Can we talk about Sam Cooke?
Murdered on this day, two years shy of a half-century ago.
Ouch. It still hurts.
He, along with Otis Redding (AKA The King), are like the Shelley and Keats of American music, leaving us to wonder how many more gifts they would have given the world had they been fated to live even a few more years.
Calling him The Master is not only scarcely hyperbole; it’s probably inadequate praise.
Listen to this voice. Smooth? This cat had a whole army of honey bees making the nectar that coated his throat.
Of course and as always, the circumstances of one’s death, particularly if it’s premature and most especially if it’s preventable, are more than a little unfortunate. (Cooke died for no reason under spurious circumstances during an era when entirely too many African American males had a habit of disappearing due to spurious circumstances, a shame that will forever stain all the progress we made in later years).
Some people are so blessed, so gifted with undeniable ability that you simply marvel with gratitude. Cooke must be at or near the top of any list of naturally skilled vocalists: the warmth, humor, swagger, assurance and –perhaps most importantly– vulnerability he could conjure up so effortlessly combine to produce arguably the most versatile, unstoppable set of pipes we’ve ever had the pleasure of hearing.
Little more needs to be said when we can simply listen. Hear him on what may be his finest moment, the immortal single “Wonderful World”. The pitch-perfect, self-effacing sentiment of the lyrics is paired with the vocals, understated but earnest, sometimes uncertain (about his prospects) but positive about his feelings (But I do know that I love you…) and above all, that relentless exuberance. He not only makes his case (as the character, as the singer) he helps you make your case if you’re clever enough to put the needle in the groove and blast this to the object of your affection.
I’m not sure anyone could do flat-out ebullience quite like Cooke. Listen to the smile-in-sound emanating from every second of this one, “Meet Me At Mary’s Place”:
Of course he could also do sensitive (check his final recording, one of the best-known and loved songs of the 20th Century):
He could certainly do sultry, taking on the blues with the easy elan of someone who made himself comfortable in any idiom he deemed fit to dominate:
But, for me, the song that showcases all of his gifts (including his smarts and ability to interpret if not own a tune) is a wild card of sorts, his version –by far my favorite– of the classic “Tennessee Waltz”. Where The King (Otis) later played it slow and self-pitying, Cooke delivers a vocal tour de force that needs to be heard multiple times to properly appreciate. For starters, it’s unlikely Cooke could suppress or even temper the euphoria of his delivery, on any song. As such, his clear-voiced buoyancy becomes at once a declaration, shouted in shame and despair from the tallest mountain, but also an ironic commentary, intended to belie how devastating this memory remains. The song itself, so slight lyrically, tells the simple story of a dude getting duped by his best friend, who steals his girl while the song he loves is playing. Since the song itself is so ubiquitous, of course this means every time he subsequently hears it the pain will resurface. As such, his demeanor is defiant, but the exhilaration shines through, either artificially or unintentionally. Either way, as the momentum builds and the voice gets louder, Cooke does the impossible: he makes you feel giddy with joy even as he rends his own heart: Only you know just how much I’ve lost (ooooh yeah). By the end, he inevitably throws his cards on the table, revealing what he doesn’t (or does he?) want to tell. He needs to tell, so the words are a rebuke (to his friend, to the song itself), even though he’s fighting with himself to stay upbeat. He simply can’t help himself, therefore the adjectives he quintuples down on are drowned in phony conviction: “That beautiful, that wonderful, that MARVELOUS, that glorious, that beautiful Tennessee Waltz!”
On this song and throughout his too-brief career, Cooke is the gold standard, and all singers must measure themselves against his impossibly pure, ecstatic form of expression.
