Friday, February 19, 2021

HOPE FOR THE BEST…EXPECT THE WORST

Perhaps the best advice Mel Brooks has passed along is in the lyric from one of his earliest films, “The 12 Chairs.” Set to what was originally a folk song or dance from Hungary, Mel wrote: “Hope for the best. Expect the worst.” The Boy Scouts may have shortened it to “Be Prepared,” but that doesn’t quite capture the truth about life, does it?

Below, you’ll find four versions of the melody.

While blacks and Latinos glumly insist the white man stole their music, the “adapting” or “borrowing” of folk melodies is as old as the Jew's harp and the nose flute. Brahms, Liszt, Dvorak and others were seizing on new etnic sounds long before The Weavers turning a crappy bit of monotony into “Wimoweh.” They did it long before Paul Simon mated some of his best lyrics to what he called an “American Tune,” but was actually an old German melody based on Hans Hassler’s “"Mein G'müt ist mir verwirret,” which was borrowed by Bach.

My own favorites in this genre are the "Slavonic Dances" from Dvorak and the "Hungarian Dances" from Brahms. The masters did go out and visit obscure small villages to find exhilerating new rhythms and styles. Mostly, in this era of no-copyright, the masters were free to do as they pleased, especially as they usually improved upon the folk melodies. The only major grunt came from Bela Keler, who was irked to discover his “Bártfai emlék" (Memories of Bártfa) now sportig the title Brahms' Hungarian Dance #5. Brahms, ala Pete Seeger, who didn't know the droningly boring tune he turned into "Wimoweh" was written by Solomon Linda, Brahms simply responded that he had no idea it was an original piece and not a folk song. His bad.

By the 20th Century, turn-around was fair play, and plenty of Tin Pan Alley hacks were foraging through public domain classical music, looking for melodies to inspire new lyrics. The Russian romantics were especially prey to the hack henchmen, with “Tonight We Love” and “Moon Love" swiped from Tchaikovsy and “Full Moon and Empty Arms” ripped from Rachmaninoff. Among others.

Brahms’ “Hungarian Dance #4” became “As Years Go By,” and was a hit for the irritating operetta hero Nelson Eddy. A few other guys put out over versions, as did a popular female of the day, Evelyn Knight. A far more compelling and ambitious version would later be recorded by the great Mezzo-Soprano Rise Stevens on her ten-inch album “Symphonic Songs.” For non-opera fans, a Mezzo is MUCH easier on the ears than an outright Soprano. Rise, who just missed making it to 100, was my favorite Mezzo, and I was glad to get an autographed photo from her. My sentimental favorite soprano, if anyone cares, was Victoria de los Angeles, but there was certainly a lot of competition. Gee, wish I'd seen Carol Neblett do her topless version of "Thais." But I digress. As you’ll hear, following about 20 seconds of romantic (or spooky) gypsy violin, her magnificent voice joins in a vocalise before she tackles the actual lyrics from Pete De Rose and Charles Tobias:

As years go by this love we know, as years go by, will live and grow. It will remain our love refrain, like songs of long ago. When autumn calls and leaves that fall are soon forgotten a brook runs dry and birds may fly away. As years go by and youth has fled, when silvery hair has crowned your head, you’ll still have me, I’ll still have you to love as years go by…

It's a bit of an irony that many of the Hungarian and Slavonic "dances" adapted by Dvorak and Brahms were not exactly suitable for dancing, as they were given the classical composers' full range of arrangement, including pensive slow moments that would leave dancers utterly confused as to what to do next.

I’m not sure if Mel Brooks was inspired by the original Brahms classical piece, or by “As Years Go By.” Either way, his lyrics suit the music for a film that is, in essence, an old folk tale from Czarist Russia. The screenplay was based on a novel by Ilya Ilf & Evgeny Petrov, first published in 1928. Mel’s movie came out in 1970. An irony is “12 + 1” aka “The Thirteen Chairs” was in production around the same time. It limped into theaters where critics found it a hodge-podge mess with an international all-star cast tryng to outshine each other. Orson Welles, Terry-Thomas, Vittorio Gassman, and in her last screen appearance, Sharon Tate, all had their moments as they fulfilled Mel's warning, "Hope for the best...expect the worst."

AS YEARS GO BY, RISE STEVENS

AS YEARS GO BY, EVELYN KNIGHT (caution, scratchy sound from this 78rpm oldie)

HOPE FOR THE BEST, EXPECT THE WORST - from "THE TWELVE CHAIRS"

BRAHMS HUNGARIAN DANCE #4 by YEHUDI MENUHIN

BOBBY COLE - Atlantic City - “THE END OF A LOVE AFFAIR”

Back on February 19, 2006, this blog came to life. One of the first posts on that date was for Bobby Cole. The point of the blog was to call attention to deserving, unique and neglected artists…not to make the lives of creative people more difficult by stealing entire discographies. Unfortunately too many bloggers, usually mediocre-minded selfish vainglorious assholes in useless countries like Holland, Croatia and Brazil, discovered they could get “nice comments” and be considered “hip” if they gave a daily load of freebies to cheapskates and greedheads.

Blogging turned pretty ugly, with various blogger-idiots feuding with each other, deleting posts, and getting indignant if somebody re-upped “their” files without “credit.” Need I go on? While egocentric short-sighted small-minded bloggers kept behaving like insane red ants and mindless dung beetles, letting people “discover” the complete Beatles discography or every Talking Heads bootleg ad nauseum (and usually with threats to delete if not enough praise was heaped), this blog continued on with its mission. For a long, long time, the mission was to reward creative artists, and let them know that their work is not forgotten. The reward here, was getting comments like “I never heard of this artists before” and getting praise from many of the artists themselves, who were happy that ONE track off an album and a good write-up showed that their work was still appreciated and valid.

Many of the artists you find on this blog had a hit at one time, maybe several years’ worth of rave clippings from critics, or just enough praise and work to continue pursuing the dream via gigs and maybe another one-shot record deal for a single or an album. Bobby remained a “saloon singer,” as difficult as that career was, and always was rewarded with warm praise from the journalists who covered the nightclub scene. Here’s two reviews from a 1975 visit to one of his favorite towns, Pittsburgh. Back in New York City, his name and photo appeared along with the better known jazz pianists of the day such as Andre Previn and George Shearing. You can imagine the slight pang he felt when he got publicity for a gig, but the newspaper somehow called him “Buddy” Cole. Well, that’s show biz…something the idiot bloggers, offering daily download links like a farmer slopping the hogs, wouldn’t understand. They think they’re in show biz, as they spend their last days collecting social security and pretending they live somewhere that matters. Sad. Very, very sad. And destructive. Fewer record stores, fewer old artists bothering to make new music when they can't profit by it, etc. etc. etc.

Here’s “The End of a Love Affair,” from a Bobby Cole show in Atlantic City. While some in his circle were never too sure about Bobby’s friendship with a shifty-eyed snaggletooth named Dimitri, the guy was a loyal supporter, go-fer, or whatever, and I think he may have set up the tape recorder and microphones for this show. With the microphone close to Bobby, and the crowd apparently seated a decent distance from the stage, there’s very little “noise” on the tracks. It’s just Bobby in a familiar mode, jangling the piano keys in a variation on Erroll Garner, one of his favorite performers. At the time Bobby was also experimenting with adding vibrato at the end of some of the lyric lines. This experiment didn’t last too long.

So I walk a little too fast
And I drive a little too fast
And I'm reckless it's true
But what else can you do
At the end of a love affair
So I talk a little too much
And I laugh a little too much
And my voice is too loud
When I'm out in a crowd
So that people are apt to stare
Do they know, do they care
That it's only
That I'm lonely
And low as can be
And the smile on my face
Isn't really a smile at all…..
END OF A LOVE AFFAIR -- live in ATLANTIC CITY

Tuesday, February 09, 2021

Maybe a few out there remember TIMMIE ROGERS? "OH YEAHHHH!"

Celebrating “Black History Month,” here’s a download from Timmie Rogers.

“OH YEAH!!!”

It’s doubtful too many on the planet know who Timmie Rogers is, or that “Oh YEAH” was his cool catch-phrase. He did make it to the Ed Sullivan and Jackie Gleason-type variety shows in the 60’s, but was eclipsed by Flip Wilson, Cosby, Pryor and others. During the comedy record boom, he put out one stand-up album. Godfrey Cambridge put out four. Oh well. Not everybody has all the luck.

Detroit-born Timothy Ancrum (July 4, 1915) had a rough and tumble childhood, which included dancing in the street for spare change. Eventually, he was dancing on stage, one half of Timmie & Freddie. They toured for a dozen years before Timmie decided to go solo.

He made some decent money as a songwriter (nothing too well known, although some might remember Nat King Cole’s’ "If You Can’t Smile and Say Yes.”) He didn’t make too much as a singer, whether it was straight tunes or novelty numbers. But in stand-up, he did pretty well. He wasn’t forgotten by some of his colleagues; he turned up on an episode of “Sanford and Son,” the same show where Redd Foxx gave breaks to a lot of old-timers, and turned LaWanda Page, a former fire-eater and exotic dancer, into the unforgettable “Aunt Esther.”

But…Timmie didn’t quite become a regular on “Sanford and Son,” and has yet to be rediscovered for his pioneering work (which included coming out onstage sans any Pigmeat Markham extra black on his face, and with no Mantan stereotypical faces and preferring a "normal" suit and tie to some Mabley type of shabby and brightly colored outfit).

Below, oh, just one of his novelty numbers, no doubt influenced by Chuck Berry, written by Kal Mann and Bernie Lowe. Will you be amused? “OH YEAHHHHHH….”

TAKE ME TO YOUR LEADER! (TIMMIE ROGERS)

Chinese Lives are Funny - Cab Calloway and “Chop Chop Charlie Chan from China”

With all the looting, rioting and moping, you’d get the idea that all over the world Blacks are persecuted, and not given a break because, er, uh, why exactly? The color of their skin? As if red skin or yellow skin or brown skin is so fabulous? Or because blacks have flatter noses? As opposed to, what, Asians who have those weird eyes? And why doesn’t anyone care that Jews have been persecuted all over the world for 2000 years, not just in the Southern-Idiot part of the South where an entire Civil War was fought on behalf of black freedom?

The truth, of course, is that we’re all HUMAN, and most minorities are going to be disliked unless they make themselves useful. Like the Jews being comedians, lawyers and accountants (or all three at the same time). Like Asians doing the laundry and giving great take-out food. Like the Pakistani or Indian driving the cab. Find a way to ingratiate yourself with the majority, and you’re fine. Be lazy and obnoxious, and expect everything on a platter even when you’re offered an education and all kinds of breaks…and no, you’ll have to go further. You might create ISIS and demand that everybody believe in what you believe or they DIE. You get a machine gun and destroy a magazine office, or a disco. You might be one of the Arabs who thinks they get goats to fuck in heaven if they destroy a famous building in New York City. Maybe you put on idiot face-paint or carry an idiot-sign, and then go to the Capital and beat up police and pose with souvenirs like Nancy Pelosi’s property, all because an asshole President told you to, and an elected jerk named Hawley provoked you by strutting into the building waving his fist in the air. Maybe your for or anti-“FA” (I think that’s a brand of soap) and go nuts in hippie-dippie Oregon.

In today’s “cancel culture,” people get banned for saying something or doing something, but it’s quite selective. Another FUN thing, is to thumb through the history book, and get bonkers over what some person did 100 or 200 years ago, back when people still thought angels sat in the clouds and you’d go blind from masturbation. One of the ridiculous things about the various movements and slogans, is that they imply that the minority NEVER did anything bad, was ALWAYS the victim, and if in power, would NEVER abuse it.

Jesus Christ. Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition. Do the “Black Lives Matter” folks ever point in the direction of Nigeria, where Boko Harum, or Procol Haram or whoever they are, rape and kidnap teenagers? Same color, folks. Anyone who sulks about the Civil War want to point out how often one African nation fought their neighbor and spilled blood for land and bullshit? Was Genghis Khan white? Sikhs? Didn’t anyone study history and realize that greed, war, bloodshed and power are obsessions of all races? No, today we hire “professors” who spread ethnic lies and retain their tenure. No “cancel culture” for THEM.

At one time, there were a lot of 78 rpm records that had some laughs over accents. Italian accents. Jewish accents. Dutch and German accents. Black dialect. Most of it was not hateful, just a comical tweak at odd new immigrants. The immigrants may have been a little pissed off at some of it, but they learned...to assimilate. They took the best of their culture, and added it to the melting pot. They kept their ethnic foods. Some kept their ethnic clothing. But they learned to speak in a non-stereotypical way, and were accepted. So was Chico Marx's idiotic Italian accent a bad thing? Or Fred Allen's alley, where you;d hear Southern, Jewish, New England and Irish dialect comedians get laughs?

Well, down below, just for the FUN of it, is a black guy laughing at the Chinese. Call it what it is. A novelty song. A bit of human nature. Cab didn’t mean much by it, he was just singing a song.

But...check out his mock-Chinese nonsense babbling at 2:23. Uh-oh. Will some radical Asian do-gooder declare him A RACIST?? Today, for antics like that, Cab's legacy of ALL his music could be banned from Spotify, and oh, my, that would mean his record label would have to do without his royalty check of $21.94. Oh, it’s all pretty complex and complicated. Some felt that Cab was “too ethnic” with his brand of hide-the-ho (or whatever that catch-phrase was). One generation spurns Fats Waller, and the next puts him on Broadway in “Ain’t Misbehavin’.” Moms Mabley and Mantan Moreland were cheered in the 60’s and scorned in the 70’s. Too often, the real problems in life as ignored because people go on about petty bullshit and scream about somebody who should not be on American currency, like Abraham Lincoln (?). Revisionist history, “fake news,” slanted reporting…”and so it goes.” PS, we’re NOT supposed to like Charlie Chan movies? They’re quite entertaining, and this thing from Cab ain’t so bad either.

Cab Calloway chuckles over CHOP CHOP CHARLIE CHAN FROM CHINA

And now a COKE commercial message...from MARY WILSON and the SUPREMES

OK, it wasn't Mary Wilson and the Supremes. After a few sound-alike hits, it became Diana Ross and the Supremes. And then Diana Ross went solo.

While The Supremes are way too famous for THIS blog, a mention should be made of Mary Wilson, who along with Flo Ballard, created a pleasing and strengthening background for Diana, much the same way three anonymous guys backed Levi Stubbs who sang lead for The Four Tops.

The Supremes, their follies and fortunes, are the stuff of legend, quite a few books, and even a fictionalized Broadway musical, Dreamgirls. How they bickered or harmonized is important to some people, but for others, a copy of "The Supremes Greatest Hits" is an essential part of their collection, and might even include several more albums, including that one where they take on Liverpool hits.

On Twitter, Diana Ross offered a brief, rather cool statement:

"I am reminded that each day is a gift. I have so many wonderful memories of our time together. 'The Supremes' will live on in our hearts."

It's possible, back in the day, that the girls and their manager made more money shilling for Coke in a radio ad than they did off one of their lesser Top 20 singles.

Just a reminder -- Coke (the drug) is not good for you, and Coke (the drink) isn't much better, with its incredibly high sugar ratio. Any attempt to substitute a chemical for sugar, to create a "diet" version, just might land you six feet under a lot sooner than it did Mary Wilson.

Sing it, girls...

THE SUPREMES sing for COCA-COLA

Tuesday, January 19, 2021

Jimmie Rodgers - Dead at age 87 - "When I was Leader of the Band"

Some years ago, Jimmie Rodgers autographed a CD for me and said, “Say hello to Bobby Cole for me.” While they were not exactly similar in style, they covered some of the same songs, had some of the same highs and lows, and ironically, wrote eerie, beautiful ballads about age and fame.

Bobby’s most legendary number is “Growing Old.” Sometimes, late at night in a club, he'd offer “So Sleeps the Pride,” a bittersweet meditation on his time in the spotlight. He never recorded it, which his fans always lamented. Jimmie Rodgers, who did record the pensive “Child of Clay” never waxed “Leader of the Band.” It appears below via a live rendition done some 16 years ago.

Jimmie died yesterday, January 18. After his breakout year (aside from "Honeycomb" he also married, and made his “Ed Sullivan Show” debut), Rodgers was welcomed on live show tours around the country. In 1958 and 1959 he was on the same bill with The Everly Brothers, Paul Anka, The Tune Weavers, Eddie Cochran, and Buddy Holly among others. Yes, Jimmie was going to be part of Buddy Holly’s ill-fated winter tour, but had to cancel due to illness. Jimmie continued to have hit records, but not all the money that he deserved. This was because he was on the notorious Roulette Records, which labelmate Tommy James would later expose as Mafia-run.

In 1963, Jimmie moved over to Dot Records, and in 1967 with folk-rock now popular, signed with A&M, the label that also had faith in Phil Ochs. Rodgers’ career, which had flagged a bit, instantly gained a strong new direction via his ballad “Child of Clay.” But 1967 ended up as the worst year of his life. One source claims Jimmie's misery was due to Roulette's crooked owner Morris Levy raging over Jimmie's defection to A&M. Jimmie never confirmed this.

Rodgers told Rolling Stone (in a 1986 "Where are they Now" piece), “"I got beaten up by an off-duty Los Angeles policeman. I went to a Christmas party in December of 1967. On the way home a car pulled up behind me, blinked its lights. I pulled over and stopped. This guy got out, stood outside the car. I rolled down the window, and he hit me through the open window with a bar or something. I don't know what transpired because I was unconscious. I might have said something to him, 'Who are you?' or whatever, and that's all it took. Whether I cut him off on the road or what, we don't really know."

It’s possible Rodgers was being vague out of worry for the still-powerful president of Roulette, who had made no secret of telling people that if they dared to leave the label they’d get the same treatment as Rodgers. Apparently the mob, following Oscar Wilde's advice ("revenge is a dish best served cold") had waited a few years for the right time to get Jimmie, which coincided with his big comeback and new hit single. Rodgers wasn’t beaten up by just one off-duty cop. There were three on the scene, and all became implicated when Jimmie ultimately sued and settled.

The cop version seemed to change from an excuse that Jimmie was drunk and had needed to be subdued after being pulled over, to the even more ludicrous insistence that Jimmie had merely fallen down and injured himself. Once he had stopped falling down and injuring himself, they’d merely put him in his car and abandoned him so he could sleep it off.

To this day, the story remains hazy. Why would Roulette's nasty, Mafia-connected boss Morris Levy choose to "get" Jimmie by involving THREE POLICE OFFICERS? That's pretty bold. A real "hit" would involve thugs, and they would've simply waylaid Rodgers by luring him somewhere or staking out a secluded area. Here, Rodgers was coming home from a party, slightly buzzed perhaps, and driving down a highway when he was pulled over. At first, it was one cop. Then two others joined in. Was this just exasperated brutes laying a few shots on a driver who was out of it? It's doubtful all the damage could've been caused by a simple stumble and fall...as the cops insisted. Was anyone concerned that the beating could've been fatal?

There's nothing to suggest Morris Levy gave the cops bribes and asked them to stake out a party and wait for Rodgers to drive home alone. Nothing suggests that Levy may have had blackmail info that these cops were on the take, or did something they didn't want anyone to know about. Only one of them seems to have had an odious reputation, and that was after the beating. In 1993, Officer Raymond Whisman, tried to kill his wife. After hitting her, he held her at gunpoint, while several deputies tried to reason with him. The deputies eventually gained access and found the cop had an arsenal that included 17 weapons -- a ton of rifles and shotguns and two handguns. The Morris Levy angle comes from an autobiography by Tommy James. Is it possible that Levy simply took te Rodgers story and inserted himself to scare Tommy James into staying with Roulette? (All I know about Roulette, from two performers who were on a division of that label, is that he used their recordings from TV shows without authorization, and they chose not to do anything about these bootlegs.)

Meanwhile, after three brain surgeries, Jimmie Rodgers made a slow recovery. His loyal pal Joey Bishop publicized the problems via his late night talk show. He interviewed Rodgers during his road to recovery, and booked Jimmie in 1969 for a comeback appearance. It was at this point that I really became aware of this singer. Yes, I sort of knew of those early hits, but it was traumatic for a kid to see a guy lying in a hospital bed half-dead, and a comedian (Bishop) somberly interviewing him and wishing him well. (Years later, when I had a chance to communicate with Bishop, I mentioned that my first memory of him was not the sitcoms or stand-up, but his talk show and his concern for Jimmie Rodgers).

Unfortunately, Jimmie’s health situation was still far from perfect: “I started having convulsions,” he recalled. “I couldn’t get back. Nobody wanted me.” The fragile ex-pop star worked for a while painting houses. He eventually found his way back to the less strenuous world of show business, and was well enough to record again…and suffer the usual problems an artist has. He went into the studio in Nashville for a session, and nothing happened. A while later, somebody had seized the masters and marketed a 2 record set on K-Tel; no profit to Jimmie. He eventually managed to buy back the masters, but it didn’t do him much good with a semi-bootleg already out for several years.

Here at the blog where Mr. Ochs is so well remembered, I do have to say that for me, the most important part of Jimmie’s career remains the A&M years, and the folk rock material, not the happy folk stuff, pop material or C&W tracks. His best new song, "Leader of the Band," echoes the mood of the introspective A&M years.

Rodgers continued his sporadic comeback of live shows, records, and original songs. He was among the aging pop stars who managed to find a home in Branson, Missouri, where he had a small theater and played to the nostalgia trade…home folks who mostly wanted to hear “Honeycomb” or ‘Sweeter than Wine” or “that song that they re-wrote for the Oh-Oh Spaghettio’s commercials!”

Rodgers left Branson for semi-retirement some years ago, and his last gig, according to his website, was in Sandusky, Ohio, in August of 2014. I’m sure he gave the crowd a lot of smiles and a helping of “Honeycomb.” I don’t know if he went to open D tuning and sang about those days when he was…”Leader of the Band.”

Jimmie Rodgers Leader of the Band

BOBBY COLE - Reconstructing and Deconstructing "FLOWERS" (covered by Nancy Sinatra, never "perfected" for his own album)

The tapes I have of Bobby Cole go back, of course, more than 20 years. Some, given to me by his friends who were around well before I came onto the scene, to back 30 or more. As Mr. Ochs sang it, “I’m sure it wouldn’t interest anybody, outside of a small circle…” but why not at least have a 2021 entry on the blog, signifying not only many years of bringing obscurities to light, but getting through 2020? So...a few more items on a blog that has already served its purpose for so long, and is experiencing irritating technical difficulties both with the blogspot template and download companies that aren't all that reliable.

Some tapes that won’t appear here, are the quasi-interviews I did when Bobby was in a gregarious mood…phone tapes in which he touched more on aspects of nostalgia than anything lurid. No “dish” on Judy Garland or true confessions on some of the traumatic aspects of his family life. As I probably mentioned, I had never encountered a true alcoholic before, so sometimes, both at Campagnola late at night when it was near closing time, and on the phone, I was slow to pick up on how functionally drunk he could be. I do remember him taking a long time to autograph a copy of the Concentric album for me, but I was fairly clueless at first. Or I figured he was just “a little high,” and ignored his vague slide into gripes or insults directed at me. I mean, a lot of it was ludicrous. He’s sitting at our table at Campagnola and says, “I’m flirtin’ with your woman!” Like he expected me to ask him to step outside and fight. But he hadn’t been flirting, and I could tell it was the beer talking.

It was the beer talking. Sometimes, on his “break” between sets, he’d walk to the bodega that was down the block, and get himself a Heineken or two. He would NEVER summon the bartender or the waiter at Campagnola and drink during a set, or ask for a bottle of beer and take it outside. He tried to be as cool as possible, and no, in this case it didn’t affect his work, it just helped him get through the next 45 minutes.

I rarely had more than one beer, even in college. I was only truly drunk once — on my 18th birthday celebrating with a bottle of Yago Sangria and Bali Hai (thank you, stupid TV commercials for enticing me to get that awful awful stuff!). I can recall less than five times I was in a real BAR, and four of those times, I ordered Perrier or maybe nothing at all. The fifth time was the first time — high school English class! Jeez, i had a real bohemian teacher. Looked straight as an arrow, though, and was about 50, I guess. Only five of us showed up that afternoon for class, so the guy (rumor had it he was a heroin addict) decided to take us down to the hotel bar next door and have the class there, sitting at a round table. I ordered a whiskey sour, since it was the only thing I could think of. But no, fortunately for me, liquor, in any quantity, made me feel sluggish and uncomfortable. As for drugs, I could see the foolishness and danger without trying pills, etc. etc. A guy like McCartney, smoking dope for decade after decade, was the exception to the rule, but don’t get me started on the quality of his songwriting since the 80’s! How terrible that there are so many who kind the kiss of a high become the curse of wretched excess, and their personality, metabolism, whatever, leads them to being shunned by friends, and ultimately destroyed by addiction. Bobby would often vow, “I will NOT die DRUNK!” And he was true to his word. Some could seemingly smoke and drink and live to a good old age (Sinatra comes to mind) while others left earlier (Sammy Davis Jr.) Most agree that it was a heart attack or massive stroke that literally stopped Bobby in his tracks, as he was walking along 1st Avenue only a block from Campagnola on a bright winter’s day.

There was a time, A.C. (after Cole) when I was writing pulp horror and sci-fi stories, averaging one a month on deadine for at least five years. The pay was good and I liked the challenge and the result. But toward the end of the run (mags going out of business) I’d think up some idea, get a beginning, middle and end, and down ONE shot of whiskey to get started on the task. Remembering an interview with Tennessee Williams, I prided myself on “holding out” for a long time, AND for restricting myself to one mildly relaxing shot.

Oh…one more time at a bar. This involves Bobby. My lady and I went over to a really bad nightclub/restaurant called Judy’s (yes, named after HER) to catch Bobby at the piano. He was making his debut that night. No trio, just him. He had sent me a postcard about the new gig (which was shortly after the stint at Savoy Grill when I first met him). We walked in, showed the card (which said “no cover, no minimum”) and asked what the deal was (do they serve snacks, dinner, whatever.) The owner had a murderous expression on his face, and grunted something about the restaurant area being closed at that hour. He pointed us toward the bar area on the right, a pretty empty room with maybe one or two bar flies off at one end. We heard the familiar voice of Bobby Cole playing piano near the joint’s window.

We sat at the bar, she ordered a beer, I didn’t, and we listened to maybe one song. That’s when the hyper-wired owner of the place came over and said, “All right, get out…” pushing her half-filled glass back to the bartender. I hadn’t paid for the drink, the bartender didn’t say “Order a Coke or an over-priced Pelligrino water or something,” which I would’ve done. The owner told us to leave, saying in a low growl, “I have to pay for Bobby.” Fine, so alienate the only couple who came in, and who might be ordering quite a few drinks once the set was underway. And really, I would’ve ordered something if asked, but since I wasn’t, I was just standing there, not yet working up a thirst for an over-priced soft drink or two. I’m not sure how long Bobby lasted there, but I don’t think he played that joint too often before or since our one night of bewildering booting. We would’ve been regulars there, but not after such an obnoxious experience, which I never mentioned to Bobby. Soon he was at Campagnola as a regular. Do I need to add that Judy’s shuttered? Yep, like a hillbilly’s outhouse, nailed shut once the ten-foot hole was finally full to the brim with rotting shit and a swarm of flies.

So Bobby’s alcoholism took a while to understand and, sadly, very difficult to do much about (as he admitted, having been in rehab so many times, and at this point, having a craving that could be dangerous to stop cold turkey). One time when he was over, he managed to find…and guzzle down…the cooking sherry. Another time he demanded some whiskey, grumbled “you call THAT a drink?” and wanted me to fill the glass at least two or three shots’ worth. He was soon sitting on the floor in a stupor. Another time, at his place, he announced he was going downstairs to check on his laundry. Instead, he had hurried down the block and across the street to the corner bar. About ten minutes later, I went out looking for him, and he was sitting up against a fire hydrant. Somehow the cops had been called. I explained he lived just up the block. They put him in the back, and drove him to the apartment. I walked along, met them in the lobby. They got him inside. They asked him if he wanted to go to a hospital, and he said no. They shrugged and left him to me. Like Poe, it didn’t take much before he was incapacitated. The only thing I knew about such matters, was that Edgar A. Poe suffered in the same way. Sometimes a glass of wine was all it took. Sometimes, he was fine the next day, other times, he went on a binge. I quoted a Poe line to Bobby: “for what disease, is like alcohol.” Bobby: “Poe wrote that?” Yeah, Edgar knew.

The line is in “The Black Cat.” By a horrible coincidence, for a while Bobby’s bizarre roomie, Karen aka Inga, had a cat with one eye that needed a daily eye drop. It was not a pleasant sight, and the cat did not have a pleasant name: Shnoogie. The funny thing was to hear Bobby call out, in that familiar gruff rasp, a melodic, “Snoooo-geeeeee,” trying to find it for the dose. The woman was off in California trying to jump start her almost non-existent acting career, so there were many days when Bobby either couldn’t find the cat, didn’t get the drop in correctly, or was spending a few days with a girlfriend and mutually sharing just enough booze to get through the day without totally destroying the day — and night. And next day.

Lord knows, when he was on his own, what happened to produce an out-and-out blackout. I had no idea about such things, or that it was possible to be “functional” in any way, while being totally out of it. I suppose it sort of jogged my memory of what some of the dorm druggies were like when I was in college. They were the Walking Doped, maybe even able to hold a cafeteria try, or sit upright in class, but if you talked to them, they might be answering strangely.

There were times when he called up in a total blackout, speaking like something out of a Poe horror story, telling me about some horrible accident or bad news involving somebody friend or relative or whatever. The first time it happened, I was shocked and in disbelief. He was in a panic, fraught with terror…”She’s dead…I think she’s dead…” Who? What? What? I quickly turned on the tape recorder, which was always right there for when I did celebrity phone interviews or was on somebody’s radio show promoting a book. I wanted to get the facts on tape, and then call the police if necessary. I was getting more and more alarmed and confused. How did he know she was dead? When did he see her? He could not have seen her. She wasn’t even living in New York! Did somebody call him? No, he sounded like he witnessed it. WHAT WAS GOING ON? I asked questions, asked for details, but he was too worked up in his agony to respond. Fortunately, his panic ran its course, and he just sort of calmed down and said he could handle it, and hung up. My first experience with what a "blackout" can be like. I haven’t played that tape since, and I doubt any in his “small circle” would want to hear it because it is just too tragic.

Sometimes, it seems that not only could he very well tolerate playing in front of tipsy audiences, but he sometimes actually was visited by “the muse,” during a “lighter” moment of drinking. There’s a tape where he plays some of his more obscure songs for a female admirer, and when he gets to a song called “Alfred the Great,” he mentions that he wrote it while in one of those moments. No question, many creative people either jump-start with a drink, or work well with a buzz on, as it loosens up the subconscious. In comes the muse, who is somehow helping along what Norman Mailer called “the spooky art,” which is creating something almost on automatic pilot.

I suspect in Mailer’s case that early on, he was so wired, so full of ideas and rage, that he may have used alcohol (or whatever) to slow down the writing process, and focus and concentrate on the chapter in front of him, and not get lost in a ton of ideas, riffs and improvisations. I only met him a few times and didn’t talk shop with him. Tennessee Williams had a warning — “hold out as long as you can,” before resorting to booze to get your courage up or to summon the ghostly muse of the spooky art. I met him only as a photographer, so I never got a chance to talk to him at all. Meanwhile, here’s Bobby talking about one of his songs, which is something rare indeed.

Below is what I call a “deconstruction and reconstruction” of “Flowers,” which happened to be, to my knowledge, the only song written by Bobby Cole that was covered by another singer during his lifetime. It was done by Nancy Sinatra. Bobby mentioned that he wished he’d produced the track, since it would’ve been a whole lot better. At the time, many artists and songwriters were dabbling in a kind of “art song” that involved stretching past the 3 minute “hit song” limit, drifting into grand orchestration or taking dramatic turns involving spoken word. Even Roy Orbison got the bug — listen to his seven minute “Southbound Jericho Parkway,” from 1969. It’s a grim portrait of a working man who has been divorced, and spurned by his hipster children.

But first, here’s more than seven minutes of Bobby going over the song for what was probably one of his music students, rather than a girlfriend or some platonic fan. He goes through the song, which has some impressive key changes, and some very sharp lyrics: “While you were learning to love, I was learning to hate.” He offers the aside, “I like that line,” but later admits, “I want to communicate,” so a song must hit the listener very directly; unlike a poem where lines can be digested at a slower pace, or re-read, the lyric in a song has to grab instantly. “How I write a song…I have a scenario…” And then he proceeds to re-construct that very line, wondering if there are ways of making it better.

Here’s a rare opportunity to hear Bobby discussing one of his songs, offering a few insights into the creative process, and yes, he does mention Nancy Sinatra towards the end of what turns out to be about 10 minutes of revisiting and discussing the nuances of the song.

BOBBY COLE - FLOWERS - ten minutes - Reconstructing and Deconstructing

BOBBY COLE — Well, when do we get that full-blown ORGY???

OK, “full blown” and orgy” go together, or should, but not here.

From the same session as “Flowers,” here’s Bobby about to give his female acolyte a chance to hear the unrecorded “The Orgy,” but we don’t get too much of it. It was apparently a work in progress. I doubt that Bobby was going to get too graphic anyway. Symbolic perhaps, in poetic terms, but I have no idea, since I don’t have a xerox copy of this one. Maybe it was never completed and sent to ASCAP. I don’t know much about ASCAP procedure, as my stuff is with BMI. Ahem ahem, I like to think that my songs, like Bobby’s are so “unique” (his favorite word) that nobody but the original author could do ‘em justice…hence the glaring lack of cover version competition. That they're on Spotify, YouTube, Amazon, iTunes and the usual suspects, where people can discover them, is fine with me. Memorizing that stuff and trying to find venues, and travel...hey, I didn't want to do that even before Covid-19. But I digress…

After sketching through a bit of “The Orgy,” Bobby realizes that some of the lyrics and phrasing could be considered Dylanesque. Not quite like John Lennon or Phil Ochs in those unearthed home recordings and bootlegs where they dabble in Dylan parody, Bobby always respected and admired Bob. Here, he may have been a little surprised in noticing the connection for possibly the first time. Oh, if only “The Orgy” had been covered by Bob Dylan back in the day. At the moment, "The Orgy" in sheet music form could be lost, or could require a "serious" inquiry (and money) to view it at ASCAP, or could be on a tape somewhere.

THE ORGY...with a bit of a Bob Dylan impression towards the end