All sorts of musicians swarm Manhattan, and probably most of them have been forced to play “New York, New York” (aka “Theme from New York, New York”). Composed by John Kander, with lyrics by Fred Ebb, it originally hails from the 1977 Martin Scorsese movie starring Liza Minnelli and Robert De Niro. After Frank Sinatra recorded it in 1980, Kander and Ebb’s song became one of the most popular themes of the city. (There are at least two other contenders: “I Love New York” by Steve Karmen and—my personal favorite—an earlier “New York, New York” by Bernstein/Comden/Green.)
Jobbing professionals tend to have a mixed relationship with the biggest hits, and none of us like the Kander and Ebb “New York, New York.” The song was an anachronistic tacky swing-era retread that brought out the worst aspects of Sinatra. By 1980, his famous swinging phrasing had become pretty droopy and self-serving, and in the first half of the song, he is swallowing words in an unfortunately low register. However, Sinatra is Sinatra; at his worst he will always have a certain quality and authority, even when he’s singing kitsch.
But that kitsch reached its fever pitch in the many amateur versions of “New York, New York” inflicted on the planet by those imitating Sinatra. Presumably most of these bards are tourists, not actual New Yorkers, but at least a few authentic denizens put on their Sinatra gear once in a while. I know this to be true from bitter experience, for in the 1990s I played piano at two functions where “New York, New York” was on the program.
The first event was a political fundraiser for a mayoral candidate, where I accompanied an opera singer I will call Pint-Size Pavarotti. Opera singers love a big moment to hold a high note, and that clan took on “New York, New York” with a vengeance after they heard how Ol’ Blue Eyes added a big rallentando to the lyric Start spreading the news. Reportedly Sinatra took more and more time with spreading on tour, with the -ing becoming a very long drone while the rubes went wild. Excess begets further excess, naturally. In the small practice room, Pint-Size Pavarotti’s spreading went off beside me like an air-horn: it was all I could do not to reach up and plug my ears. Then, at the gig that night, Pint-Size took a deep breath before the climactic moment. Away he went. Spreading lasted a long time, at least a minute or more—the final call of a bellowing beast before the sacrifice.
On the other occasion, I was part of an ethnic group offering a revue of pop hits for their local team at the United Nations. Sometimes an ethnic group will have a last-minute ringer who can just read the charts, so there I was, a white kid from Wisconsin, paging through the book of ABBA and Steely Dan onstage amongst a tight group of insiders at the UN determined to publicly declare their commitment to the American way of life. In this situation, a music director has usually prepared charts that have numbers which proceed in orderly fashion: 1, 2, 3, 4, etc., in this case up to 27. (It was not a short show.) I sight-read an exposed keyboard part on “Do You Hear the Drums, Fernando?” perfectly, so I was feeling pretty good about myself…until the very end of the gig. The numbers betrayed me a bit. Number 27 was marked “finale,” so I thought that was it. However, I missed the page turn, where there was 27 Part Two, titled “New York Bows.” Of course, “New York Bows” turned out to be the simple ragtime piano vamp that begins the Kander/Ebb “New York, New York.” In the normal course of things, the front man would grandly bow while the audience was applauding, and after a short moment of mutual celebration, the pianist would strike up the famous intro, thus giving the front man the perfect platform to sing about just how much he loves our fair city.
Not this time. I thought the show was over when No. 27 was done and the crowd was applauding. After a little while, I realized the front man had turned around and was hissing at me, “New York Bows! New York Bows!” Sadly, however, I just could not figure out what he wanted from me. The only word I understood was “bows,” so I hesitantly got up and took a bow.
I’ve been on stage a lot in this life, and sometimes things go wrong, but the greatest expression of genuine unbridled terror, sadness, and anger ever directed at me was from the front man at the moment after I took a bow. I stared at him, my mouth open. What the heck? As the applause started to die down, he gestured furiously at my sheet music. I sat back down, turned the page, and, as the light finally dawned, began the cheerful intro to “New York, New York.” A diplomatic crisis was averted, but the front man never called me for a gig again.
Ethan Iverson is a pianist, composer, and writer living in Brooklyn.