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