom, I am in Tony Bennett’s apartment.”

“Mom, it’s me, Tony Bennett’” Tony crooned as he grabbed the phone from me without missing a beat.

”Michael, quit shittin’ me,” Mom said.

The concert at Tully Hall was standing room only both nights. Frank Sinatra’s favorite singer was on the way back.