Holding Tony Bennett’s Coat
Tony Bennett was a fixture in our lives. Based on longevity alone — his impact is undeniable.
Like many of us, when I heard news of his passing, I was sad but grateful for the exceptional time and artistry he gave us that will remain.
I had no personal relationship with the man, but he holds a special place in my memory. He represents a first. Tony Bennett was the first celebrity I ever “worked with.”
I was interning at NBC’s New York flagship, WNBC, in their publicity department in the winter of 1991. It was the first life-changing milestone in a fortunate career that’s boasted more than a few.
My boss was a true Southern gentleman with a name to match: Carl Killingsworth. A few weeks into my tenure, Carl informed me in his refined sweet-tea accent that we had a photoshoot later in the day. It was with the channel’s inimitable and quintessentially New York anchorwoman Sue Simmons for a cover feature in Newsday’s Sunday Magazine. Billed as “Just a Few Kids from New York,” the package profiled ten native New Yorkers who’d (more than) made good. The cover would feature three of them.
I had never been around talent or a photo shoot before but followed Carl’s lead. He was unflappable and the most genteel, smooth operator I’d ever seen. He was the maître d’ of every situation. He instilled in me many of the better instincts I’d use to maneuver in this weird world in years to come.
We collected Sue and proceeded to an outdoor spot overlooking the Rockefeller Center skating rink to meet the photographer as well as Sue’s cover-mates.
The first was novelist Erica Jong who scared the hell out of me as a wannabe writer and as a repressed Catholic schoolboy. Not only was she was a real, capital-W writer, she wrote about a Sexual Revolution that was entirely foreign to me in her classic “Fear of Flying.” The notion of a “zipless fuck” confounds and captivates me to this day. Like I said, repressed. The third member of the cover trio was the man himself: Tony Bennett. He was already iconic, and this was three years before his MTV-minted “comeback.”
Everyone greeted each other like old friends and got into position. It seems unthinkable to me now, but I don’t remember there being any sort of entourage for anyone. It was only Carl and me. These were real New Yorkers; they didn’t need handlers. I also knew this because when Tony decided to lose his overcoat for the shot, he (politely) handed it to me.
I remember the coat as substantial but not heavy, thick, soft, and carrying a lingering hint of cologne. I was a college junior whose idea of a winter coat was a rough, hulking army surplus coat that reached the floor and had a massive collar that could be popped up for extra moodiness. It might have been German surplus. I was channeling Kevin Smith and “Silent Bob” before I (or anyone) knew who they were.
I stood in an iconic New York City location, holding a legend’s coat. It meant the world to me. I was part of something bigger than I could’ve ever imagined. All my friends were back in Poughkeepsie, sweating classes and exams in their respective dorms and apartments. I was commuting four hours a day to be here at the center of the universe.
It was only a coat. I was barely an assistant…less than that, an intern. But something about that moment has stayed with me decades later. Time and Tony’s cultural omnipresence only amplified it. His passing solidified it.
I can recall Tony’s resurgence with the “Steppin’ Out” record two years later. I had moved to New York and returned home to Connecticut to meet my newborn niece. She was born with what we jokingly called a “flipper foot.” Her ankle bounced her foot back up anytime it was pointed down. For those of you keeping score, according to the internet (and it’s never ever wrong) it’s a completely normal newborn condition called calcaneovalgus and she grew out of it. Because my sister and I were idiots, we videotaped the sleeping baby lip-synching to Tony Bennett’s title track while putting the flipper foot to work, tapping through the dance breaks. Something my adult niece may now see as early trauma gave us a couple giddy laughs.
Meanwhile, as my career evolved and expanded, while staying at 30 Rock, Tony became a recurring staple in it. At “Late Night with Conan O’Brien,” I, along with the rest of the staff, looked forward to our yearly holiday visit from Tony Bennett. A who’s who of musical acts came through every night, but Tony’s appearances, complete with an old-school drum of falling snow overhead always warmed our weary hearts. It felt like real show business. And while he’d sometimes croon a Christmas classic, he’d often perform his own song, “Christmas in Herald Square” (which meant he got the publishing dough — the man wasn’t dumb).
Tony followed me upstairs to “Saturday Night Live” where he did a guest shot on Alec Baldwin and writer Paula Pell’s lovingly silly recurring “Tony Bennett Talk Show” sketch, which was one of the “great-great” sketches in Baldwin’s illustrious run as host.
My favorite line remains “Tony’s” blithe interview opener with a historian: “So, what’s your beef with the Nazis?” This was likely right before stopping mid-conversation to launch into a live-read commercial promoting Dr. Scholl’s massaging insoles. Baldwin’s Bennett “ad-libbed” in the promo, “I once massaged a woman’s feet for hours till the doctors said, ‘Mr. Bennett, she’s gone.’”
Tony did what many SNL subjects have done before and since — he showed up on the show alongside his imitator. The difference was in the beaming smiles he and Alec shared in the moment. Tony’s joy was always evident whenever he was on stage. Even in that last Radio City show with Lady Gaga that was so bittersweet to watch.
I wasn’t at Radio City, but I got to hold his coat once in the early nineties.
Such a small thing. A non-thing. It meant nothing to anyone that I was there. Yet, I can still remember the moment as if it was intimate and powerful. That’s the trick about fame — it elevates the most mundane memory into something grand. To recollect it more than thirty years later with the warmth of a genuine interaction speaks volumes about the power of celebrity … and Tony’s warmth. And, perhaps, in a less flattering way, it says something about me.
Most of my fame-adjacent memories have this quality…specificity without substance.
In hindsight, even the press hit itself was barely a blip in Bennett’s storied career. I know because when I sat down to write this, I googled the article.
When I finally did pull it up (thanks, newspapers.com), I had to sift past 300-plus digitally rendered pages of a Sunday edition of Newsday to find it.
I scrolled past sections for every borough, countless ads from grocery stores, car dealerships and everything in between. I clicked past barely legible (sans magnifying glass) stock listings, personals and classified ads for jobs that no longer exist at companies that have long since folded…and of course, (only in New York, kids) coverage of Donald Trump’s multi-million-dollar divorce.
That’s how tiny a moment it was.
It’s not news that we all have parasocial relationships with celebrities in one form or another. I take comfort in the fact that my micro-histories are super on-brand for our current streaming era. You can call mine Parasocial+.
We all loved his music, but I held his coat once.
