As a second generation Italian-American (with his mother, Anna Suraci, born right after his grandmother arrived in the U.S.), Tony Bennett had the potential to become another caricature of the nationality. And, funnily enough, he was actually known for being the “class caricaturist” at school. Luckily, he never made too much of one out of himself—at least, not when it came to being a caricature of the “paesan.” More specifically, the Italian-American. A very different breed altogether from the Italian, and a distinction that isn’t made frequently or with enough emphasis…especially if the continued success of Super Mario Bros. is to be a barometer.
Compared, as he often was, to someone like Frank Sinatra or Dean Martin (fellow “crooners,” as it were), Bennett was far less cornball and/or prone to embracing the mob associations that, to this day, go hand in hand with the public perception of “being Italian.” This was somewhat ironic considering he ended up enlisting the services of Ray Muscarella to assist with kick-starting his career. Bennett’s eventual manager had plenty of mafia ties…as was, apparently, to be expected back in “those days” of NYC. In fact, you might say there would be no Tony Bennett without the mafia (and Bob Hope, who rechristened him as Tony Bennett instead of Anthony Benedetto). From vocal coaches to arrangers and composers to booking agents, there seemed to be no expense spared on getting Bennett the help he needed to hit the big-time. Of course, those expenses were expected to be paid back in full…ad infinitum. For once you owe the mob, you owe them for life (just ask Joel Maisel).
But, in Bennett’s case, he was able to liberate himself in the early 1960s with a purported payoff of $600,000 for them to “leave him alone” (Garbo-style). This came at a time when the perpetually carousing Rat Pack was at a peak, complete with Ol’ Blue Eyes and Dino capitalizing on their Italian-American “persona.” Indeed, leaning heavily into that cultural identity as just that: a persona, a caricature more than anything else. This included a live performance of a number called “Glad That We’re Italian,” featuring such embracements of go-to ethnic stereotypes as, “For us, each night’s a thriller/Chianti flowing free,” “Linguini sends me reeling” and “We’re two singin’ wops.”
Bennett, on the other hand, isn’t associated with any Italian songs (save for a very cringe version of “O Sole Mio”), parody-esque or otherwise. While Dean Martin’s “Volare” and “That’s Amore” would become backbones of his canon, Frank Sinatra would have “Come Back to Sorrento” (featuring an equally horrible pronunciation of Italian as Bennett’s “O Sole Mio”). But he appeared more interested in cultivating the mafia goon squad trope via the Rat Pack (plus being friends with Chicago mob boss Sam Giancana) than singing anything in Italian to make himself come across that way (maybe because when he sang in Italian, it had the opposite effect of making him seem as such). So entrenched in mafioso life was Sinatra, that Marilyn Monroe named the dog he gave her “Maf” in honor of that reality.
Bennett was less inclined to go all in on being linked with the mob. Just because they gave him a leg-up on his career, didn’t mean he wanted to take Sinatra’s same approach by constantly canoodling with them (for, as it was said, Sinatra shared similar interests to many a made man: gambling, booze and women). Nor did he really want to canoodle that much with Frank, either. In fact, Bennett declined becoming a “member” of the Rat Pack, citing the hours they kept as plenty of reason to stay away. Preferring to admire Frank from a safe distance, perhaps. And sure, Bennett had his own “greasy lothario” era—particularly during his Vegas and drug addiction days of the late 60s and most of the 70s, but, for the most part, he was viewed as the quintessential “class act.” Especially after he was remarketed and repackaged by his oldest son, Danny, in 1979. This in the wake of reaching a nadir and almost overdosing on cocaine.
It was his wife, Sandra Grant—the woman he had an affair with while still married to his first wife, Patricia Beech—who found him and took him to the hospital. Brought back to life, so to speak, to live another forty-four years and recalibrate the narrative from turning into yet another tragic end for a musician whose depression got the better of them. In other words, the overlords reset the timeline for Bennett so he could perhaps better embody the model Italian-American. That is to say, not one so rooted in New York/New Jersey cliches of what is commonly perceived as being Italian-American. Ah, but then he had to go and work with Lady Gaga, a new butcher of Italian accents thanks to House of Gucci. All while passing it off as doing “method acting.” If “the method” was to make Italians speaking English sound mentally impaired. Which always seems to be the goal by those doing an “imitation” of the “real” Italian.
This isn’t a coincidence, for part of the Italian stereotype is that they’ve got meat (or bullets) for brains. Such prejudices being part of what Bennett experienced during most of his early adult life, mentioning as much about his time in the military circa 1944, when the “sergeant was an old-fashioned Southern bigot, and he had it in for me from the start because I was an Italian from New York City.” Translation: not Italian at all. For it is an entirely different thing, being Italian-American. And Bennett appeared to understand what it meant to represent that slightly better over the years than his “Italian” contemporaries and subsequent collaborators alike (*cough cough* Lady Gaga), who would rather keep leaning into botched attempts at being “Italian” as opposed to just being what they are: American, with a dash of Italian zest that prompts them to dine at places like Manducatis (Bennett’s favored haunt for some fettuccine al eggplant) now and again. Which is a preferable choice to Olive Garden. In that (restaurant choice) regard, how much more of a model Italian-American can he be?
