HOLLYWOOD CASINO
451 Clyde Fant Parkway, Shreveport

SHREVEPORT, La.  January 22 (UPI) -- Of all the saloon singers--those who are still alive anyway--no one is smoother than Tony Bennett. I don't know how it's even possible to keep your voice so crystal clear after fifty years in the business. Most guys who perform in casinos end up filling in their arrangements with a lot of strings and brass to cover up the muddiness, limited range, or just downright mush of a voice that's done too many shows, too many late nights, too much singing on too little sleep.

Even trained opera singers start to fall apart after a certain point, but Tony just keeps on cruising. One of the most electrifying moments in his current show--and he only does it in places that have the acoustics to handle it--comes when he puts the microphone down and sings without amplification, "the way we did it in the old days." He doesn't even sing loudly when he does this. He just hits the precise center of the note and it fills the hall. Guaranteed standing ovation.

But then Tony gets standing ovations just for walking onto the stage these days. I caught his show recently at the Shreveport Civic Theater, which was beautifully renovated by the Hollywood Casino across the street and now serves as that casino's showroom. When Tony travels, he takes just four musicians--guitar, bass, drums and piano, played by his long-time accompanist Ralph Shannon--and he keeps patter to a minimum.

He was never a flashy performer. He has that crinkly-eyed grin which always set him apart from the more suave and worldly Sinatras and Davises, but he didn't go in the other direction either, becoming a feel-good grandstander like Tom Jones or Engelbert Humperdinck. Maybe that's why he's never succumbed to self-parody. He still has the supreme presence of a man who is more comfortable on stage than off. Impeccable blue suit, body open to the audience, voice leaning into the room, he launches into "Watch What Happens" and the thrill of his voice brings yet another ovation.

As you would expect, his show is heavy on American standards. He does a soft swing version of "The Best Is Yet To Come," followed by "Autumn Leaves" with a big sustained high-note ending. He talks about growing up in Astoria, Queens, where they make Steinway pianos, as a segue into the novelty number "Fine-Toned Baby Grand."

And then, with showy emphasis: "How about this great casino they have here? Isn't that something?" It's his only real "Vegas moment" of the evening, in appreciation of his employers, who have him on a long-term exclusive contract.

After "Firefly's Ball," he does selections from his various albums--not his old albums, but the albums that he keeps churning out after all these years. His Billie Holiday tribute album won the Grammy last year, and he does her signature song, "All of Me," with guitar and piano solos.

Tony is so old school that, like Sinatra, he always credits the songwriters. Ogden Nash wrote "Speak Low When You Speak Love," for example. (Tony's version kills.) He does "I Got Rhythm" (with appropriate solos, of course), followed by a medley of songs from his "Here's to the Ladies" album, including--only a veteran could do this--"Somewhere Over the Rainbow." Interestingly, he does the complete vamp, which I'd never heard before, and which makes it a much more optimistic song, about hope more than yearning.

And then he makes his only mistake. During his tribute to Streisand, a guy in the audience suddenly wails "Tony!" at a quiet moment during "People." Tony cracks up, acknowledges the compliment from someone who can't contain himself--but I've already spotted him, and he's a heavy-lidded drunk, three rows away from me, and he's grinning from ear to ear, feeling that Tony likes him now.

The drunk starts humming along with every song, and after the second "Tony! Oh, Tony!" I'm looking for the security guard. I spot him, make eye contact, but for some reason he doesn't move in. I point directly at the drunk, but the security guard holds his position at the back of the hall. (One great thing about Vegas is that they have professional drunk-removers who know how to move in and expel the guy before he even knows he's been lifted out of his chair. Frequently the audience never even notices the incident.)

Tony does a Hank Williams song, "Your Cold Cold Heart," which was actually one of his earliest hits. And to further emphasize his southern ties, he says "The best lyric writer in Savannah, Georgia, wrote this song for me . . ." as he floats into "I Wanna Be Around."

"Attaboy, Tony," says the drunk, humming along--but now, thank God, Tony is not responding.

When he finally does "I Left My Heart in San Francisco," the room lights up with camera flashes, and the drunk is so transported that he's actually singing. This time I glare at the security guard, and he does walk over. But all he does is lecture the guy about keeping quiet or he'll have to be removed. As soon as the guard leaves, of course, the drunk is chiming in on "Steppin' Out with My Baby."

Tony does a little dance step on "Top Hat, White Tie and Tails," then segues into a Fred Astaire medley featuring "A Foggy Day in London Town."

The drunk gets his second warning.  As the security guard walks back to his post, I say, "He's drunk. He's not going to shut up." Meanwhile, I'm marvelling at the amazing politeness of this Louisiana crowd, which is obviously tense and simmering because of the loudmouth.

But the standards just keep on coming, and nobody's gonna let him spoil it. "You're Like Paris." "You're All the World To Me." (He almost whispers the lyrics.) "That Old Devil Moon." "They Can't Take That Away From Me." He's in a zone of pure music now.

He takes a break on a Duke Ellington section that shows off the band, starting with "A Train" and then "Caravan," with the obligatory drum solo. He does "You Ain't Been Blue" and a whispery romantic version of "Mood Indigo," followed by an extended jam on "It Don't Mean a Thing If It Ain't Got That Swing," with an elaborate drum solo that works down to a single cymbal and then back out again. Big ovation for the drummer.

Then he puts down the mike and does his showstopper, "the old way." It's "Fly Me To the Moon," and of course it brings another ovation--his seventh? eighth?

Ralph Shannon is featured on "S'Wonderful," and then, because his daughter Antonia is singing in the casino lounge, he brings her up on stage to sing "You'd Be So Easy To Love." He stands back by the band during her solo, which is a little too brassy and has uneven levels, and I see it as my chance to hector the security guard. The polite Louisianans are finally losing their cool, but one guy's way of dealing with it is to scold the drunk in the middle of a song. "Don't you know there are people that can't listen because of you!" This scene is getting out of hand, and we need what should have happened 45 minutes ago: ejection.

On my way up the aisle, two security guards pass me, and this time they do the right thing. The crowd relaxes. If Tony notices the removal, he doesn't say anything.

""Here's a song for all the young lovers out there," he says.

"How about all the old lovers?" says Ralph Shannon, with practiced timing.

And now he's into "Because of You (There's a Song in My Heart)," followed by a mini-jam session on "In a Mellow Tone," with solos by all the players, including that rarity, a very clean bass solo. His closer is "I Am Not Alone, I've Got Company." And the encore is a lilting "Once Upon a Time."

One hour, 35 minutes, packed, professional, transporting. The kind of show that Vegas says you can't do anymore. A singer with a stool and a mike. And sometimes not even a mike. It's not that you can't do it anymore, it's that there aren't enough guys left who know how to do it.

© Copyright 2002 United Press International and Joe Bob Briggs

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