Rumors,feuds,and scandals from Old Black Hollywood
- Thread starter Ol’Otis
- Start date
50 Years Later; Sam Cooke’s Set Up Murder Still Ignored by LAPD, FBI, Mass Media
Sam was also increasingly unhappy with what he saw and heard about his nefarious manager Klein. Sam had discovered upon a random visit to his offices several days before his death, that Klein, had assigned J.W. Alexander, Sam’s longtime gospel colleague (The Pilgrim Travelers, with Lou Rawls), and labels partner since 1958, the dirty, back-handed task of fraudulently registering Sam’s titles and copyrights in a Reno courthouse, omitting Sam’s father from the executive board, lowering Sam’s status, and giving Alexander and Klein a large chunk of proprietorship. There were also the other aggravating behaviors; Klein put out a single of a throw-away goofing-around song Sam had no intention or releasing, “Cousin of Mine,” and then snapped a picture of presenting Sam with the keys to a Rolls—which Sam thought of as a cheap stunt, nor was he fond of having such a dinosaur as he favored sports cars like his Ferrari or the Masserati he had won from singer Eddie Fisher in a gambling bet. Sam would also discover at this time that he had paid for not only the Rolls, but the Times Square billboard and all advertising for his Copa show out of his labels’ monies, through Klein’s forgeries, which he deemed to be larceny and personal theft.
Klein, who entered the then-mob owned music business as an accountant mentored by Roulette Records owner and notorious gangster Morris Levy had been hired by Cooke months previously, chiefly to garner a premium booking into the Copacabana and other entertainment venues, including Las Vegas, that were difficult for black artists to gain access. Sam’s plan, according to family and close business sources was to get to that next level, and then split his time producing other young, black artists, opening a series of studios he would christen the “Soul Asylums.” Yes, this was the same Allen Klein who was sued over 100 times by nearly every British group he represented following Sam’s death, including The Rolling Stones, (who after 17 suits, still were forced to concede three songs, including Satisfaction), The Beatles, Herman’s Hermits, and others. It was Klein whom Paul McCartney so feared that he sued Apple records/The Beatles, under advisement from his attorney father-in-law Lee Eastman, in order to escape being creatively owned by Klein.
[...]
What did happen has been a subject of decades-long debate, but much of it not fully researched. This author has spent over seven years gathering evidence, interviewing nearly all those in Sam’s inner circle who are still alive, pouring over the autopsy and coroner’s inquest with an attorney. According to Johnny Morisette Jr. and Zelda Sands, Johnny was at P.J.’s when a gun was put to his head by one of Klein’s associates and he was ordered to get Sam to P.J.’s, a night club owned by such mob stalwarts as Mickey Cohen and Eddie Nash, and run by Genovese associates in between—the same family that gave Levy and Klein their greater marching orders. Nightclubs were predominantly owned by the mob, having started with jukeboxes and branched out, in an attempt to not pay ASCAP/BMI fees, later deciding to just steal artist and label profits alike, and launder money all the way to Las Vegas, their Disneyland. No one got on the rides without their accompaniment, least of all some upstart black pop singer who fancied himself a music producer, was hanging out with Black Muslims, and making them feel insignificant and underappreciated. Not in 1964, anyway.
There is no way to know for certain exactly what happened at PJ’s, but what is known is that according to Walter Ward of the Olympics, a long time friend of Sam’s, who sidelined as something of a pimp, a Eurasian girl asked Sam for a ride home, and Ward was agitated that Sam refused to listen to his warnings that she was “dangerous. She works for LAPD! Don’t take her fine ass anywhere, man!” Walter, according to his family, was no saint, but “he knew his hoes.”
[...]
Sam drove the girl to her room at The Hacienda Hotel in an area known as Hustlerville by cops and crooks alike. She would give her address as a hotel on Wilshire Bd. Both addresses were notorious prostitution venues, the former allegedly run by LAPD, and advertised rooms at $3 a night. The police report claims that Sam kidnapped the girl and when she took off with his clothes, he ran outside like a madman wearing only a suit jacket, beat down the motel office door, and grabbed the 59 year-old female manager demanding the whereabouts of the girl before they struggled and she ultimately shot him with a gun that had been atop a mantle. To know that Sam was only 5’9” and 150 pounds, that he was so likeable and beloved by every single person interviewed, that women generally chased him way more than the other way around, (church women included), that no man in his right mind, and many who aren’t, would ever really run out in public covering only his top and not his bottom; that he had three sisters, five daughters, three ex-girlfriends who had his children, had a wife and many nieces who would later be adamant that he put women on a pedestal, was respectful, never was violent at any time, never raised a hand or even his voice to them, makes both the kidnapping and the tussle improbable.
That the manager claimed she beat Sam after she shot him and he kept coming at her is physically impossible given his injuries as depicted at autopsy. Sam was shot with a .22 at close range under the armpit, the bullet piercing his heart and tearing through both lungs. Clark Kent would have had a tough time getting up and fighting after such a hit. Further, pathologists who have studied the report state emphatically that blood cannot travel from a mortal wound to a new bruise as it is pouring out of the victim. What is glaring in the autopsy is the fact that Sam Cooke’s broken fingers, knotted head, facial bruises, and broken knee caps received no mention whatsoever. In essence, the evidence was embroidered as was witness testimony to neatly fit the legal description of justifiable homicide.
[...]
Speze was told by the security detail for Klein that they did not do the killing but that several off-duty officers who moonlighted as security, (very commonplace for officers back then), had been assigned the task of beating sense into Cooke who was planning to dump his management and, according to Sands, hold a presser outing him that Monday in New York. Lloyd Price knew that Sam had stashed over 15k at Grand Central for the purposes of hiring Brook Benton’s orchestra as well as some “legal machinations.” Hall had stated before he died that Sam was planning to work with Rand again, fire Klein, and divorce his wife. A Change was Gonna Come in a big way for him, just not the way Sam planned. Nor had they planned on Sam escaping back to his Ferrari, whereupon they drove up in Klein’s limo, (Hal Blaine, prolific drummer on Another Saturday Night and 6,000 other hits, testified that when one worked with Klein that limo took you everywhere even across the street), grabbed him while whacking at his head and knees, threw him into the limo and executed him under the arm pit. The .22 is the mobster’s gun of choice; the gun registered to motel manager Bertha Franklin was a .45. As for the hooker, whose name was not Elisa Boyer as reported, but Crystal Chi Young, a prostitute who was later arrested for both that and allegedly attempted murder of a then boyfriend, she was instructed to take Sam’s clothes and hide them three doors down, under the steps of a nearby hotel. They were never used as evidence at the coroner’s inquest. You think the Ferguson and New York Grand juries were set ups? The assistant fire captain Harry Woods who was called to the scene later told his nephew, “No way did that woman do that damage to Sam Cooke. He had a definite going over.” There was no chalk drawing, no evidence collection, no investigation. That Sam Cooke was found with a suit jacket and one shoe on was a longtime symbolic warning by mafiosos to police: DO NOT INVESTIGATE.
Within weeks of Sam’s passing Allen Klein owned Sam Cooke’s catalog. Interestingly, the probate papers show that Sam’s family and friends were routinely left off the payroll, including singer Ed Townsend, (“For Your Love”), and Sam’s brother Charles, who with his wife Phyllis, drove Sam on tours, and co-wrote Chain Gang, which appears on the 45 single. Sam’s five children with other women were given lump sum payments and the mothers told to relinquish any claims to Sam’s estate. The 34 year-old Barbara married 20 year-old Bobby Womack, and the nightmare for Sam’s relatives were just beginning. They received anonymous threats via phone to stop snooping around looking for the titles, and that “we know where your children go to school.”
Sam’s protégés were devastated by his death, drug abuse swallowing Billy Preston and Johnny Morisette for years, an inability to perform affecting several of the Soul Stirrers, and a massive hurt that disguised itself as anger devouring his friend Lou Rawls, who turned to domestic violence against his family. Sam’s broken hearted mother died a year later. The worst blow for them came from the media that seemed comfortable with the official police reports, never questioning anything, blindly accepting the pigeon-holing of Sam Cooke as attempted rapist, kidnapper, flasher, and domestic abuser of an older woman. Much of his music was shelved for years. It wasn’t until A Change is Gonna Come became an anthem for President Obama’s election as the first black President of the United States, and Sam’s music was being covered by pop, jazz, blues and rock artists alike that he became too big a chunk of American musical history, too iconic a figure in the interrelationship between civil rights and soul music.
Full article here: LINK
It's a great article. Read it all.
c00n ass nikka JW Alexander sold Sam Cooke out and helped that snake, Allen Klein, straight up steal from Cooke.
LAPD crooked behavior didn't begin with the BIG murder.
@NinoBrown @Ol' Otis
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Womb Raider
sigh….*unzips pants*
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NoChillJones
Banned
what kind of man is her fatheAr to say something like that to her?
what kind of man is her father to say something like that to her?
. ....Something is really broke in you nikkas.
BrokePhiBroke
Superstar
Ol’Otis
The Picasso of the Ghetto
70s actress Carol Speed
DallasTxRep
Superstar
why am I just now learning this? 5x All Star too
DallasTxRep
Superstar
Not fukkery but Marvin Gaye tried out for the lions
I'm just gonna post bits and pieces
"Not long after the recording session, Gaye unleashed another bombshell. He, Barney and Farr were already musical collaborators. Now Gaye wanted them to be teammates."
"Don't even try to discourage me. Smokey [Robinson] said I'm insane, but he's hanging in with me because, you know what?" Gaye asked.
"What?" Frankie said.
"I'd rather catch a pass and score a touchdown in Tiger Stadium," Gaye said, "than rack up another gold record."
"Marvin enjoyed the players' camaraderie on and off the field, yearning for similar bonds. Barney and Farr, like Frankie, didn't believe in Gaye's sports fantasy, but they quickly realized he was as serious about trying out for the Lions as he was about having them help record "What's Going On." They sang with Marvin, so why couldn't he run routes with them?"
"
Still, Gaye fully committed himself to an intense workout regimen, running 4-5 miles per day and lifting weights. Occasionally, he'd work out at the University of Michigan. Gaye even transformed portions of his house into a gym. Farr recalled the singer moving his Rolls-Royce and other cars out of the garage to make room.
Gaye bulked up nearly 30 pounds during the training. Unlike in other periods of his life, drugs -- most notably cocaine -- were absent. Gaye also understood this was a long shot. But he wanted his NFL dream to be taken seriously. For that to happen, Gaye had to take the process seriously.
He trained with Farr, Barney and future Hall of Fame receiver Charlie Sanders. In addition to the university and Gaye's garage, they trained at parks and local high schools, anywhere a productive workout could take place. Athletic limitations and all, he wanted this. Badly."
"Gaye didn't waste a second before selling himself in the interview. His confidence beamed even brighter than his suit: He told Schmidt he believed he could not only start but score a touchdown the first time he touched the ball.
Schmidt asked whether he had any footage of when he played in college. Gaye never attended college. What about high school? Marvin never played in high school either. He dropped out at 17 and enlisted in the Air Force." He bugged out
"
Before beginning his tryout, in front of about 20 people on the field and in the bleachers, Marvin said a prayer with Barney and Farr. Whatever happened, he could accept the outcome. Gaye had set a goal and achieved it: He'd get a shot at playing in the NFL alongside two of his closest friends.
He acted like the consummate pro, running routes and lining up wherever asked. For someone who never played competitive football, he was decent. But decent wasn't good enough in Schmidt's mind.
Privately, Schmidt imagined the wood-layers of their day -- Deacon Jones, Chuck Howley or dikk Butkus -- violently greeting one of America's foremost musicians running across the middle. Marvin would've been a moving target. That was too much burden for any coach's conscience.
Gaye didn't receive a training camp invite. His tryout was the end of the fantasy. He would go back to a recording studio and watch Farr and Barney ply their trade on Sundays."
Marvin Gaye's NFL tryout
Ol’Otis
The Picasso of the Ghetto
yeah after Tammi Terrell died he really lost his mind
Pitfalls0117
Invokana Trump
Y'all gone have to read the whole Miles autobiography if you want to keep up with all the fukkery
For now I'll drop this gem of an excerpt from the autobiography about a young Miles hanging out with Charlie Parker back when Miles first came to New York from St Louis:
"He was a great and genius musician, man, but he was also on of the slimiest and greediest motherfukkers who ever lived in this world, at least that I ever met. He was something.
I remember one time we was coming down to The Street to play from uptown and Bird had this white bytch in the back of the taxi with us. He had done already shot up a lot of heroin and now the motherfukker’s eating chicken— his favorite food — and drinking whiskey and telling the bytch to get down and suck his dikk. Now, I wasn’t used to that kind of shyt back then— I was hardly even drinking, I think I had just started smoking— and I definitely wasn’t into drugs yet because I was only nineteen years old and hadn’t seen no shyt like that before. Anyway, Bird noticed that I was getting kind of uptight with the woman sucking all over his dikk and everything, and him sucking on her p*ssy. So he asked if something was wrong with me, and if his doing this was bothering me. When I told him that I felt uncomfortable with them doing what they were doing in front of me, with her licking and slapping her tongue like a dog all over his dikk and him making all that moaning noise in between taking bites of chicken, I told him, “Yeah, it’s bothering me.” So you know what that motherfukker said? He told me that if it was bothering me, then I should turn my head and not pay attention I couldn’t believe that shyt, that he actually said that to me. The cab was real small and we all three were in the backseat, so where was I supposed to turn m head? What I did was to stick my head outside the taxi window, but I could still hear them motherfukkers getting down and in between, Bird smacking his lips all over that fried chicken. Like I said, he was something, all right."
Playeroni
Aka Nasty Neighbor #CREEPLIFE
He definitely doesn't have handles ,everybody know you supposed to keep ur head up when dribbling
Marvin could hoop, too!
I bet Jesse Jackson was awful.
