When Harry Met Stardom

Harry Connick, Jr., is searching for security in his sudden success: his fans love him, but he complains he’s not getting respect from jazz purists.

By Bill Beuttler (American Way, August 1, 1990)

Harry Connick Jr. isn’t hungry. Not for food anyway. He’s been picking at his hamburger, and has hardly touched his fries, in this greasy diner across from his publicist’s office on Manhattan’s Upper West Side, indulging in yet another interviewer with a lunch date.

He’s trying to be polite, but frankly — and uncharacteristically — he’s getting irritable. A couple of large, fiftyish businessmen approach a lone woman in a nearby booth, as the fidgeting Connick watches over his shoulder.

“I hate it when a guy hits on a woman like that,” he says. “A couple of lunatics. A whole city of lunatics. Everyone in this diner’s a lunatic.”

Can this be the personable young man who had the sophisticates charmed into repeatedly yelling “Without no pants on!” with him when he played the Algonquin last year? Indeed it is. Who else but Connick would be decked out like this — salmon-colored suit, burnt orange shirt, brown silk tie with hand-painted red roses, patterned gray socks and light-brown suede shoes (strange, no one gave him a second glance on the walk over, but then this is Manhattan). But this has been a rough week, so busy that the 22-year-old jazz singer-pianist (also bandleader, arranger, composer, lyricist and occasional actor) has had to cram scribbling liner notes for his two just-completed albums, We Are In Love and Lofty’s Roach Soufflé (both released last month), into lulls in a seemingly never-ending string of interviews for Glamour magazine, USA Today, USA Weekend and Entertainment Tonight.

It isn’t often that a jazz musician attracts this kind of press interest, but then Connick isn’t like other jazz musicians. Oh sure, he can play piano about as well as any other young jazzer out there. But Connick also, sings, He performs ’40s chestnuts. He slicks back his hair and wears wild-looking dress suits. He jokes around with his audience. Add them all up, Connick’s an anachronism — a serious jazzman unashamed to entertain.

That’s an attitude that doesn’t sit well with most jazz purists, as Connick will be the first to tell you. For them, entertainment and serious music are mutually exclusive, and popularity is a surefire sign of selling out. “They like you to be unknown, makin’ a small amount of money, playin’ in a tiny little jazz club and nobody’s heard you,” Connick explains, incredulous. “They used to love me when I was at the Knickerbocker; now I play 10,000-seaters — they don’t like that.”  

Maybe they ought to. Connick is one of only a handful jazz artists bringing America’s art form to a sizable chunk of the American population. The purists may think him unhip, the leading jazz critics may not take him seriously, but Connick’s willingness to entertain is bringing people to jazz. His soundtrack for Rob Reiner’s romantic comedy, When Harry Met Sally ..., has sold more than 700,000 copies since its release last summer (and won Connick a Grammy as best male jazz vocalist). At last spring’s New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival, he had dozens of teenage girls singing along with “It Had To Be You” and other standards from an earlier, more romantic era, and he expects more of the same on his current big-band tour in support of new albums.

Most important, he has accomplished this popularity without compromising the music. Connick plays real jazz, not the watered-down, ersatz stuff of big-selling “jazz” acts such as Kenny G and Spyro Gyra. And the crowds he’s drawing are proof that musical sophistication doesn’t have to be off-putting to the general public. Nothing could be better news to Connick, whose self-imposed mission is to help jazz recapture some of its popularity usurped by rock ’n’ roll.

“Today, either you’ve got incredible complicated music that nobody likes, or incredibly simple music that everyone likes. And it used to be like this, man, ” — Connick draws his hands together and clasps them — “incredibly complex music that everyone liked. Like Duke Ellington’s music, Frank Sinatra’s music. Hopefully, it will come back.”

Where’d a young kid like Connick pick up the idea of sophisticated popular music? Same place he got his accent: New Orleans. Connick is the son of a pair of prominent Crecent City lawyers: Connick’s father, also named Harry, has been New Orleans’ district attorney since 1974; his late mother, Anita, who died in 1981, was a local judge. Neither parent, however, was particularly into jazz. “people try to figure out how I got into the music, and there’s no real reason,” Connick says. “My parents weren’t like jazz freaks who played jazz all the time. They played as much classical music or popular music as they did jazz.”

What Connick’s parents did do, especially his mother, was to recognize and encourage their son’s love of the piano, right from when he started noodling around on it as a 3-year-old after watching his elder sister, Suzanna, practice her lessons. (The very first time Connick played piano, recalls her father, was at a cousin’s house. He walked over to it, found middle C, and began playing “When the Saints Go Marching In” by ear. Soon afterward, Mrs. Connick was scrambling around town in search of a piano teaching willing to work with a 3-year-old.)

Two years later, at age 5, Connick played “The Star-Spangled Banner” at the opening of his father’s campaign headquarters during his first run for office, in the summer of 1973. The applause that first performance generated — enough to worry the candidate that his youngster was stealing the show — was enough to keep the boy on the keyboard. By 9, he had joined the musicians’ union, recorded a couple of novelty albums featuring his Louis Armstrong impressions, and played “I’m Just Wild About Harry” in a documentary about Eubie Blake. Buddy Rich even asked Connick that yer to take his act on a tour with Rich’s band, though that idea was quickly nixed by Connick’s parents (surely touring could wait until Harry graduated grade school.)

Staying put, it turned out, did Connick a lot of good. New Orleans, the birthplace of jazz, was in the midst of a little jazz renaissance in the ’80s, spearheaded by the brothers Marsalis. Trumpeter Wynton and saxophonist Branford, six and seven years older than Connick, respectively, were just beginning to hit the big time as Connick progressed through his teens. Meanwhile, Connick was studying with their father, pianist Ellis Marsalis, at the New Orleans Center for the Creative Arts, There wasn’t a better place to pick up his jazz chops during this time that here.

His formal studies with Marsalis were only part of Connick’s education, however. James Booker, the great rhythm-and-blues pianist, was a family friend who frequently dropped by the Connick home. “He never really taught me lessons formally, but he taught me,” recalls Connick, who dedicated a song to the late Booker on his first album. “When he came over, I’d say, ‘James, how’d you do the, how’d you do that?’”

Connick was studying classical piano, too. The elder Harry recalls sitting in on his son’s lessons, taking notes of which sections in the music the boy was struggling with, then sitting Harry Jr. down to practice them for an hour the moment they got back home. “I think he thought I know the music,” says Mr. Connick, who didn’t.

Connick wasn’t always big on practicing in those days, says his father, who ofter taped his son’s hour for him, tacking on an extra 5, 10, even 15 minutes to the practice  

“My parents used to say, ‘Smile, son. Make those people

clap their hands.’ So that’s how I am.

whenever he thought he could sneak it past him. When big recitals and competitions loomed, father would use them to try to cajole son into practicing. But cocky young Harry, his father recalls, with a laugh, always had a handy response: “Have I ever lost one yet?”

“He hated to practice,” says Mr. Connick, “but when he wanted to play he played. He’d go out on his own and spend hours and hours on it. Then when he knew he had a piece learned, he stopped.”

More partial back then to groups such as Led Zeppelin, Queen and the Bee Gees than the stuff he plays now, Connick also logged a lot of time playing in various bands, including a funk group with high-school classmate and trombonist Delfeayo Marsalis and bassist Reginald Veal (now a Wynton Marsalis sideman). And perhaps most important, at least for preparing him for the sort of tunes he’d perform on When Harry Met Sally ..., Connick spent a great deal of time as a teenager performing in piano bars, sometimes filling in for Ellis Marsalis.

“I can’t tell you who wrote half the songs I sing,” Connick says, quick to admit his limited interest in the jazz-tinged popular music of the ’30s and ’40s soundtrack album that forged his reputation. “The reason I learned some of those was ’cause I was playing those piano bars, and I would have to — people would say, ‘Do you know “The Shadow of Your Smile?”’ Or, ‘Do you know “It Had To Be You”?’’And I’d say no. I’d be really embarrassed, and I wouldn’t get a tip. So I went home and bought the Cole Porter songbook, the George Gershwin songbook — man, I learned the songs, as many of ’em as I could. I tried to learn a song a day, if I could, and I’d do ’em on the gigs. Half the time I’d forget the words, but if I did ’em enough I’d learn ’em.

He learned them well enough to continue getting piano gigs when, after putting in a semester at Loyola University in his hometown, he moved to Manhattan in January 1986. He was 18 then, living at the 92nd Street Y and playing wherever, and whatever, he could — sometimes rock ’n’ roll, sometimes gospel, sometimes organ music in a Bronx church (where he served as organist and choir director, earning $50 a week playing two services).

Connick took a few college courses when he first hit town, at Hunter College and the Manhattan School of Music, but mainly he taught himself about music. He became seriously interested in jazz, first with the music of pianists such as Chick Corea and Herbie Hancock, then moving back toward Duke Ellington, Art Tatum, Erroll Garner and Thelonious Monk. Connick found the modern pianists easy to mimic, but he never could imitate the greats from the past to his satisfaction — proof to Connick that there must be something very special about them.

Of course, Connick could have been gigging steadily and discovering Monk back home in New Orleans. But he had a good reason for going to New York: George Butler, head jazz honcho at Columbia Records, had seen Connick perform at a National Association of Jazz Educators convention when Connick was 14, liked what he heard and said to call when he got to New York. Butler had helped make the Marsalis brothers stars by signing them to contracts with Columbia, and now Connick hoped for the same.

Shortly after arriving in New York, Connick phoned Butler: “Every day, man. It had to be six, eight months. Literally every day I called this guy up, and he wouldn’t call me back.” Self-confidence, determination, and youthful optimism kept him from getting discouraged and giving up. He kept calling. And finally, Butler returned Connick’s call and asked him to make a demo tape.

Connick wanted to do the demo with his trio, but things didn’t work out that way. His drummer and bass player couldn’t make the session Connick had arranged. “So I brought myself to the studio and recorded these songs, and George [Butler] said, ‘That’s great. You’ll make a solo piano record.’ And so my career kind of launched as a solo piano player.”

Not exactly. Shortly before Connick went into the studio, in early 1987, Butler decided maybe Connick should have an accompanist. Connick still likes telling the story. “George Butler said, “You want to get Ron to play on your record?’ I said, “Ron who?’’He said, ‘Ron Carter,’ and I laughed.” Ron Carter was bassist for Miles Davis’ renowned 1960s quintet and has been one of the jazz world’s most sought-after sidemen since, in addition to leading his own combos, But Butler wasn’t joking.

The resulting album, Harry Connick Jr., included Connick-Carter duets on four standards (Monk’s “I Need You” among them), Carter’s “Little Waltz” and three Connick originals. A ninth tune, Connick’s “E” (for Ellis Marsalis), was performed as a trio with bassist Reginald Veal and drummer Herlin Riley. The record got nice reviews from critics, but like most jazz albums, didn’t sell very well.

Connick’s second album, 20 (his age at the time), sold a little better when it came out in 1988 (though still well under 100,000 copies) and attracted even more praise from reviewers. There wasn’t an original tune on it, but 20 marked Connick’s debut as a singer, and featured duets with Carmen McRae (“Please Don’t Talk About Me When I’m Gone”) and Dr. John (“Do You Know What It Means to Miss New Orleans”) along with Connick’s gorgeous solo interpretation of Harold Arlen’s “If Only I Had A Brain.” Connick’s piano was virtually the only instrument on the album (Dr. John plays organ on one cut, Robert Leslie Hurst III bass on another).

But Connick’s career really took off in 1989. First he was booked to a month-long engagement at New York’s Algonquin Hotel. The first night’s show was widely reviewed in the local press, the New York Times and GQ each sent reporters over for feature-length profiles, and singer Tony Bennett, in the audience opening night, made the widely quoted comment that “Connick could be the next Frank Sinatra.”

He even got closer to Sinatra-dom a few months later when Reiner tapped him to play on the soundtrack of When Harry Met Sally ..., having been tipped off to Connick by record executive (and former Blood, Sweat and Tears drummer) Bobby Colomby. Colomby admired Connick’s previous albums and knew that he played the same sorts of standards — “It Had To Be You,” “Love Is Here To Stay” — that Reiner wanted for the film.

Reiner, in his liner notes for the soundtrack album, says he fell in love with Connick’s playing as soon as he popped the cassettes Colomby had sent over into his tape deck. “I had never heard anything as original and inventive,” wrote Reiner, with a show-bizzy blast of hyperbole. “The fact that he was only twenty-one was astounding” (Awful nice of him to say that, Connick must have been thinking when he first saw the note, but hasn’t Rob ever listened to Monk, Ellington, Beethoven ...?)

Connick’s playing was featured in the movie along with classic recordings of Sinatra, Louis Armstrong, Ella Fitzgerald, Ray Charles and Bing Crosby. But he caught another lucky break when it came time to put together the album. None of the other artists (or their estates) wanted to be on the soundtrack record, so Connick wound up doing the entire album himself,

When teenagers sing along with the standards, Connick beams,

happy for the music and himself.

including the songs the others had made famous, backed by bassist Ben Wolfe, drummer Jeff “Tain” Watts and a big band directed by Marc Shaiman.

The record was a big a hit as the movie, and suddenly Connick was a star. Columbia was ready to let him do practically anything he wanted. Which is how he came to have two albums in the stores right now. Lofty’s Roach Soufflé is an all-instrumental trio album of Connick originals, with bassist Wolfe and childhood buddy Shannon Powell on drums. We Are In Love is more ambitious: a big-band record of 10 Connick originals and a pair of standards (“A Nightingale Sang In Berkeley Square,” “It’s Alright With Me”). In addition to singing and playing piano, Connick arranged most of the music and wrote lyrics for half his new tunes (Ramsey McLean wrote words for the others). And Branford Marsalis shows up for some guest solos.

But there’s more. Connick is about to begin the second leg of a major national tour with the big band he’s assembled, hot young talent ranging in age 18 to 37 and featuring trio-mates Wolfe and Powell, guitarist Russell Malone and trumpeter Leory Jones. Last month also saw the release of his first home video, Singin’ and Swingin’ — a compilation of three previous music videos from 20 and When Harry Met Sally..., one from each of the new albums, live-concert footage from a London performance, and interviews with Connick. And Connick makes his acting debut this October as a piano-playing tail gunner in David Puttnam’s World War II movie, Memphis Belle (named for the first B-17 to fly 25 missions over Germany), which also stars John Lithgow, D.B. Sweeney, Eric Stolz and Matthew Modine, and is directed by Michael Caton-Jones (Scandal). This month he’ll begin shooting Little Man Tate with Jodie Foster and Dianne Wiest (Foster will direct). But Connick is too busy with his main love, music, to take his acting career seriously enough to take lessons ... at least not yet.

Is it any wonder why some purists might be jealous of all the attention Connick is getting? Think of all the older, better pianists out there who’ve never come close to selling 700,000 — or even 70,000 — copies of an album, let alone getting starring roles in Hollywood films. To Connick’s most bitter critics (not professional critics so much as other jazz musicians and zealous, purist fans), there’s something unseemly about Columbia Records cynically hawking this good-looking white boy just because he can sing and play stride piano when so many other deserving artists have to content themselves with tiny, lesser labels — if they’re lucky enough to make records at all.

For that matter, Connick, for all the attention he’s getting, isn’t even clearly the best of his own generation of jazz pianists. Marcus Roberts, Wynton Marsalis’s sideman for several years, just released his second album as leader at age 26. Benny Green, 27, is the latest major discovery of Art Blakely and the Jazz Messengers, the same band that launched the Marsalis brothers and so many others on their way to jazz stardom. Both play better jazz piano than Connick.

The difference, of course, is that Connick can sing. But perhaps equally important, Connick is eager to show his audience a good time. He sees no reason for equating serious with somber. “See, there’s really no secret to being successful,” he says. “Bein’ successful is givin’ the public something that they want. And ideally, for me, if you can give them something they want and not sacrifice on your artistic integrity, that’s great, ’cause you can be successful at something you really think is worthy.

“A lot of jazz musicians don’t like to please their audience,” he continues. “So it’s their own fault if they’re not successful. They might be jealous of my success, but I’m playin’ music. Because I might smile a little bit — which is something I’d do anyway — because I might get the people snappin’ their fingers, havin’ a good time, they don’t like that anymore. Now it’s not jazz anymore.”

What irks Connick is the notion that when a jazz artist starts entertaining, he stops being a serious musician. Once upon a time, popularity and musical sophistication went hand-in-hand. “For every jazz musician that didn’t entertain, there’s one that did who’s just as great,” says Connick, ready to launch a short history lesson to prove it. “Duke Ellington entertained the hell out of people. But Trane didn’t. Louis Armstrong was one of the biggest entertainers of all time, but Erroll Garner didn’t say a word the whole show, used to sit up there and play. Red Garland, a helluva piano player, didn’t; but look at Fats Waller. They’re all great, just different schools. Wynton doesn’t entertain at all — like, at all, none. Branford either. But I do. It doesn’t mean that they’re any greater than me or I’m any greater than them.

 “What it does mean,” Connick continues, barely pausing for breath, “is that you’ll find a difference in size of crowds. You’ll find that Fats Waller was the most popular musician of his day. Louis Armstrong — you can’t get no more popular than that. Duke Ellington. Those guys used to sell 50,000 seats ... You can’t get that if you don’t say, ‘How you all doin’ tonight?’ That’s not something I’m making up. My parents used to tell me — you can ask my dad — they used to say, ‘Smile, son. Make those people clap their hands.’ So that’s how I am. ...”

The leading jazz writers remain unimpressed, not really attacking Connick so much as ignoring him. Take, for example, the best of them, author and Village Voice columnist Gary Giddins. A jazz purist at heart, Giddins is not immune to the charms of certain popular music — witness his generally favorable essays on Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra in his first essay collection, Riding on a Blue Note. But asked for a comment on Connick earlier this summer, Giddins demurred. “I don’t listen to him,’ Giddins responded. “What he‘s doing doesn’t interest me.”

But even those critics who are interested in Connick tend to see him as more a phenomenon than a musician. Jack Fuller, who reviews jazz albums for the Chicago Tribune in addition to editing the paper, calls Connick “an intriguing figure. I’m not as blown away by him as everybody seems to be. I like listening to him, but I think some of the fascination with him is just fashion. Just because you have a young white guy playing stride piano doesn‘t mean it’s great music.”

Dan Okrent, founding editor of New England Monthly, author and editor of several sports books and jazz columnist for Esquire magazine, offers a similar assessment. “I think [Connick is] a wonderful piano player and an OK singer,” says Okrent. “The thing to me that’s exciting about Connick is all the attention he’s been getting. I could name you 50 jazz pianists who are better, and there are 75 to 100 cabaret singers who sing better. But they aren’t carrying the missionary quality” that Connick is. The best thing about Connick, in Okrent’s view, is his effort to bring “good music that has been replaced by bad’ back to popular music.

So even though the new albums aren’’t as great as the hype, what they may do, like When Harry Met Sally... before them, is to introduce younger listeners to songwriters whose footsteps Connick is trying to follow. When Connick beams while talking about having teenagers sing along to the standards — and soon, perhaps, to his own songs — he’s as happy for the music as he is for himself. That, in the end, may be Connick’s biggest contribution to jazz.

“I mean, these are kids, man,” he says. “That’s a whole new crowd of people. Youngsters who don’t like Michael Jackson or don’t like Milli Vanilli. They don’t know what they like. But now they’ll like me, and they’ll be listenin’ to this music.”

Bill Beuttler is an American Way contributing editor and a former associate editor of Down Beat.