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

BOBBY COLE - BUS 22 TO BETHLEHEM

Below, “Bus 22 to Bethlehem,” for several reasons. First off, it’s seasonal. Second, it’s more accurate now than ever (“…the Christians and the Muslims exchanged frozen looks.”) OK, sometimes the exchange is gunfire, and usually one-sided by terrorists at unarmed people. I know a Coptic Christian who fled the Middle East to come to America and safety. If you check Wikipedia to find out more about Coptic Christians, you’ll find this line: “ The abduction and disappearance of Coptic Christian women and girls also remains a serious ongoing problem…” But I don't want to digress...

The THIRD reason for choosing this song is that it jump-started my long friendship with Bobby Cole. I may have mentioned this before. I’m not an “old fan,” who used to get loaded at Ali Baba and listen to the original trio. I didn't rush out and get "NEW NEW NEW" when it appeared on Columbia around 1960 or whenever it was. It was an era when the "American Songbook" was given a little extra "swing" by hip new musicians, but to modern ears, that stuff doesn't sound all that new. Having a member of the trio join Bobby in singing from time to time is quite a distraction. As for Bobby's solo on "Ebb Tide," which I thought was a highlight of the album, I got a typical Bobby Cole growling response: "I sound like I've got a sock in my mouth!"

You wanna see a publicity shot promoting the original trio, one you might not have seen before...ok....

I didn’t become enthralled seeing him on “The Judy Garland Show," either. I was a kid who was buying Beatles singles. My intro was the revelation of hearing “Mr. Bojangles” on the radio. Who had a voice like that? What was going on with that wistful electric violin? How did the calliope from “Mr. Kite” break down and end up in the shabby world of a “down and out” entertainer in jail? Who’s this BOBBY COLE guy? Where do I see him perform?? Jeez, how the hell do I get a copy of the record? As it turned out, some record stores only had the Jerry Jeff Walker ATCO version, which came out at the same time. I had to get Bobby’s via mail order!

That’s when I discovered the B-side, “Bus 22 to Bethlehem,” which Bobby told me was quickly done in a folk arrangement, maybe only a few takes, just a quick B-side thing for the rush-release of a song he had discovered by hearing Jerry sing it in a small club...before Jerry got a contract to record it. Cole had devoted all his energies to producing his vision of Jerry’s simplistic country strum. It was just an irony that Walker's buzz extended to ATCO and the ATCO version arrived almost simultaneously as Bobby's version on Columbia's DATE RECORDS division.

Many years later, I finally saw the ad I was searching for: Bobby Cole…The Bobby Cole Trio…playing at the Savoy Grill. Time to put on a suit, act cosmopolitan, and saunter in, dealing with the affected world of a maitre’ d and all the rest of the high class pretense. Lady and I entered this world mainly because of two songs that Bobby wasn’t even going to perform that night. His sets were loaded with the “American Songbook” material that were crowd favorites...music they knew from his jazz days at Ali Baba or Jilly's and other joints where Bobby's friend Frank Sinatra might be in the crowd. And yes, he played those vintage songs and sang them wonderfully with his ace new trio members, and was, to use one of his favorite words, “unique.”

As was expected of him, during a break in the sets, Bobby “worked” the crowd, going from table to table with a smile, and some “are you having a good time” quick comments, and getting nods and smiles and little compliments back. He got to our table, and we offered our compliments to him, and then I said, “Are you going to play BUS 22 TO BETHLEHEM?” Bobby gave a quick little comical mock-frown (ala Robert DeNiro) as if I was being a wiseguy, and said, “You hang around…I wanna talk to you later!”

After the next set, we talked for a little while, and I mentioned how much that single knocked me out, and he gave me his card. Yes, if he had a mailing list, put me on it. Let me know where and when he’d be playing, and I’d be there. It grew into a very close friendship…there was a period there when I was the “go to” friend when he was alone or in trouble. Part of it, I admit, is that I wasn’t miles away as some others over the years ended up, and I was new to his alcohol problems while others had, under the sound advice of AA, chosen to “let go and let God.” Anyway…

December of 1996. It had been an upbeat time for Bobby. For many months now, his lifestyle had changed. He had moved out of the apartment next door to the Dakota that he had shared platonically with a very strange actress-widow-religious nut. He and a cute blonde (he nick-named her “Little Mouse” affectionately, perhaps not to her face) and she had found a love nest where they could live together.

She was smart, enthusiastic, and…unfortunately heading into the last week or two of December, having some problems with Bobby’s inevitable little falterings. Going out to get two bottles of Heineken from a bodega, was sometimes not quite enough, and he sometimes missed a night or two at Campagnola, which was his steady booking for many years (and a a time when bar-restaurant piano players were more and more of a rarity).

The Wikipedia entry, re-written several times with the help of friends, relatives or both, has finally gotten December 19th right…adding what was written here many years ago. Bobby didn’t “slip on the ice and hit his head on the sidewalk,” a weird supposition that Ron Meyers placed on his defunct website where he sold CD-Rs of Bobby’s demos and outtakes. Bobby may have been under a bit of a strain, having to find other places to stay for a little while when “The Mouse” told him he couldn’t keep drinking while in the love nest. But he was still smoking, still weighing several pounds over fighting weight, and in his 60's. He had lived a rugged life and it caught up to him in just a few moments. He simply slowed down as he walked, a block uptown from Campagnola, seized by an apparent heart attack.

Back to the incidents of December 19th. Within a day or two of Bobby’s passing, “The Mouse” wanted to get to the bottom of the mystery of what happened and where he was found. She talked to Salvatore at Campagnola, and then traced Bobby’s movements that day, coming to the scene where the ambulance picked up Bobby and took him to the hospital. She spoke to the store owners on the block, to see if they came out to find out what was going on. As irony would have it, the incident happened in front of a bar. The bartender hadn’t yet opened the joint for the evening, and happened to look out the window and notice a white-haired gentleman in distress. He was leaning against a lamppost for support, and then slowly, slipped downward. The ambulance came quickly, but he was probably DOA by the time he got to Roosevelt Hospital (yes, same one that received John Lennon).

Patrons at Campagnola eventually got the bad news. There would be a replacement for Bobby...the somewhat grim looking guy who so often was called in when Bobby was having a wayward weekend...but The Man was not coming back. A little update on the joint for you:

Campagnola no longer has a pianist. Some entries on social media about the place mention how much “fun” the current pianist was, and how he would encourage everyone for sing-alongs. I'm not sure if this was the same guy who was Bobby's sub and steady replacement, or yet another replacement. The "jolly piano-man schtick" was, of course, the exact opposite of Bobby’s approach to entertainment. I suppose the sing-alongs may have delighted the peculiar crowd that would stand around at the bar in the middle of the night. I assume the songfests didn't start earlier, causing indigestion for the dour and affluent (and sometimes dangerous-looking) patrons who were paying high prices for their pasta, fish or steak. Oh yes, and the expensive Italian desserts. And drinks. And they knew to order the ITALIAN brand of bottled water, Pellegrino, NOT PERRIER!! (Mention Perrier and it was like you gave the wrong password from Gotti).

I walked by Campagnola one night a few weeks ago, and it was freezing cold and the place of course had NO indoor service because of the pandemic. They did erect an outdoor shack, which was long enough to seat about four tables. How any food could stay warm for more than five minutes I have no idea, but there was an elderly affluent couple in winter clothing, chowing down on some pasta. There were several uniformed waiters standing at attention waiting for the affluent diners to issue a command, or ready to “seat” new customers. You do NOT just go sit down, even under such ridiculous and shabby conditions…you signal for the waiter or the maitre’ d! I looked in the window…no piano. There was a framed photo of Bobby’s replacement on a little table that included some bottles and a vase of flowers…a table probably ready to be removed once indoor dining resumed.

Yes, there was a little memorial to Bobby, thanks to “The Church of the Healing Christ.” Bobby and I sometimes talked about religion, or poetry, or his favorite films (“I call him AWESOME Welles!” he declared). Bobby was not only extremely well schooled in classical music and theory and technique, he was well read, as you might tell from some of his lyric references, and the quote of a fairly obscure poet on the back of his Concentric solo album.

While the woman he’d lived with for so many years was most definitely a bit off the deep-end when it came to religion (she had a veiled bust of Christ in her bedroom), Bobby did accompany her to Sunday services quite a bit, and not just out of obligation. Though he was typically gruff about the name of the place (“The Healing Christ!”) he was a sincere seeker of meaning and of trying to piece together some of the deep, deep issues in his life, from deaths in his family to estrangements from ones he still loved, to his battle with the bottle.

I didn’t want to intrude on Bobby at the church, but I was certainly curious about the place, and I did attend a service there, knowing that for one reason or other, he wasn’t going to be there that Sunday morning. I also attended the service that included a memorial tribute to him in the program. I didn’t see any familiar faces at all from the world of Bobby Cole. I do remember speaking to a couple who apparently recognized me from Campagnola, and mentioned that they saw him there many times. And I did talk briefly to the Reverend Nielsen, the very unusual woman who was the heart and soul of “The Healing Christ.”

Here's a scan of the Playbill-sized modest booklet for the service held on January 12, 1997.

Long time ago. 1997... well before the days when I owned any “sneaky” little camera or device that could record video or take pictures surreptitiously. I wish I could show you a picture of Anna May Nielsen in all her splended glory! She presided over the services in a flowing gown, more ornate than what you might see being worn by a woman singing in a choir. The robe-gown seemed like some heavenly creation that Kitty Carlisle might have worn in a light opera. She looked very much like Kitty Carlisle, too, an older woman with flowing dark hair to her shoulders, her voice and manner confident, loving, and reassuring.

“The Church of the Healing Christ” was founded in 1906, and had only a few leaders over the past decades. I think the fortunes of the church took a hit over the years. I'm assuming that in the 30's and 40's and 50's (when leadership changed only once) they held services in an actual church. By the time Bobby Cole was attending, services were being held in a very large auditorium that was used primarily by a music school, as I recall. There were folding metal chairs that could seat maybe 50 people or less, and there was the bare stage, where Reverend Nielsen stood in front of a podium.

There were modest refreshments on a long table in the back, along with a donation box. She was an eloquent speaker, and as quaint as the surroundings were, she did have a presence that quickly made you feel like you were truly in a church, and in front of someone who was blessed with some kind of divine spirit, and might pass some knowledge, righteousness or comfort along to you.

Bobby died on December 19, 1996 and Rev. Anna May Nielsen died at the Specialty Care Granite Ridge facility in Canada on December 22, 2007. Her husband had died before her, and her relatives were mostly neices and nephews and two step-children. She attended the University of Manitoba graduating in 1939, and her “regular job” was with the United Nations, first at the Department of Economic and Social Affairs, and later at the editorial department of the United Nations Industrial Development department (whatever that is) for a total of 33 years. The remarkable woman could speak French, Spanish, Danish and Dutch.

She attended the Unity School of Christianity, became a licensed and ordained minister, and on Sundays presided over her devoted following, which included an avid student that those in attendance knew as Robert Cole.

BUS 22 TO BETHLEHEM

Bobby Cole - Dream a Little Dream of Me

Once again, it’s the sad anniversary. 

It was a miserable Christmas for Bobby’s friends, fans and family. Well, most. Some may not have heard the news of his passing yet. One of his friends got something in a major New York paper, and an old acquaintance wrote something up in a freebie give-away paper that was circulated mostly in the East Village. I say old "acquaintance" because in his little tribute, he declared he could never forget Bobby's "sapphire blue eyes." Let's just say the man was color blind, or hadn't seen Bobby in twenty years.

For some, and there’s irony here, Bobby's passing was a sudden realization that despite his flaws, he was a very special guy. Yes, more than once his self-appraisal was a gruff, “ain’t I a pain in the ass?” He was well aware of what his drinking had cost him, and continued to cost him when he’d have his lapses. He knew there were some, including ones he loved most, who shunned him. They were following the A.A. advice of "Let go, and let God," perhaps.

His fretful roomie, the bizarre Karen Leslie Lyttle, once tried to resurrect her acting career (her only famous role was in a Richard Pryor flop, "The Toy") by going out to the coast for auditions. She gave someone else the daunting task of looking in on Bobby, making sure he was taking his pills and not hiding them and binging. There were always some people who never quite gave up on him, or hadn't been disappointed often enough to walk away. There was one very attractive older woman with a famous hubby, who seemed to maintain a discreet affair via brief encounters when she happened to be in town. But I won't digress.

Some, who broke his heart by the angry words they hurled at him, and their silences, are now anxious for any photo or any recording they can find. “Lighting that torch, watching it burn.” I don’t blame ‘em. They had their reasons. Even his nutty roomie would sometimes try and take that vow, and lock him out and call up people and tell them not to take him in; let him sleep in a 24 hour movie theater in Times Square...make pay phone calls...and then walk for miles to that one person who answered the phone and couldn't refuse him. Those who know the Phil Ochs story know how this works. With Phil, even his own brother urged everyone to NOT help Phil by giving him money, a place to stay, or booze. It’s just a tough situation all around. And now, those who turned their backs have re-opened their hearts to his memory. And that’s a good thing.


Now and then, people share their memories on social media, and sometimes a bit more. Sometimes there’s an email or a phone call, and a bit of a surprise: “I know you knew Bobby well...I have a cassette recording...I don’t have a player anymore. Is there some way to get this transferred? Can we get together and have dinner, and talk about him, and can I give you the tapes?” 


There’s a recording of Bobby talking about life, his drinking, and how he wanted to try and get some more things done. It was an impromptu set of remarks between songs and giving a singing lesson to some woman or other. A brief snippet: “….I’ve been drinkin’ for 40 years. I don’t think I had a sane day in 40 years. Because it was all alcoholic thinking. If I wasn’t drunk I was withdrawing. Oh, there was some good times, but there are things I want to do. I want to do things I wanted to do when I was a kid, but I got hung up on the bottle…there’s life goin’ on…”

Yes, he had his demons, ones that sometimes got in the way, both personally and professionally. Like too many creative artists, he had a final project (the “Hole in the Corner Man” album) that he just didn’t want to finish, perhaps for fear of it being rejected. Meanwhile, he earned his money the old-fashioned way, playing and singing in bar-restaurants...a dying profession. There weren't too many places that would pay for live entertainment, as opposed to tips. Bobby did NOT play for tips. He refused to put a tip jar on his piano. The venue had to pay him or he wouldn't be there.

One factor that he had to deal with in his creative work, was the fact that some of the places he played were very noisy.  He could see the expressions of admiration on the ringsiders who were around his piano, but he could also look into the smoke and see dozens more paying no attention, and worse, talking mindlessly and loudly. 

The recording below is, unfortunately, an accurate example of how it sometimes was.  In his private life and in his performing life, sometimes he was taken for granted, unappreciated, or worse, ignored.

Until the Real Thing Comes Along - Dream a Little Dream of Me

HEAT - BOBBY COLE AND KATHY KELLY -- it's been a HOT SUMMER, FOLKS!!

There's been record heat this summer, all over the world. "It feels like a hundred," is what you hear...and that's even from people living where they count degrees in Celsius, 

“Tar’s hot as soup in the street. Can’t get away from this awful heat!” 

Below, you get the STEREO version of “Heat.”  The guest artist on this cut, and a few others on the album is Kathy Kelly. Despite the very short rehearsal time, she kept up with Bobby pretty well here. 

It was an interesting notion, bringing in a female vocal on certain tracks. On one song, Kathy does some vocalise, doing ethereal wordless singing in a style used on many a jazz album of the day. Marni Nixon did a lot of that. Much sappier was the tradition of a guy and gal singing together...Debbie Reynolds and Gene Kelly or whatever, enjoying perfect harmony. On "A Point of View," Bobby didn't want that at all.

On "Heat," Bobby was not going for harmony, but the idea of a couple on the same note; looking for a night out on the town, and trying not to let nature interfere. 

There’s a delicious contrast between the rough voice of saloon-singer Cole, and the rather cheerful and sweet sound of Kathy Kelly, especially on “Heat.” Bobby is the somewhat grim New Yorker undaunted by streets “like Hades lowest floor” even at night. Kathy’s pretty cool as she sings along! This isn’t that much of a surprise to me, as I recall that Bobby was a great fan of “Miss Toni Fisher,” who had a big hit with a rather cheerful version of “The Big Hurt.” 

I remember going over to Bobby’s apartment with a copy of Del Shannon’s version, with its “this time the big hurt will end” drum-pistol shot punctuation. Bobby shook his head. He liked Toni’s take much better, and with gruff enthusiasm, asked, “Where is she? I’d like to write an album for her!” Perhaps he was recalling when he wrote “No Difference At All” for Kathy? But more on that in a minute.

Meanwhile, back in the "Heat," note how the well-read Mr. Cole threw in words most don’t know how to spell! Bobby didn't stick with simple lines ala Irving Berlin or the punny hipness of Johnny Mercer:

“Look at this town incandesce. Like it or not you must acquiesce. Sure I’m admitting defeat. Can’t get away from this awful heat!”

Kathy Kelly sings with Bobby on this and several other songs on the album, but she's not on the one he wrote for her, the unlikely “No Difference at All.” 

The humorous if hipster-cruel put downs in this kiss-off tune include “she’s like pink champagne, and you’re like beer. You’re like scratchy old corduroy. She’s cashmere.” And: “She’s like a gentle rain, and you’re like a basement flood. She’s like a lunar rocket and you’re a dud.” 

No, if Kathy joined in on the chorus, that would be quite mean, implying that Bobby and his new girlfriend were making fun of the dumped chick.
 
Too bad there isn’t a demo of Kathy singing this with the original lyrics aimed at some loser who, what, is some scratchy old clod named Roy?  

While the Concentric album wasn’t exactly a best seller, Bobby Cole stayed in show business and Kathy moved on. “I was in the messenger/courier business, and before that I was in  the anti-poverty program. I didn’t go to law school until I was 42, and I graduated at 45.” She worked with a partner in San Francisco and later moved on to set up her own firm in Seattle. She specialized in employment law. About 40% of her clients came to her with complaints of workplace violence and discrimination. Another 30% of the cases she handled involved sexual harassment. Another 20% involved wrongful termination. (That leaves 10% for miscellaneous crimes and misdemeanors.) 

After nearly 30 years of this, Kathy is now retired in Arizona: “I am doing mostly nothing, except playing around with my dogs and puttering around the house. “ Yes, it’s hot in Arizona like everywhere else, but it’s a dry heat. Hot dogs? No, Kathy's dogs look pretty calm and cool.

HEAT - Bobby Cole and Kathy Kelly -- listen online or download. No spyware, no crappy website that takes forever to download, no porn ads.

AFTER YOU’VE GONE - BOBBY COLE at CAMPAGNOLA

Here's a look at Campagnola, the last place Bobby Cole played. You can see the piano in front of the big glass window that looked onto 1st Avenue. People sat at the bar to drink, and when he was around, swivel around to watch him play and sing. Some took their drinks and stood around the piano. Some snagged those tables close to him. Most of the dining area was in the back; more and more tables. 

If you're wondering about the name, "Campagnola" basically means "country-style." A "campagnola" is a farm girl, an earthy woman perhaps, who has old-world values. The place was not owned by an Italian, but by a guy named Murray Wilson, who managed some boxers, had an interest in restaurants, and in 1982, opened a place that eventually served authentic enough cuisine to make it an uptown favorite. I never met the guy. The staff were mostly Italian, and the guy who managed the joint and that Bobby answered to was named Salvatore.

Other than the bartender, it seemed Wilson was dedicated to hiring authentic Italians for his "Campagnola." Whether some of Wilson's financing came from authentic if not dangerous people in Little Italy, let's not speculate. Don't speculate, and don't leave a speck on your plate...

Oh look. What's on the plate? Antipasto? Appetizer? To be Sinatra...er, to be Frank, when lady and I would be there, we'd sometimes order anything that seemed like a snack.

We'd arrive well after the dinner hour, usually closer to 11,  and the excuse for not going bankrupt in the place was that we'd already eaten a big meal. PS, a "snack" at this place was like the price of a meal elsewhere. Another alternative was dessert and some wine or sparkling water. But if you had the habit of referring to sparkling water by the best known brand name, you were asking for trouble. "No wine, just a Perrier." A stern, if not murderous look accompanied the grim reply: "No Perrier. PELLEGRINO!"Ay, THAT's ITALIAN!

Getting back to the name of the place, despite being on the tony Upper East Side, Campagnola was, and is, a very ordinary-looking place from the outside. If not a "country" inn, it does look homey, doesn't it? 

The place really came alive on the weekends, when Bobby showed up. Well, usually. If he missed a night or two, he was forgiven. 

You don’t know what you got until you lose it. In a way, that applied to Bobby, who certainly tried the patience of some people while he was still around. It’s an irony that one of his favorite songs was “After You’ve Gone.” 

It was even money that “After You’ve Gone” would be on the set list when you saw Bobby. When he was about to take a break during a set, Bobby tended to lapse into another favorite, a few minutes of “Take the A Train” done as an Errol Garner-styled instrumental. Maybe he was wishing that a few of the noisier and rowdier denizens of Campagnola would indeed, take the A-train so he could come back to the piano and be surrounded by people seriously listening to him. (Of course the A-train was on the west side of town, and any affluent customer seeking to get to one of Harlem’s swankier jazz clubs and eateries catering to rich tourists, would take a cab.) 

Campagnola had its regulars, and often celebrities. Sometimes a famous lady was there to, uh, rendezvous with Bobby Cole. (I ain't namin' names). Hoi polloi just "smellin' where they're dwellin'" were in for a shock if they walked in expecting Olive Garden prices. Those types needed to walk in and ask for an estimate on dinner! Stake yourself to a steak, and you'd be paying $40 or $50. Salmon or sole, $25 to $35. Maybe you'd find a pasta dish for $22. An appetizer could even be $20. Get yourself a couple of drinks and you'd be more wobbly from the lightness of your wallet. Meanwhile if you were ordering in Italian, you might stare down and not be sure what the hell the waiter had put in front of you.

But Bobby Cole was at the piano, and you'd hear "The Big Hurt" and "Say It Isn't So" and "When Sunny Gets Blue" and "After You've Gone," and then you'd go back out into the night, full of food, booze and good music. You could look back from across the street, and be thankful for a good time.

(PS, the corner deli where Bobby disappeared on breaks to get a bottle of beer is still there but Tasti D Lite has GONE...) The original owner of the place, Murray Wilson, died in 2010. The restaurant is now under new ownership. 

It was after seeing Bobby so many times at venues where chestnuts like "After You've Gone" was likely to be played and maybe a Beatles tune or an Elton John item was thrown in, I ventured this question: “Why don’t you play your original songs?” The wry reply would’ve been because he was, in his word, “I’m in the people pleasing business.” People wanted to hear familiar favorites. Probably closer to the truth was that he didn’t want to see or hear people ignoring his own most intimate and creative creations.

I think when “A Point of View” first came out, he promoted it by singing some of his originals. He recalled a time in Pittsburgh when he sang “Growing Old,” and saw a man with tears glistening down his face. He told me that generally it would have to be a very special and intimate venue, late at night, when he’d perform some of the tunes he’d finished working on. 

One night when Campagnola was empty, and he was about to leave, he paused, and for me and my lady, he returned to the piano. “This is an original song that’s not on that album,” he said (referring to the beloved “A Point of View”).  He said, “It might be on the new one, ‘The Hole in the Corner Man.’” He gave a Brando-like curled smile. “How’s THAT for a title,” he mused. He added with a touch of self-deprecating irony “And the title of this song is ‘So Sleeps the Pride.’ What a title, huh…” And then came those hypnotic opening notes, and a song that laid bare the soul of the performer…this performer…any performer.

Some performers are appreciated in their lifetime, and even more so after they’ve gone. Here’s one of the live tracks from Campagnola, caught via portable cassette recorder, circa 1996. 

There'll come a time, now don't forget it
There'll come a time, when you'll regret it
Some day when you'll grow lonely
Your heart will break like mine and you'll want me only
After you've gone, after you've gone away

AFTER YOU'VE GONE....

STILL CRAZY AFTER ALL THESE YEARS — BOBBY COLE and BLOGGERS

"Sharing" entire albums and discographies? Copying? Bobby Cole didn’t even xerox sheet music to avoid buying it. If anything, he worked out the arrangement himself, suiting his key and his voice. Here, for example, is his working version of “Still Crazy After All These Years,” a favorite new song he added to the "Great American Songbook" stuff that his saloon audiences would come to hear. 

Back then, he might play a Leonard Cohen song, or Elton John or Procol Harum, and if a ringsider liked it...they'd ask Bobby the name of the song, and then go out and buy it. That's what it was about. You hear it on the radio or in a nightclub, you read a review of it in Creem, Circus, Downbeat, Rolling Stone etc., and you bought it. Kinda CRAZY what the situation is now: gimme it free, and I don't care who gets hurt. Artists should have a full time job or something. Itunes is rich. Recording music is cheap with Pro Tools. So fuck you and let me enjoy my FREE MUSIC.

February 19th, over a decade ago this, "the blog of less renown" premiered with a post of a BOBBY COLE song. 

He was already dead — and the music business was on the critical list. It’s pretty dead now, isn’t it? Ironically, a big reason is: BLOGS. Early bloggers posted a rare song to call attention to the artist. Soon blogging became a contest, dominated by the size queens posting discographies every day. These queens got so many “nice comments” they began to think of themselves as royalty, and stars. The Queen of Holland fought the Queen of Sweden for MOST comments and most discographies posted in a day. Forget about what the musicians wanted, or how it was hurting the music business. Some bloggers with their R. Crumb photos and Guy Fawkes masks fancied themselves real hipsters and revolutionaries. No, they weren't and aren't. Just jerks with nothing better to do. How easy, to pretend to be in show biz, or to be another asshole Assange, and up and re-up the music all day. 

Blogging was once an extension of music reviewing, with serious writing and a sample track, but it's turned into a literal free-for-all. Rationalizations were rampant:  record stores aren’t going out of business. Artists are rich. Music should be free and artists should tour and sell t-shirts. Like climate change, the deniers kept denying, even when record stores began going under, record labels could no longer afford to invest in new artists, and older artists were dropped by their labels, and dropping dead while on exhausting tours of small venues.   

Anyone telling a Blogfather or Queen of Sharing to have some sense and dial it back, got excuses: “I’m using mp3, it’s not like CD.” Then the items were offered in 320 bit-rate and FLAC. Another excuse: “The album is not yet on CD or mp3.” When it was: “The price is too high!” When the price came down: “We like FREE!” Some happily called themselves pirates, ahar, and were proud of it. Others insisted their piracy was “Freedom of Speech!” The chant: “Copyright is Copy WRONG.” And “This is SHARING." Yeah. Mommy always told me to SHARE, and now, look at me, I’m SHARING!  

When artists such as Gene Simmons and Prince complained, the response was: “You’re rich. Fuck you. We’ll hack your website. We’ll re-up. Google gives us free blogs and if one goes down five will go up. You can’t stop us, you bastards. We love your music, and we give you publicity! Don’t you get it? Why do you want payment?” Add hippie philosophy: “We’re stickin’ it to the music labels, man. To the RIAA. Go think up a new paradigm.” Huh? Like what, Spotify, which pays far less than radio stations did per play? 

It was crazy what most "colleagues" in the blog world were doing, and how they craved fame for themselves. Worse, today many crave royalties, and use Rapidgator and elaborate link-hiding to get money for themselves. This craziness means less good new music. It means less music from our favorite older acts because they don't want to just break-even with self-publishing and they resent the embarrassment of Kickstarter or being on a teeny tiny indie label and begging on social media to "please buy. Blessings."

Who is making money now? Not worthy musicians. Mostly a new wave of pop tarts and rappers and boy bands. They make it off mammoth stadium tours and accept that piracy means a "gold record" is earned by counting YouTube or Spotify plays and not SALES.

Quoting another Paul Simon song, "the music suffers, baby. The music business thrives." The business is no longer run by a Clive Davis or John Hammond guiding artists, or disc jockeys pushing artists by constant play, or by music critics. It's up to mass morons with no taste making Spotify playlists full of crap.

Instead of Tower Records, who published an in-house magazine called PULSE for people to enjoy, music is distributed by comrades at Yadi and in other Iron Country sites. It's distributed via shady "services" that want everyone to buy a premium account so that for $10 a month THEY can distribute hundreds of dollars of FREE downloads to greedy fools. The cry today is “Thank god for blogs in Iron Curtain countries, and the torrents and download services beyond the reach of Capitalist takedown attempts!" Forget that Putin put Pussy Riot in jail. 

Good news here? Well, anyone who wants to buy vinyl or CD music can find it cheap at thrift shops. On eBay, people who used to own record stores are now trying to move 20 or 30 albums for a few dollars and shipping. But they get no offers (not even a come-on from the whores on 7th Avenue...THEY want to be paid, after all, and ex-record store guys have no money!) Oh, too bad, some music lover opened a record store, spent 20 years talking music to customers, and now has inventory nobody wants and a future of unemployment or working at a Burger King. He sells off his stuff on eBay but nobody wants to pay:

Chances are if Bobby Cole was around today, he would be out of a job. Already disappearing in Bobby’s time were the number of hotels and restaurants able to afford a pianist/singer. Soon favorite pure music venues like The Palladium on 14th Street and The Bottom Line a short walk from there, were GONE. With people staying home with their external drives loaded with music and movies for free, “going out” and spending money is not a priority. Campagnola, Bobby’s last stop, no longer has a sign advertising a “name” musician. Most nights it doesn’t even have some anonymous player sitting at the piano for a few hours. 

Everyone has a huge library of music they never listen to, but their hobby is to muse “what do I want,” and then go online to find a blog, forum or shoutbox and get it or ask “anyone got…” followed by “best regards” or “thanks in advance, pals.”  At one time, Etta Jones was paid to entertain in a nightclub, and paid to make albums, and her biggest hit was something called, “Don’t Go To Strangers.” But that’s where people go for their free music. An irony is how anti-social most of social media actually is. Still crazy is the cry of, "We're SHARING!"

Funny thing, the people who SHARE music don’t SHARE their power tools, their "secret" recipe for a dessert, or let somebody drive their car. The blogger who SHARES music like it's a solemn duty doesn’t SHARE his wife. Why not? Sex is more important isn't it? Ian Dury placed it FIRST, with drugs and rock finishing second and third! How about if wifey confesses: 

“I’ve brought guys into our bedroom to bang me. What’s it to you? I’m SHARING. I like sex. Upload and download while you’re not looking. When you're around you get some, too, so SHARING is a GOOD thing. You're upset? Listen, you can't stop me. I'll have a zippyfuck in an alley. I'll take a mega load in a hotel room.” 

The guy says: “You took a marriage vow.” The wife replies “So? Marriage vows are like copyright forms. Just paper.” After a shower or a douche, you wouldn’t even know if I didn’t tell you. And I’m telling you because I believe in Freedom of Speech!” The Queen who keeps bragging about her gang bangs adds: "SHARING saved my life! At the orgy last night, several people...I don't know their real names...said "thanks, I needed that." I felt such love and friendship!"

“CRAZY” is what people were called when they sounded warning signs of disaster. “Still Crazy” is people still ignoring the hazards, and finding excuses to shrug off dangerous and anti-social behavior.  People yawn when they read about another lone gunman killing a bunch of people. It’s no longer a surprise to hear about a blistering heat wave. People don’t even think Internet downloading is questionable and they don't council their kids to be responsible online. 

Google, making billions off the piracy they allow on Blogspot and YouTube, has long abandoned their slogan "don't be evil." 

The bottom line with blogs is simple. Are you doing evil? By evil, I mean, would you tell the artist what you’re doing if you met him? “Hey Neil Young, I’ve given all your music away, in FLAC, on my BLOG. I'm a famous BLOGGER! Every time you paid Web Sheriff to remove my links I re-upped. My BIG BLOG gets hundreds of visitors every day. They love ME, and how I SHARE your music and everyone else's. Isn't that nice of me?”

GONE are most of the original bloggers who led by example, with the idea of keeping the spotlight on the artist. The noble idea of a music blog was to share insights, be generous with rarities you have, and do no evil, with your actions causing massive damage and hurting someone else's business. Too bad it became quantity not quality, and stealing quotes from All Music rather than saying anything original about the discographies upchucked onto the Net to be sucked down by "music lovers."Any respect is "thanks to the uploader." Hey, go ahead and offer the Aretha Franklin tune, in FLAC, and don't have the brains or morals to see the irony in it.

 Bobby Cole lived music and he was always coming up with ideas. Even doing sets at a bar, he improvised new arrangements and sought ways to freshen up the standards. He experimented with music for dance, and he thought up possibilities that might someday become reality. Rather than watch TV, he might grab a piece of paper and lose himself in the music of his mind, translated into...

During the tenure of this blog, a lot of artists have left appreciative comments on the posts. They knew and appreciated that the point of any SHARING here has been to call attention to the artist, not the blogger. The idea wasn't "here's every Dale Watson album" with a brag that "if you leave nice comments about me, I'll give you even more goodies." It was to be humble and respectful of the artist, and instead of swiping an All Music bio and throwing it down along with links, to write, from the heart and mind, something about the artist.

At this point, the word “blogger” has become synonymous with bandit. Thief. User. Egomaniac. Fool. A “blog” is now just free bandwidth for a conspiracy to get product without paying for it.  It’s guilt by association now, so why be part of it? The irony is Dylan sang “to live outside the law you must be honest,” and The Beatles sang “Love, love, LOVE,” and Billy Joel sang “Honesty” and The Rolling Stones declared “You can’t always get what you want…you get what you need.” And no music lovers/SHARERS listen to the lyrics. They just say, “Gimme gimme…in FLAC…I want this…help. Best regards.” Then comes the pious look to the heavens: "God bless us all for SHARING music! AMEN." 

Many artists have ceased to create because it’s not worth it. Others can't live without creating, so they do it and accept that they won’t break even on the cost of even a download album on CD Baby. They're helpless against the new morality which denies damage to the music world, to the climate, to the decreasing number of fish in the ocean, and to the increase in selfishness and fanaticism in people.

As Paul Simon sang it, “it’s all gonna fade.”
     
Really. No blog lasts forever, no person lasts forever, and no planet lasts forever. 

From a gig in Atlantic City, which at one time was a lucrative place for Bobby Cole to perform, here's 

STILL CRAZY AFTER ALL THESE YEARS

Bobby Cole - LIFE ROLLS ON

   According to Library of Congress records (yes, this blog does actual research), in 1967 Jack Lonshein’s Concentric Records registered several tunes written by Bobby Cole. These include “The Debutant,” (that's the masculine spelling, the female is debutante) “Never Ask the Hour,” “When She was In Love With Me,” “Get Off Looking Good,” “At the Darkest Hour,” “I Never Saw the Shadows” and “Checkerboard Life.” Among others.

    An acetate demo was made for one side of what I assume was going to be the follow-up to Bobby’s “A Point of View” album. The tracks, in order, are: “Get Off Looking Good,” “Drink this Cup,” “Life Rolls On,” “The Midnight Flower,” “How the Lonely Spend Their Time” and “When She Was In Love With Me.”

    The upbeat “Life Rolls On” could have been a single, b/w “I Never Saw the Shadows.” Those two tracks, and most of what Concentric copyrighted eventually surfaced via a CD-R on Jack Lonshein’s invented “A Different Journey” label.  
     
    Technically, Concentric registered the copyright so Jack had some authority to authorize...an unauthorized bootleg. Maybe? The songs are copyrighted to "Robert Cole," though. Jack apparently didn’t toss any royalties to the Cole estate, but who knows how many copies were sold and if he even knew an address for any of Bobby's estranged family, and if they or perhaps Karen (the woman he was living with) was in charge of the estate. The CD-R, in these early days of the Net, was not sold through eBay or promoted via YouTube, but was pretty much only discovered by someone doing a Google search and finding the now defunct JazzmanRecords (Ron Meyers) website. The photo above was probably taken by Ron Meyers, hence the sort of oddball credit line. 

LIFE ROLLS ON - listen online, download. NO ego passwords. NO self-entitled Paypal demand. NO dodgy download site from Eurotrashia or Putinville

I NEVER SAW THE SHADOWS - listen online, download, etc.

BOBBY COLE - A DAY IN THE LIFE

    “Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December…”

    On December 8th many remember John Lennon, 1980. And on December 19th, a few remember Bobby Cole, 1996. Yes, Bobby covered a Beatles song now and then. I assume Bobby saw John once in a while; Bobby’s apartment was next door to The Dakota. He told me that he sometimes shared a park bench with another resident of The Dakota, Lauren Bacall.

    To this day, tourists turn up at The Dakota, sidle close to the spot where John Lennon was shot down, and smile for the camera. They don’t get to go any further. The first time I was actually inside The Dakota was when I was with Bobby. Bobby knew Andrea Akers, a very attractive actress. She appeared in several 1970’s TV shows, though not always in a lot of scenes. Still, she was in “Baretta,” “Charlie’s Angels,” “Police Woman,” “Taxi,” “Dallas,” “Hart to Hart,” and “Dukes of Hazzard.” Her last credits were in a 1986 episode of “Moonlighting” and as the “Blonde Saleswoman” in the 1986 film “Nothing in Common.”  (She died at the age of 58 in 2002).  

    I wasn’t exactly taking notes at the time, but I do remember The Dakota as being pretty gloomy. The interior was spacious, darkly lit, and very quiet. It had the vibe of an empty museum. I could see why it might be suitable for some urban horror movie like “Rosemary’s Baby.” Andra’s apartment had pleasant sunlight coming in, ceilings higher than your average NYC apartment, and once inside, the thick walls kept things very quiet, and there wasn't even the sound of outside traffic. 

    The talk did get around to acting, and Bobby mentioned his favorite director of all time. “I call him AWESOME Welles,” he said. He dropped the names of some pretty obscure Welles movies (“Black Magic” from 1949 was one). As usual, and just in casual conversation, Bobby revealed himself once again to be far more than a “saloon singer.” He had very esoteric tastes in movies, poetry, and even philosophy. How many half-drunk denizens enjoying him play on a Saturday night, would’ve guessed that on Sunday morning while they were sleeping it off, he’d be at the Church of the Healing Christ, paying close attention to the sermon? 

    And so it is once again, that December brings thoughts of John Lennon and Bobby Cole. And below? An item from March 1986. There are a few tapes (transferred to digital) of stuff like this. These are random evenings at various nightclubs, caught via a portable cassette recorder slapped down at a table nearby. Bobby may not even have been aware of it. It’s pretty frustrating that these tapes are marred by the mindless chatter of the bar's fun-seekers for whom the music was secondary. 
 
    “A Day in the Life” doesn’t exactly lend itself to a jazz treatment, but Bobby gets off on the quiet and mournful opening.  He and his trio take a cool detour on the instrumental passage, which sounds very much more booze-fueled than the hallucinatory Pepper version.  And then it’s back to “I heard the news today…” And some days, the news is rather sad, isn’t it? But today, the news for a select few is that there’s another item posted on the blog, remembering Bobby.

A Day in the Life - Listen Online, Download. NO ego password. NO paypal begging. NO dodgy download site from Eurotrashland or Putinville

BOBBY COLE - "So Sleeps the Pride" - "Vincent"

    “…after twenty years, he still grieves.” 

    There are grown people who are walking around…voting, marrying, polluting the planet…who weren’t even BORN when my friend Bobby Cole died. Yeah, life goes on. What, half the planet wasn’t around when Bobby and Judy were an item.

    Bobby died on December 19th, 1996. One of the recordings below, "Vincent," dates from maybe 6 weeks earlier. He allowed a cassette recorder to be placed on his piano at Campagnola, which was (and still is) a kind of foreboding Italian restaurant full of wealthy drunks at the bar in the front (opposite the piano). Towards the back of this narrow joint, are tables for diners. No doubt the more dangerous ones eat their pasta at the tables way in the back, insisting on sitting with their backs to the wall, so they can keep an eye on whoever comes in.

    At one time, Bobby played one of the finest "joints" in the city, and Frank Sinatra would show up, and when Bobby took a break, you might see an eager Art Carney live out his fantasy of being a saloon pianist.

    Ali Babi is long gone. Campagnola remains, and props to them for hiring a guy as erratic as Bobby. Nobody could take his place. There's no longer a sign in the window with a photo of the star attraction. If somebody's at the piano now, it's just somebody at the piano now. At the piano, Friday-Sun nights, Bobby was fun-loving, personable, had charisma, and knew just about every song anybody wanted to hear, by heart. He was, to use his phrase, “in the people pleasing business.”

    The recording of “Vincent” will give you an idea of the scene at Campagnola. Although he was the “star” attraction, with his photo in the window, and people DID come to see him, including some famous faces, it was a bar-restaurant and there was always a lot of chatter going on while he played. As you’ll hear at the beginning, some comments were cheerfully aimed at Bobby, maybe with a request for a song. Here, Bobby acknowledges he hadn’t played “Starry Night” in a while, but would take a crack at it. He appreciated the suggestion, and was glad it wasn't "Summer Wind."

    Typical of this very classically trained musician, who was deeply into jazz, and who had a lot of books on theory, he doesn’t do a “straight” version of the Don McLean song. He explores some unusual sharps and flats to accent a line or two. It almost seems like he’s hitting wrong notes, but no, no matter how much he drank, that never happened. And that unique, husky, raw voice also was on key. His cover versions, from Leonard Cohen's "Closing Time" to "The Big Hurt" (he favored Miss Toni, I favored Del Shannon), always became, to use one of his favorite words, unique when he played them.

    I remember one night, late, when the place was pretty empty. I had asked Bobby about original tunes, and if he was working on anything. He admitted he had additions to what was on the “A Point of View” album, but that he didn’t play his own stuff very often. The customers wanted to hear familiar things. But now, just about closing time, he said, “Here’s one of my newer songs.” I couldn’t believe it. My lady and I were going to hear a NEW Bobby Cole song?? He had that wry look on his face. “It’s called 'So Sleeps the Pride,'' he said. With an ironic smile he added some sarcasm: "How’s that for a commercial title?”

     Yes, Bobby could be a little too intellectual for the room. This is a guy who quoted William Henry Davies on the back cover of his solo album, and followed up his Top 40 cover of "Mr. Bojangles" with a bizarre parable called "The Omen" (which you can search for on this blog). Yeah, the average denizen of jazz clubs, several martinis into the night, might just blink over what "So Sleeps the Pride" might mean, and just groove on the melody.

    It opens with a unique set of notes, like leaves falling from an autumn tree. It moves into a confessional that hints at a star's former fame  (in his case playing Vegas, being a pal of Sinatra and having a song covered by Frank's daughter Nancy,  conducting the orchestra for Judy Garland's shows, etc). And yes, at this point, the “pride” he once had, he's sleeping off.

    “So Sleeps the Pride” was one of several demo recordings he'd made. He planned a new album called "The Hole in the Corner Man," the title an allusion to very bad luck. He kept putting off finishing the album. I'd offered him my 4-track to inspire him. He seemed impressed by my interest, but didn't say he had new songs he wanted to record. I said, "the offer is always open," and left it at that. 

        And that was it; just before Christmas in 1996, he died. He'd been away from Campagnola for a few weeks, but that wasn't unusual. He had moved in with a girlfriend he'd known for quite some time. She had to deal with the usual lapses when he would drink too much...but things seemed pretty good.

        On November 19th he went for a walk, and apparently began to feel ill. A stroke or a heart attack...whatever it was, he stopped and steadied himself at a lamppost. This was about a block up from Campagnola, by coincidence. A bartender was looking at the window and noticed something was wrong. When the man at the lamppost slowly sank to the sidewalk, he called 911. An ambulance came, but he was DOA at Roosevelt Hospital.

       What fool made the assumption he slipped and fell on a slippery sidewalk, I have no idea, but it ironically gained traction. If you knew Bobby, you knew that he was a fire plug, and it would be damn hard to knock him off his feet. He was sure-footed even when he was loaded. There was no snow or ice on the ground (there rarely is a "white" Christmas in New York City). He had simply weakened suddenly, and all those years of smoking and boozing had caught up with him.

     Bobby's solo album appeared on CD-R thanks to jazz fan Ron Meyers, who knew Jack Lonshein, the guy who produced it on Concentric all those years ago. The CD-R sold mail order at Ron's “jazzman” website, included bonus tracks; the handful of demos Bobby had made, including "So Sleeps the Pride." The package had a "legitimate" release in Japan, on a real CD. Unfortunately nobody seemed to be around to supervise the booklet. The printed lyrics include some odd mis-heard words, and Ron's liner notes unfortunately repeat the nonsense about Bobby hitting his head on the sidewalk.

      Japanese sellers do their best to explain who Bobby was and why the album is worth buying at import prices:

       When I first heard "Mr. Bojangles," I not only bought a copy, I bought two, to make sure that I'd have a back-up in case I wore out my copy or it got a scratch. I'd never done that before or since. I didn't hear another Bobby Cole song on the radio, and looked for anything by him in record stores. I eventually found the Columbia album by The Bobby Cole Trio, which was nothing like "Mr. Bojangles," with its "Being for the Benefit of Mr. Kite" calliope and world-weary vocals. Then I found the obscure solo album he made, filled with amazing originals. But where was he now?? There was no Internet. There was just scanning the newspapers and hoping that maybe his name would turn up in an ad for a club date. For years, I wondered if I'd ever see this mysterious "Bobby Cole" perform, much less get a chance to talk to him. Finally, there was a listing: The Bobby Cole Trio playing at the Savoy Grill. Lady and I went there, dressed appropriately for a club that harkened back to the suave days of late night sophistication, dinner and dancing.

        Between sets, Bobby went around to the tables, making sure everyone was having a good time. It was part of the job in a place like that. He was playing the kind of standards you'd expect at the Savoy Grill, so I half-jokingly said, "I don't suppose you're going to play "Bus 22 to Bethlehem?" This was the folkie B-side to "Mr. Bojangles," a Cole original loaded with heavy lyrics. In fact the lyrics are even heavier these days ("the Christians and the Muslims exchanged frozen looks.") He gave me a comic frown and said, "You stick around, I wanna talk to you later!"

       Some of us are still talking about you, Bobby. We miss you. We value all the memories, and all the music you left behind.

"Vincent" recorded at Campagnola in November 1996
"So Sleeps the Pride" Demo - Listen on Line or Download - No Passwords, Pop-Ups or Malware
       

BOBBY COLE TRIO - ROCKET MAN

Again, I remember a friend on a sad anniversary. It might be more fitting to celebrate Bobby Cole (September 8, 1932 – December 19, 1996) on his birthday, but, like John Lennon, the date of his death in December is much harder to forget. It happened so close to Christmas, after all. It was a very sad Christmas TWENTY YEARS AGO, when that small circle of friends learned that he had passed on.

At this point, some key figures in Bobby’s life are gone as well. That includes various musicians, most of his famous fans (Judy Garland and Frank Sinatra among them) and the eccentric woman who shared Bobby’s apartment (but not his bed). Karen Leslie Lyttle (known to her friends as Inga!) dabbled in an acting career. Her most notable film role (there were only two others) was as Fraulein, a stereotypical German nut, in the Richard Pryor film “The Toy.” She never gave up trying. One miserable summer, she went off to Hollywood to try and get auditions and drum up work, leaving Bobby to binge (and deliberately not take his Trazodone).

Over the past 20 years, there used to be phone calls at all hours, and some quiet get-togethers in restaurants, as I and some of Bobby's pals (mostly his lady friends, actually) talked about old times, and shared collected photos and tapes. Time heals some wounds, and wounds some heels, and gradually there wasn't quite the need to get together to talk about Bobby as there once was. An irony is that a family member who didn't even want to talk to Bobby in his later years (for understandable reasons) has now posted tributes on Facebook and YouTube.

Yes, it’s been a long, long time. Which is what had me pick out “Rocket Man” for the download. Bobby was a member of the obscure "Church of the Healing Christ," and was an avid student of poetry and philosophy. So he may have thought he was going to somewhere in the beyond. Is it possible his soul took off into the great beyond, and he's now on some new planet or cloud? I mean, aside from his music being hosted on a cloud?

While Bobby was certainly “old school,” and was more prone to get his older audience smiling through an Errol Garner-styled instrumental on “Take the A-Train,” or sing “After You’ve Gone,” his repertoire both solo and with the trio included modern material. He sang covers of songs by Leonard Cohen (he loved “Closing Time”), Procol Harum (yeah, “Whiter Shade”), The Beatles (“A Day in the Life”) and Elton John.

Unfortunately, Bobby was not a tape recorder junkie. He lived with his music via the live performances, and didn’t seem to have a need for recording anything for posterity. That rather spartan two-room apartment he shared with Karen didn't even include copies of his own records (the solo studio album and the earlier "Bobby Cole Trio" debut on Columbia). He had some cassettes of songs he was working on, but that was it. As he once explained to me, he knew who had the stuff, and could get it if he wanted it. He was so used to bouncing from place to place over the later years, he didn't need the burden of owning a lot of things. Some memorabilia was "stored" at the apartments of friends. Only a few items (some photos, clippings and a souvenir booklet from when he was the conductor/arranger for Judy Garland) were in his piano bench.

The dozen or so live shows that exist on him tend to be amateur ambient cassette recordings. Sometimes he allowed an admiring girlfriend to actually put the recorder on the piano, but other times, the recorder sat on a table a distance away, which means some distracting chatter. An annoying problem with nightclub and restaurant audiences is that they come for the drinking and eating and scoring as much as hearing the music. Not many of the live recordings survive without an undercurrent of mumble-rumble babble.

Older fans told me about the legendary dates at places such as Ali Baba’s, where Sinatra would turn up, and Art Carney would be granted a chance to spell Bobby and play a set at the piano. I saw him at places that ranged from elegant old school (Savoy Grill) to shitty (Judy’s) to his last regular location, Campagnola. It was his nature/affliction to sometimes take more than a night or two off at Campagnola. He played weekends, and sometimes didn't show up. Thus it was, TWENTY YEARS AGO in December, I noticed a prolonged period of darkness at the Campagnola window. The place was set up with him and his piano up front, the bar across from him, and the restaurant further down. Anyone passing by would instantly be drawn to the sight of a real live piano player and singer in that window.

But that December, he wasn't around. In fact, management was so certain that this was more prolonged than usual, they had a back-up guy showing up. This guy didn't sing, but he did play well, and even if he wasn't a name that drew the regulars, it was still a novel sight for passersby. Bobby's absence turned out to involve health problems related to all those years of drinking and smoking. 20 years ago, he was out for an evening walk, and passed by the bar-restaurant he was now avoiding. On the next block, he leaned against a lamp post to steady himself, but sank down to the pavement. An ambulance arrived but he was already gone.

“And I think it’s gonna be a long, long time…”

There are still a lot of people who remember seeing Bobby perform. There are new fans, too, who have discovered him via YouTube posts and blogs. His cover of “Mr. Bojangles” is still the best version of that song, period. I have not met anyone who hasn’t been moved by hearing the last track on his solo album, his own “Growing Old.” There's more. I just wish that some of the “more” was in better condition. “Rocket Man” is in rough mono. The pretty arrangement he created for himself and the trio would’ve sounded great in stereo, professionally recorded for a “Bobby Cole Trio Live” album.

We’re used to good quality bootlegs these days, thanks to powerful and tiny digital recorders, but this show was recorded nearly 30 years ago, back in March of 1988.

Bobby used to say, with a wry irony, “I’m in the people-pleasing business.” A lot of people would’ve been pleased to have more of him on vinyl. He sadly fulfilled one of the basic axioms of show biz: “Leave ‘em wanting more.”

BOBBY COLE - ROCKET MAN live recording March, 1988

BOBBY COLE - "GROWING OLD" (10 Years After)

Ten years ago on this date, THIS BLOG appeared.

One of the first things I posted was "Growing Old," written and recorded by my late friend Bobby Cole.

We didn't talk much about his old songs. He was pretty modest about his sheet music, his many looseleaf binders of music study, and whatever "unreleased" material he was still working on. I remember checking out some of the songs and asking, "Why did you write them down in such complicated keys?" Much of his stuff was in 4 flats, 3 sharps, etc. He said, "Hadn't thought of that."

And then we were off for a walk, or a discussion of beer, women, and anything but song. After all, you don't expect a doctor or a lawyer to "talk shop" after hours? They're trying to get away from it.

There's no getting away from today's anniversary, so I'll acknowledge it. Yep, 10 years of this blog. But I have no profound comment to make about it; no paragraphs of nostalgia about all the changes over the years. As with Bobby and his music, living it was enough. Just enjoy what remains. The blog has some 1,000 or so links. And below is one of them.

Ten years ago I wrote:

"I'm Growing Old" is Sinatra's "It Was a Very Good Year" gone very bad. The singer here isn't looking backward fondly, he's accepting a very unpleasant future. The song puts a final chord on the forewarning of an earlier song (on Bobby's solo album) called "Lover Boy."

In that one, he tells a playboy that Life will eventually provide the truth: "taking in exchange...your youth." Here, the truth is "I'm Growing Old," and it's so painful Bobby told me that grown men in the audience would cry. That might also explain why Lou Rawls emphatically turned this song down when Bobby offered it. PS, Bobby had better luck when Nancy Sinatra covered one of his tunes (Flowers)."

BOBBY COLE I'M GROWING OLD

BOBBY COLE - THE OMEN

It's once again time to "officially" remember my friend Bobby Cole (September 8, 1932 – December 19, 1996). I suppose it would be more fitting to celebrate his birthday, but, like John Lennon, the date of his death in December is much harder to forget.

I've covered the circumstances of his departure from this orb in other posts. The basics of his life have also been covered here, and you can read his bio on Wikipedia, which seems to undergo revisions now and then, as various come-latelys manage to work in a line or two to get their name mentioned. Gone forever, fortunately, is the paragraph (from the defunct Jazzman website) that ridiculously described Bobby dying after slipping on an icy pavement and hitting his head.

Now, to "The Omen," which most fans of Bobby Cole never heard of. Guess what. For a long time, neither did I, and I was a close friend. I was close enough to have a key to his apartment (which was necessary during the times when his binge drinking required keeping an eye on him and making sure he was taking the medication that was supposed to help keep him sober).

One thing about knowing anyone with an interesting occupation, is that you often find yourself having to curb your curiosity. You don't want to seem like a brain picker. You know a doctor...you don't ask medical advice. You know a singer, and you refrain from asking a lot of dumb fan questions. People who don't know me well, and start quizzing me about music, publishing, photography, radio, or other things that have marked my professional career, are not going to waste my time for too long. And those that do know me well, sometimes won't get much of a response if the questions are boring and involve things I've discussed way too often.

Fortunately with Bobby, I really didn't give a damn about Judy Garland (the subject of most fan interest in Bobby, due to his years of working and romancing with her). Bobby would often relax and regale with stories about Judy or Sinatra, or talk about the heyday of Jilly's etc., but it was of his own volition. But, if I followed up with a question, he might change the subject, as if I was getting too personal, or coming on like a reporter with a note pad. (The Photoshop montage is from an appearance on "The Judy Garland Show" made about three years before he recorded "The Omen.")

What I was more likely to ask about, instead of gossip about star-friends of his, was his music. Maybe a lyric line, maybe why he wrote his sheet music in extremely complex keys with a ton of sharps and flats. Mostly he liked this kind of shop-talk. After we were discussing the status of his new demos (for "Hole in the Corner Man," the album he kept putting off finishing), I said, "I've got your Columbia album, the one on Concentric, and the Bojangles single. Do I have everything?" He glanced, looked away, and said "Yeah." But…

….your download is the follow-up single to "Mister Bojangles." It's called "The Omen." It fulfilled his two-record contract with Date Records. Why he didn't mention "The Omen" to me, I have no idea. By the time I came across it Bobby was already gone.

Bobby was a complex guy, more than just a jazz singer, or a saloon piano player. Despite his gruff New York demeanor, he was quite erudite and well-read. His lyrics often had some intellectual cool. A lot of brainy jazz writers (Leonard Feather, Nat Hentoff, etc.) liked to mention that jazz lyrics weren't just light, or scat-singing silly, but often could be starkly poetic ("Strange Fruit") or sophisticated with complex inner rhymes (Cole Porter, etc.). Bobby's lyrics sometimes winked towards Cole Porter ("No Difference At All" comes to mind) or contained a poet's haunting imagery ("Growing Old"). Symbolism and references requiring some education ("Bus 22 to Bethlehem") were also part of Bobby's artistry.

"The Omen" seems to me a pretty defiant choice for a follow-up single to "Mister Bojangles," the Jerry Jeff Walker song that Bobby had masterfully transformed from a C&W strum into a moving ballad. His arrangement, used in subsequent cover versions from George Burns to Sammy Davis Jr. and back, emphasized the poetic aspects of the song, and the internal rhymes. The flip side, "Bus 22 to Bethlehem," was pure Bobby Cole, reflecting his life-long interest in religion (he did attend Sunday services after a wild Saturday night). And for his follow-up, he chose an even heavier set of lyrics.

"The Omen" begins with serious portent (the tolling of bells) and if that didn't put off disc jockeys, the tune's flute accents and jazz-pop arrangement had to. Then there's Bobby's voice. While he could actually drive home any song powerfully in concert (he was only about 36 when this single came out) he had chosen to sing softly on "Bojangles" and this song also has him in kind of a haggard state, world-weary as much as worldly-wise.

The lyrics, at the dawn of the psych-pop age, were still way too symbolic and advanced for a Top 40 single, and probably mystified any disc jockey who tried to make sense of them. There were exceptions ("Whiter Shade of Pale" a hit in the summer of 1967, a year before this was released) but not many. Even The Beatles kept their weirder stuff for their albums, not their singles. Ironically The Zombies were on Date Records at the same time as Bobby, and the somewhat mystical "Time of the Season" (Date 1628) was probably part of the same batch of new releases as Bobby's The Omen (Date 1630). Too bad that Date (basically a singles division of Columbia) didn't springboard "Bojangles" and "The Omen" onto a full album back then.

When daylight was still sleeping under the sea
And a few lingering stars in the heavens shone
Up from her pillow rose the blushing bride to be
It was the last time she was to sleep alone

Twas a handsome youth she buried her heart and her soul in
and she vowed to make the last tide just before noon
and it's been said that once the heart of a maid is stolen
the maiden herself will steal after it soon

She looked in the glass which few women miss
In which all women find time for a sly glance or two
A young butterfly fresh from a night flower's kiss
Flew between her and the mirror shading her view

Enraged at the insect for hiding her graces
She brushed him aside, and he fell, never to rise
Ah, said the girl, such is the pride of our faces
For which the soul's beauty and innocence too often die

Sometimes Bobby and I talked about his lyrics…sometimes there was a particular phrase that was intriguing. "'Melancholy bait? How did you come up with melancholy bait?" Or he'd explain why he wanted to call his new album "The Hole in the Corner Man." But "The Omen." You're on your own. Bobby's still around, but only when your turntable is spinning. Or your iPod is glowing. Remembering...my friend Bobby Cole. Here's THE OMEN.

THE OMEN BOBBY COLE

"CRYING GAME" - BRATS, BOBBY COLE, MUSIC vs NOISE

Are you like me? You play music in self-defense?

You stuff ear buds in and turn your iPod on because it's impossible to be on a bus, on a street, or even in your own home…and not find yourself aggravated by totally unnecessary noise!

Perversely, if you choose to go out to a club, bar, outdoor concert…to intentionally hear loud music and not have to wear headphones …do you find the situation WORSE because you're near assholes who can't shut the fuck up?

This two pronged attack on the ears came to mind when I was sorting through odd audio, and found a recording I made of a noisy obnoxious neighbor's crying toddler…and then an old cassette of a 1994 Bobby Cole gig that included "Crying Game." Both reminded me of how difficult it is to enjoy peace and music. So I pasted them together more as document than pure entertainment.

First 30 seconds? Unfuckingbelievable. A 6'6" pinhead with his hair pulled back in a ponytail, and his simian arrogant bitch-mate from Morocco, spawned a child. They'd leave it in a crib with pounding disco music blasting. Why? "It helps him sleep." By the time this little monster could toddle, it was hyper-nuts.

What did they do when they didn't like his behavior? They LOCKED HIM OUT of the apartment. He'd be in the hall screaming his guts up and they'd blast music. They might open the door and lecture him (like he could even understand them) and if he stopped crying, they might let him back in. If he didn't understand and feel grateful these two ogres were paying attention to him again...if he kept crying...Slam. He stayed out and cried as the music blared. These two weren't afraid the kid might run away. He could barely stand up! Besides, let all the neighbors mind the kid! This went on night after night, month after month. I pounded on the door, tried to reason with them. No way. I'd get the door slammed in my face. I called the cops, said this was child-endangerment, etc. Eventually the unholy three were evicted…for not paying the rent, not for disturbing the peace or endangering their own child. Scum like this are sure to be deadbeat in every way.

You get thirty typical seconds. Yoko would've given you an hour and called it art.

How often have you had to flee your home because of noisy neighbors? If it's only every Saturday fucking night, maybe you can tolerate this forced change in your lifestyle. The worst is you have to go find an artist to "support" by attending a show. Just hope the artist doesn't play at deafening decibels and the cover and the minimum don't break you. Among those I'd go to see was Bobby Cole, if he was in town. Too bad, as Bobby would say with a sour grin and gimlet eyed irony, "the people-pleasing business" meant few who came were really into his music. Too manyh other customers were loud and obnoxious.

You know this from every bootleg audience recording you own. WHY the fuck do people pay good money to NOT listen to the singer? In Bobby's case, some of this came with the territory. If he played in a bar, he was there to encourage a good time; boozing, joking, smoking. I preferred to hear him and not assholes all around…and here the "Crying Game" song is typical of many frustrating hours I have of Bobby being heard through the human stain of snaps, crackles and burps. Wish I could've taken a cleaning cloth and wiped the faces blank of everybody who was adding their dirt to his soundtrack.

Noisy idiots! How's it at home for you? I'm sure you have some reeking home-wreckers similar to the brat you'll be hearing. Some of my runners-up…include the asshole who had to practice drumming (rather than pay for a soundproof room or studio), the moron bitch who let her kids jump rope and run up and down on bare floors overhead, the jerk leaving his precious poochy-woochy to bark its guts up constantly, or... the ruddy-faced goon who lived next door by himself (no surprise) and blasted his radio at sunrise.

I staggered out of bed one morning to catch up to the asshole as he left the house. I mentioned "You have an umbrella because you hear so-and-so the weather guy say it would rain." The asshole just said, "Yeah," and held it up. So I said, "How did I know you heard the weather report? I heard every word on your radio through the wall." "Oh." Next day silence. Next day, full blast news again, for the usual full hour till he left the house, by which time I was wide awake. He snarled, "I need the clock radio on loud in order to stay awake. YOU made me late for work because I turned the radio off and fell back asleep. I can not help your problems." No, I had to wait till he moved out. Because a grown man couldn't get out of bed and into a shower, or drink a fucking cup of coffee. Nah, why care about somebody else? And why not blast a radio to penetrate so much further than the reasonable thickness of a brick wall?

Ambient noise is far from ambient these days. It's pervasive and percussive. People never shut up. Construction goes on day and night. We've come to expect that even a library will not be quiet. Inconsiderate low-class ill-bred monsters aren't content to be headbangers, they live to MAKE SOME NOIZE and don't care if your head is throbbing because of them.

Howling brat allowed to disturb neighbors, babbling idiots not paying attention to a nightclub singer…. THE CRYING GAME

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