I was there for a feature on the 85-year-old Bennett, who is recording an album of duets. The invitation to join one of her heroes in the studio was something Winehouse could not refuse. “We love you so much,” she told the white-haired, dapper Bennett.
“I’m not going to cry,” she said, when he took her hands. “I’m not going to cry.”
She apologised for being nervous, saying it was her first time in a recording studio in a while. I asked if it was good to be back. “It’s good to be in the studio with Tony,” she replied. “That’s the only reason I’m here.”
She talked about how her father raised her on Bennett and Sinatra. “I grew up listening to your records,” she told Tony. “You taught me how to sing.”
They sang together, on two adjacent microphones (not a given in this digital era, when vocals are often separately compiled from assemblages of multiple takes, then autotuned to fake perfection). They sang take after take, in search of something mysterious and almost undefinable.
“You’re just feeling it,” she told me. “You don’t think about it. If you thought about it, you wouldn’t be able to sing it at all.”
Bennett, the old pro, looked relaxed and barely seemed to consider his own performance, focusing on encouraging Winehouse, watching her closely all the time. She was fidgety and uncomfortable, chewing her sleeve, looking at her feet, the walls, the ceiling, everything but her musical partner, yet singing up a storm in her rich, ancient voice, channelling Dinah Washington and Billie Holiday. She became increasingly bold, her voice taking off in daring flights, but would suddenly call a halt, muttering “Can we sing it again? I’m terrible. I don’t want to waste your time.” No two takes were the same. “It’s getting there, innit?” she cheerfully snorted after one particularly amazing display of vocal prowess.
“I’m my own worst critic,” she told me afterwards, “and if I don’t pull off what I think I wanted to do in my head, then I won’t be a happy girl.” Her sulky demeanour she put down to nerves. “I’ve got Tony’s voice right in my ear and that’s so much for me that I can’t look up and see Tony the person as well. I sound so stupid but it’s hard.”
Winehouse’s surprising self-criticism, and her unease in the situation, was revealing. “I’m not a natural born performer. I’m a natural singer, but I’m quite shy, really.” She said she always fought nerves before a performance.
“You know what it’s like? I don’t mean to be sentimental or soppy but its a little bit like being in love, when you can’t eat, you’re restless, it’s like that. But then the minute you go on stage, everything’s OK. The minute you start singing.”
Her technique was a wonder to observe, the way she moved on and off the microphone, the way her mouth worked, all lips and tongue, shaping the sound. Bennett was clearly enjoying himself, taking a relaxed, almost conversational tone, while she added layers of depth, daring and drama.
During a break, he offered her a throat lozenge: “Have you ever tried Strepsils?”. Such an innocent question for a woman the UN described as a poster girl for drug abuse. “I like the honey ones best,” she responded sweetly.
