My maternal grandfather, Mitch Santaga, was responsible for introducing me to the old American standards, usually sung by Italian immigrants like my own family—crooners like Tony Bennett, Frank Sinatra, and Dean Martin. With Italian families, there is a genuine warmth and a lot of love, tactile, hands-on love. We love our family, our food, and our music. Grandpa Mitch loved those old singers, and he taught me to love them, too.

When I was little, I’d spend every day of my summer holidays with my grandpa Mitch. I’d go to his house and listen to old records on his 1970s-era RCA console, lying on the green carpet in his living room. He’d bring out his Mills Brothers or Brook Benton records, and we’d play them, old vinyl records that would hiss and skip. When I heard those golden voices, it was like I’d entered a place and time that made more sense to me than any of the contemporary songs my friends were listening to. Sure, I liked the bands that were big when I was a teenager, Guns N’ Roses and Metallica, but I idolized the way the old-time singers could phrase a few poignant words so that they stayed with you long after the music had stopped playing. It was my first understanding of what it meant to make great art, which is to capture a feeling, be it the bitter pain of despair or the sweet bliss of being in love. And they did it with such style, too. This wasn’t sloppy sentimentalism. This was straight-up delivery, and those guys could swing. My grandpa’s passion for that music kick-started my own, and it has bonded us for life.

Unlike with a lot of performers, my career journey has not been solitary. My family has been with me every step of the way. It’s basically been a joint project. For example, when I was recording Crazy Love, my fourth album, my grandpa Mitch, grandma Yolanda, mom, dad, two sisters, their husbands, and kids hung out for the day and watched me record multiple takes of the “Stardust” track. It was my niece Jade’s birthday, so my mom brought along a big chocolate cake, my grandma Yolanda made her traditional lasagna, and my grandpa brought his homemade wine. Having them there, in Bryan Adams’s Warehouse Studio in Vancouver, was like a typical Sunday in our household, filled with food and banter.

Every so often that day I’d look through the glass and see my grandpa Mitch sitting there, moving his lips to the lyrics he knew so well. “Stardust,” recorded by Bing Crosby and everybody else back in the day, is one of his favourite old tunes. The pride on his face was unmistakable.

I come from a long line of fishermen, working- class men who worked hard and devoted themselves to family. They’re macho Italian men, and they’re proud of what they’ve earned. But they’re not men who are afraid to show their emotions. As soon as I finished “Stardust,” I rushed into the room and grabbed my grandpa’s face between both hands. He put his arm around me and his eyes were moist: “This life you have, Michael, it’s crazy. Crazy.”

If I ever need a reminder of what I’ve accomplished, all I have to do is look at my grandpa’s face when I’m singing. The only difference now is that we might not be sitting in his living room listening to the old RCA. Now, we’re just as likely to be in a fancy recording studio or backstage at Madison Square Garden.

Michael Bublé is a Canadian singer, songwriter, actor, and record producer. He has won four Grammys and thirteen Junos, had three Billboard-topping albums, and sold more than fifty-five million albums worldwide.