One of the pioneers of soul, Sam Cooke, died forty-five years ago today, on December 11, 1964.
Cooke checked in to the Hacienda Motel that evening. According to the manager of the hotel, Bertha Franklin, he checked in with a woman, who evidently left him at some point thereafter. Cooke, enraged, broke into the manager's office (with a jacket and shoes, but pantsless) and demanded to know where his companion was. Ms Franklin said the woman was not in the office. Cooke didn't believe her and allegedly attacked her. Franklin then shot him in self-defense.
His death has given rise to conspiracy theory. Etta James, in her autobiography, claimed that she observed wounds on Cooke's body, in the funeral home, that went far beyond what Franklin's account would explain. She said Cooke was beaten so badly his head was nearly separated from his shoulders, his hands were brushed and his nose was broken.
Solomon Burke, another soul pioneer, has said: "I still think there was some kind of conspiracy ... I've always felt there was some sort of conspiracy there ... I listened to the reports and I listened to the story of what happened and I can imagine Sam going after his pants. I can imaging Sam going up to the counter and saying 'Hey, somebody just took my pants.' And he's standing there, seeing the woman with his pants. I can imagine him saying "Give me my pants." But I can't imagine him attacking her. He wasn't that type of person to attack somebody. That wasn't his bag. He was a lover, OK. He wasn't a fighter. He wasn't a boxer. You never heard of Sam Cooke beating up his women."
Franklin's word is not utterly uncorroborated though. She was apparently on the telephone at the time with the Motel owner when Cooke broke in to the office, and the owner then heard much of what transpired, up to the gun shots. Her testimony at the inquest backed up Franklin's, which is likely the reason criminal charges were never brought.
The theory, as always, depends on the theorist. Cooke was killed by the mob. Or he was killed by Whitey to take a strong black man down. Or he was killed by a pimp, and the clothes-stealing hooker was part of the set up.
As to the girl (hooker or groupie or whatever) who ran out on Sam Cooke? Lisa Boyer. She had a story to tell, too, and the conspiracy theorists have had much to say about that. But I will go no further. It is easy enough to wallow in such material if you wish.
All I wish to say on this anniversary of his death, however it came about, is that surely what is best about Sam Cooke is what lives on. Click there for an an example.
Showing posts with label immortality. Show all posts
Showing posts with label immortality. Show all posts
11 December 2009
08 March 2009
The metaphysics of soap suds
Someone in Yahoo!Answers said recently that he/she had heard of some prominent philosopher who described human thoughts as "soap suds in the washbowl of nothingness," and asked if we could come up with a name.
I haven't found that exact quote, or anything with a distiguished pedigree, but I did find the use of the imagery, an invocation of soap bubbles in 'vain casings of nothingness,' and then the use of that image as a descriptor of intellectual constructions. I found this in a book review written for Union Seminary Magazine.
This just shows how neat a project Google Books has become. It is amazing the things you can find, including a bit of perhaps overly elaborate prose styling at the start of a review written in 1890.
The imagery appears as an expression of scepticism about theories of the "Aryan race," a subject that might have seemed harmlessly academic in 1890.
The author of the book review is R.B. Woodworth, and he begins this way: "To blow a bubble requires but a pipe, a basin of soap-suds and a blower. And it is pleasant, too, to watch these vain casings of nothingness as, reflecting in their diaphanous films the varied and beautiful colors of the rainbow, they float away beyond human ken into the azure depths of the heavens.' He goes on like that for awhile before he gets to the point. Adult intellectuals too, he says, "are bubble blowers. Castles in the air delight us children of a larger growth." And so forth.
If you want to read the whole bit, go to page 303 of the volume to which I've just linked you, and partake in Mr. Woodworth's bid for immortality.
This is probably far from what the Yahoo! questioner had in mind, but I ghad fun and, hey, isn't that the point of the existence of the cosmos?
I haven't found that exact quote, or anything with a distiguished pedigree, but I did find the use of the imagery, an invocation of soap bubbles in 'vain casings of nothingness,' and then the use of that image as a descriptor of intellectual constructions. I found this in a book review written for Union Seminary Magazine.
This just shows how neat a project Google Books has become. It is amazing the things you can find, including a bit of perhaps overly elaborate prose styling at the start of a review written in 1890.
The imagery appears as an expression of scepticism about theories of the "Aryan race," a subject that might have seemed harmlessly academic in 1890.
The author of the book review is R.B. Woodworth, and he begins this way: "To blow a bubble requires but a pipe, a basin of soap-suds and a blower. And it is pleasant, too, to watch these vain casings of nothingness as, reflecting in their diaphanous films the varied and beautiful colors of the rainbow, they float away beyond human ken into the azure depths of the heavens.' He goes on like that for awhile before he gets to the point. Adult intellectuals too, he says, "are bubble blowers. Castles in the air delight us children of a larger growth." And so forth.
If you want to read the whole bit, go to page 303 of the volume to which I've just linked you, and partake in Mr. Woodworth's bid for immortality.
This is probably far from what the Yahoo! questioner had in mind, but I ghad fun and, hey, isn't that the point of the existence of the cosmos?
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