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