Jake Brennan (0:04)

Double Elvis. All right, guys. My son just had the flu. My oldest son had a cold. I got wrecked with a cold. Then my wife got sick. So I'm sitting here going like, I can't get sick again. So I started taking grooms to help my body as flu season just started to devour our household here. And I can report back that so far, so good. Groons can help you too. Can help you create lasting habits that are going to set you up for success and keep you healthy. It's a convenient, comprehensive formula. Are you currently taking like multiple supplements a day? This isn't that. This isn't a multivitamin. It's not a greens gummy or a prebiotic. It's all those things and then some at a fraction of the price. And bonus, it tastes great. You get eight gummies in each daily snack pack. Because you can't fit the amount of nutrients that Gruins fits into just one gummy. It makes it a fun treat to have. They're vegan, they're nut free, they're gluten free, they're dairy free, no artificial colors or flavors. And most important, it's helping me out this flu season. And like I told you guys before, Groons has 41% increase in healthy gut bacteria, 75% reduction in immunity, damaging free radicals, and 91% thicker hair. I love that. Plus improved skin health and Gruens. Ingredients are backed by over 35,000 research publications. You wanted a supplement you could enjoy. This isn't a chore. It's something you look forward to. Get up to 45% off. Visit Groons Co and use code Disgraceland. If you have health insurance, you might be able to see a personal dietitian for $0 out of pocket. Nourish connects you with a dietitian that fits your needs, covered by your insurance. Nourish accepts hundreds of insurance plans and 94% of patients pay $0 out of pocket. Meet with your dietitian online and message them anytime through the Nourish app. With hundreds of five star reviews from real patients, you know you're in good hands. Find your dietitian@usenourish.com that's usenourish.com Disgraceland is a production of Double Elvis. The circumstances surrounding soul singer Sam Cooke's death have long been shrouded in mystery. The mafia did it. His jealous wife did it. The racist music industry industrial complex did it. Truth is, Sam Cooke did it. His own actions were the reason he was shot and killed by a woman he had just Physically attacked for no good reason other than the fact that he wasn't accustomed to being told no. Sam Cooke was an infinitely skilled performer, producer and businessman. His talent afforded him things beyond the material world, earthly delights that eluded mere mortals. Sam Cooke could have whatever and whoever he wanted. And Sam Cooke made great music, some of the greatest music ever made, as a matter of fact. The music you heard at the top of the show, that wasn't great music. That was a preset loop from my melotron called Slow fox tremolo organ mk2. I played you that loop because I can't afford the rights to Ringo by the actor turned singer Lorne Greene. Why would I play you that specific slice of Bonanza inspired cheese? Could I afford it? Because that was the number one song in America on December 11, 1964. And that was the day that Sam Cook, aka Mr. Wonderful, pulled his brand new red Ferrari out onto the 405 and sped fast toward the airport, kicking into gear what would become the last hours of his very short, very successful life. On this episode, Slow Fox Tremolo organs, speeding red Ferraris, Bonanza inspired cheese and Mr. Wonderful. Sam Cooke. I'm Jake Brennan and this is disgrace to those who knew him. Sam Cook was many things. A gentleman, a provider, a civil rights champion, a supremely talented producer, chart topping songwriter, whip smart businessmen and a great vocalist. But the thing that Sam had over everybody else was his ability to perform charisma and presence for days. Sam Cooke had it even back when his name was spelled C O O K, before he added the E at the end for sophistication. Before he was topping the pop charts or seen ripping through Hollywood in his cherry red Ferrari or out on the town dressed to kill in a side Devore suit. Before that, Sam Cook. There was Sam Cook, no E at the end, the polite son of a Chicago by way of Mississippi minister. Sam's dad was a fire and brimstone country preacher who took his musical family, Sam included, of course, on the road to perform at various services throughout the Midwest. The gospel touring circuit is where Sam Cooke no. E started to hone his performance chops. The point of gospel music may have been to celebrate the Lord, but the point of gospel performance was to captivate the audience and vanquish all rivals. Gospel performers were highly competitive and they had to be. The amount of talent within the scene was astounding. The five Blind Boys of Mississippi, Mahalia Jackson and the group Sam Cooke would one day join and lead. The Soul Stirrers all shared immense talent. The Five Blind Boys of Mississippi's live shows were known to be devastating. And Mahalia Jackson's talent was such that she was able to take American gospel music all over the world. And Sam Cooke, by the time he joined the Soul Stirrers at the age of 19, was a unique natural talent all of his own. Sex appeal, though subversive, was always part of gospel performance. But Sam Cooke brought a different kind of sexuality to it. It was subtle, less suggestive, more sophisticated. It was innate and as effortless as his uniquely intimate style of singing. And his singing style was indeed unique. It wasn't like what other gospel singers brought to the game. It wasn't all emotion. It wasn't all truth. Like Cupid's Arrow, Sam Cooke's voice was a shot to the heart. Like Frank Sinatra's voice, Sam's voice transcended style. It transcended technique, and it effortlessly balanced vulnerability and authority. And in doing so, it made him irresistible. Irresistible to record executives who saw in Sam a crossover into secular pop music and who wanted a big payday. Irresistible to seasoned musicians who knew a special talent when they saw it and wanted to go along for the ride. Irresistible to young musicians and young black men who saw a successful artist and a businessman who they wanted to be. And irresistible to win. Women who wanted him. Lots and lots of women wanted Sam Cooke. Forget Cupid's Arrow. With that voice, Sam Cooke may as well have been Cupid himself. When Sam was in the room, you felt his sexuality. It wasn't an accident that he was referred to as Mr. Wonderful. Mavis Staples referred to him as Sam the Seducer. Back in the Soul Stir dungeon, Sam hadn't quite graduated to bespoke suits yet, but he dressed impeccably and had that tight, processed hair. He kept himself looking good. And out on tour as a Soul Stirrer, Sam was as much a sexual conquistador as he was a gospel missionary. There were women in every town either waiting for him or waiting to meet him for the first time. Old girls, new girls, black girls, white girls. In Peter Gorilnik's excellent biography of Sam Cooke, Dream Boogie, Sam's friend James Early Bird is quoted as saying that Sam referred to white woman as snow and sleeping with black woman as shoveling coal. It was a well developed circuit, one that for a young man must have seemed boundless and unwanted. Pregnancies. Well, that was just the cost of doing business. By the time Sam was 21, he had had three different children from three different women. But it didn't matter. His image was Teflon, the out of wedlock pregnancies and rep didn't stick. His image remained squeaky clean. Shit, if that nice boy next door with the wide smile and polite manner, the one who keeps himself so clean and sings like an angel, if he wants to sleep with my granddaughter, then better him than that flashy campaign shouting southern diplomat from down on the corner. If it's got to be someone, it might as well be Sam Cooke or so went to thinking of little old lady churchgoers everywhere. Understanding the effect Sam Cooke had on people, on stage and off, is not easy. I can sit here and tell you all about his good looks, his charm, his talent, and you'll likely nod and think you understand. But to truly understand his appeal, you have to understand that Sam learned how to reach people by being a gospel singer. Which means he got to people on a spiritual level by using all of his God given gifts to shake you to your core, to hold you. His voice shot straight to the hearts of young and old women alike. As a performer, he owned you. You were enraptured. He was able to do whatever he wanted to you. You were powerless to his charms. And because of this, Sam Cooke, aka Mr. Wonderful, aka Cupid, aka Sam the Seducer, the man with the golden tongue and the unbridled libido, grew very accustomed to getting exactly what he wanted whenever he wanted it. This episode is brought to you by State Farm. You might say all kinds of stuff when things go wrong, but these are the words you really need to remember. Like a good neighbor, State Farm is there. They've got options to fit your unique insurance needs, meaning you can talk to your agent to choose the coverage you need, have coverage options to protect the things you value most, file a claim right on the State Farm mobile app, and even reach a real person when you need to talk to someone. Like a good neighbor, State Farm is there. Hey Discos. If you want more Disgraceland, be sure to listen every Thursday to our weekly After Party Bonus episode where we dig deeper into the stories we tell in our full weekly episodes. In these After Party Bonus episodes, we dive into your voicemails and texts, emails and DMs and discuss your thoughts on the wild lives and behavior of the artists and entertainers that we're all obsessed with. So leave me a message at 617-906-6638, disgracelandpodmail.com or disgracelandpod on the socials and join the conversation every Thursday in our After Party Bonus episode. Today at T Mobile, I'm joined by a special co anchor. What up everybody? It's your boy big Snoop do double G Snoop where can people go to find great deals? Head to T mobile.com and get four iPhone 16s with Apple Intelligence on us plus four lines for 25 bucks. That's quite a deal Snoop. And when you switch to T mobile you can save versus the other big guys. Comparable plans plus streaming respect when we up out of here, see how you can save on wireless and streaming versus the other big guys@t mobile.com switch Apple Intelligence requires iOS 18.1 or later. Sam had gotten what he wanted all right. A shot at the big time. It wasn't easy, but he was able to navigate his way out of the gospel scene and for the most part, avoid the dreaded sellout rap. His first single, you Send Me, went to number one on the pop charts. Not just the R and B charts, the top of the pop charts. Getting to the top sometimes seemed like a giant pain in the ass, but it was worth the sweat. Success was indeed sweet, and Sam deserved it. He was special. He knew it. When most of his peers were blowing their bread willy nilly, Sam was investing in himself. He founded his own record label, sar, and was writing and producing and giving younger soul musicians on the come up shot. He and his new manager, the very astute Alan Klein, had just swung a deal with RCA Records, where Sam Cook, a black man in 1964America, would own Sar's Master Recordings. This was a big deal. It meant power in the music industry, an industry that in the early 1960s was entirely controlled by white men and gangster con artists. Now Sam Cooke, a black man and a real artist, was also an executive producer who controlled his own future and was able to provide real opportunities for young black men and support with both his voice and his wallet, a cause that had grown dear to him. The growing civil rights movement. It had been a long time coming, for sure, but change in a lot of ways had come. Sam had come a long way from selling race records out of barbershops and shoeshine stands to hanging with Muhammad Ali and headlining the Copa. And now a stable of younger artists depended on him for guidance, material, expertise, tour support, financial support. It was heavy, and heavy lay the crown. Plus, there was still his own career that needed minding. His current album for rca, Ain't that Good News, was ending its cycle, and Sam had plans for his greatest creative achievement yet, a blues album that perfectly melded his patented sophisticated soul with the down home gut punch of blues artists he loved like John Lee Hooker and Muddy Waters. It was unclear how Sam was going to pull this off, but he was obsessed. Some days it was all I could think of. But finding the space to think and be creative was not easy. There was always something. It was a lot, the investment in himself. It was paying off, but man, it was stressful sometimes. He'd married Barbara Campbell, one of the mothers of his six children, thinking marriage would add a sense of order to his life when in effect, all it did was add more chaos. The home, despite the wall to wall carpet, the brand new hi Fi and the pool out back, was a straight up battlefield. When Barbara was around, that woman was almost as restless as he was. The tension was thick and ever present in the phone. It never stopped ringing. The Valentino's bus had broken down. Out on tour, little Billy Preston needed money for a new organ. Johnny Taylor was pissed off again about something or another. And Martin was calling. He wanted to talk to Sam about performing at a benefit for the Southern Christian Leadership Conference early next year. Sam would do anything for Martin Luther King Jr. But right now, the civil rights movement would have to wait. Sam needed to blow off some steam and get his head right. We'll be right back after this word. Word. Word. My dad works in B2B marketing. He came by my school for career day and said he was a big roas man. Then he told everyone how much he loved calculating his return on ad spend. My friends still laugh at me to this day. Not everyone gets B2B, but with LinkedIn you'll be able to reach people who do. Get $100 credit on your next ad campaign. Go to LinkedIn.com results to claim your credit. That's LinkedIn.com results. Terms and conditions apply. LinkedIn the place to be to be At New Balance, we believe if you run, you're a runner, however you choose to do it. Because when you're not worried about doing things the right way, you're free to discover your way. And that's what running is all about. Run your way@newbalance.com Running this episode is brought to you by 20th Century Studios. The Amateur when his wife is murdered, Charlie Heller, the CIA's most brilliant computer analyst, must trek across the globe and use his only weapon, his intelligence, to hunt down her killers and enact revenge. Starring Academy Award winner Rami Malek and Academy Award nominee Laurence Fishburne. The Amateur rated PG13 only in theaters April 11. Sam Cooke's Ferrari hit the valet at Martone's in Hollywood sometime on the evening of December 10, 1964. He'd meant to get dinner but never made it to the table from the bar. He'd been swarmed by friends and hangers on. The drinks were flowing and Sam was leading the bar in sing along after sing along until a pretty young woman in one of the booths caught his eye. Sam was at her side in no time with a drink. She was just as tight. And of course, he was hers. With Sam's energy now focused on the task at hand, the vibe in the bar had died down. A change of scenery was needed. So it was decided they'd hit PJs over on Santa Monica. Now, after midnight, Sam was at least four or five martinis deep. The woman, Eliza Boyer, was stunning, even more so around closing time and was garnering attention from other men besides Sam. This did not please Mr. Wonderful. A fight nearly ensued. Fuck the bars. Let's get some privacy. The two jumped in Sam's Ferrari and were out on the 405 in no time. He was driving fast, heading out of town. Where were they going? Aliza was staying downtown and don't worry about that. Relax. Enjoy the ride. Aliza was worried. She told Sam she wanted to get out. He was clearly drunk, driving like a lunatic and pulling off of a bottle of scotch and apparently headed somewhere out by the airport. She had no idea where. But Sam had an idea. Bassie and a hotel. It was perfect. That little place that the Sims twins first told him about. Remote, quiet, cheap and indiscriminate of color or marital status. No last call, Lotharios to loosen the vibe while trying to get little Miss Strange to help him blow off his steam. But Aliza seriously wasn't having it. It didn't matter. She'd come around. They always did. He was Sam Cooke, Mr. Fucking Wonderful. The Ferrari sloppily roared into the Hacienda parking lot at 2:35am Sam hit the motel manager's office looking like a damn fool. Wild eyed, anxious drunk to the motel manager, exactly like every other man who checked in at 2 in the morning. She gave him a room key and noticed the girl in the Ferrari with the Jacqueline Kennedy scarf and glasses in the motel room. Things were not going as Sam planned. Aleeza, despite her googly eyed bullshit back at the bar, wasn't picking up what Sam was putting down. Sam had had enough. He was impatient, horny. He grabbed her, groping, kissing, all hands, no heart. Gone was a subtlety he was known for on stage and on record. It was replaced by base carnal desire that was obvious and boring. The same as all the other ordinary men she'd known. Aleeza was grossed out. She wanted no part of it. She wanted Sam to take her home now. But Sam wouldn't have it. She'd come around. They always did. He was the Sam Cooke executive seducer. It was only a matter of time, he thought. Besides, he had to piss. He hit the bathroom to give little Miss Strange a minute to collect herself. Instead, she collected her clothes and got the fuck out of there in a hurry. She split, ran out of the room half naked and just her bra and slip and through the parking lot, past the motel manager's office and out onto the street. And just like that, gone in the wind. Sam came out of the bathroom to an empty room. No Strange. The door was open. Sam was naked and his clothes were gone and his wallet. What the fuck? He grabbed all he could find, his blazer and one shoe, scooped up his car keys, jumped in the Ferrari and squealed over to the manager's office where he imagined Lisa to be hiding out in again. He parked like an asshole, jumped out of the car, left the driver's side door open and with one shoe on, and with little Sam Cooke hanging out beneath his blazer, he began pounding on the door. Let me in. Where is she? The fuck. Where are my clothes? She took my wallet. On the other side of the door was 55 year old Bertha Lee Franklin. She checked Sam in earlier and knew knew exactly how up the fool on the other side of the door was. She was nonplussed and was on the phone with her boss at the moment, as she always was at this time of night. So she ignored, grew more upset, started shouting again. She ain't in here. Yes she is. I know she is. Let me in, mister. There ain't no one in here but me. That's when Sam started ramming the door with his shoulder. Three tries and he came pouring into the joint like a bag of banged up bricks. Bertha Lee was stunned. Still on the phone she told this naked fool to get out and that the woman he was looking for wasn't there. But Sam, blocked and blue balled, was not hearing it. He was leering over her shoulder into the apartment adjacent to the motel manager's office. He knew she was in there and now thought that this woman was in in on whatever scam was being run on him. After all, why the hell else wouldn't that woman sleep with him? Where the fuck was she? And where are my clothes, Mister? She ain't in here. You gotta go. Sam snapped. He grabbed Bertha Lee by the shoulders and started shaking her. The struggle intensified. The phone fell to the floor. Bertha Lee tried biting, scratching. Sam threw her to the ground and pounced, still naked and even more enraged. But Bertha Lee was able to get out from under him and wobble to her feet. She knew where the gun was. It was there for a reason. This reason, to fend off some wild eyed, horny, drunk fool in the middle of the night. She grabbed the.22 resting on the television, and as Sam started to come at her again, she aimed and pulled the trigger. The first shot whistled over his head, the second past his shoulder, and the third straight into the heart of Cupid. Stunned, Sam Cooke looked up at Bertha Lee Franklin and said, lady, you shot me. Sam fell to his knees and for a moment seemed subdued, but then, in a last burst of adrenaline, attacked Bertha Lee again. This time would be his last. She could sense that life was a fleeting proposition for this naked fool and showed mercy. She dropped the gun, grabbed a broom, and gave Sam a simple oops upside the head to keep him at bay. It was all that was needed. He fell over and died. The official cause of death? A shot to the heart. Bertha Lee Franklin shot and killed Sam Cooke. The court cleared her of any charges. The homicide was ruled justifiable, but the court of public opinion thought otherwise. Bertha Lee received numerous death threats, was forced to quit her job, go into hiding, and was sued by Sam Cooke's widow for her husband's funeral expenses. A husband who was one of the most successful pop stars in the world. A husband she grieved over for exactly three months before marrying his best friend, Bobby Womack. But Bertha Lee didn't deserve this treatment. Not according to the jury. That took all of 20 minutes before coming back with a ruling of justifiable homicide. Why? Because she was the victim, not Sam Cooke. Because she voluntarily took and passed a lie detector test, as did her boss, the owner of the hotel, Evelyn Carr, who was on the phone with her at the time the incident went down. Then at 3:15am as soon as the line disconnected, in the middle of the melee, when Sam was attacking Bertha Lee, Evelyn Carr, her boss, called the police to report what she heard on the other end of the motel phone in. Her call came minutes after Liza Boyer had called the police from a payphone out on the street by the hotel to report that she had been kidnapped. Furthermore, as soon as the police arrived on the scene, Aleeza emerged from the shadows to voluntarily speak to them about everything that had just happened. These are facts corroborated by phone records in the Los Angeles Police Department. Facts that don't sound like the acts of thieves conspiring to rob a pop star. Which was the theory being pushed by Sam's friends, family and management. The excuse making machine started up immediately, and frankly, it still hums. The thinking from Sam Cooke apologist goes like Sam was high class. Why would we believe these women? One, Bertha Lee Franklin, was working in this fleabag motel, and the other, Eliza Boyer, was hanging out in it with a married man. And Eliza Boyer was arrested a month later for prostitution. She was a pro, so she was probably also a scam artist. She had to have taken Sam's wallet, scooped it up along with his clothes when she made her hasty escape from the room. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know she claims she grabbed all his stuff by accident, but come on, do you believe her? As a matter of fact, I do believe her. If it were all a scam on Aleeza's part, why would she have called the police to claim she'd been kidnapped? At that time, she had no idea Sam had been shot. The smart move would have been to disappear and not involve the police. But when the cops showed up, she did, too, right away. To deal with the problem, let's assume the apologists are right about Aliza, that it was a scam, that she robbed him. It doesn't erase the fact that Sam Cooke physically attacked Bertha Lee Franklin, broke down her door, and entered naked into her office like a madman, enraged over not getting what he wanted. Sex with a woman he'd been worked up into a frenzy over. When I started thinking about Sam Cooke's death, I thought I'd write about the mysteries surrounding his murder. He was set up by the two women. His wife did it so she could marry Bobby Womack. The mafia did it because Sam was gaining too much power in the music industry. Please. A half hour's worth of research easily debunks these theories. The only mystery here is why we as a culture are still letting Sam Cooke escape. There is a victim here, but it ain't Mr. Wonderful. It's Bertha Lee Franklin. Yet history doesn't regard Sam Cooke as a lecherous creep. Instead, history shifts the blame to his victim under the cloud of conspiracy. Because in the pantheon of pop music, Sam Cooke is a sacred cow. He's Teflon. You can't touch him. He did so much good. He was a civil rights champion. He was a proud black entrepreneur. He was immensely talented and intelligent. Yes, all of this is true. And all this deservedly should be part of his legacy. But why can't it be both? Why can't we reconcile the artist and the public figure with the physically abusive creep? Are we incapable of nuance as a society? Why does Sam Cooke's legacy have to be one or the other? What if this crime happened today? How would we, as a society, treat Sam Cooke's murder under the exact same circumstances? In the era of MeToo, we'd bury him in the court of public opinion and throw Bertha Lee Franklin a parade. We'd put her on the COVID of Time magazine for standing up for herself, which would be the right thing to do. Everyone loved Sam Cooke. They still do, even in death and in life, because he was so beloved. He was used to getting exactly what he wanted, and when he didn't, he couldn't handle it, acted like a mania and ultimately met an early demise. But in the end, he still got the legacy I'm guessing he would have wanted. And his victim, Bertha Lee Franklin, got the shaft, which is unfortunate and some would say disgrace. I'm Jake Brennan and this is Disgraceland. Disgraceland was created by yours truly and is produced in partnership with Double Elvis. Credits for this episode can be found on the show notes page@gracelandpod.com if you're listening as a Disgraceland All Access member, thank you for supporting the show. We really appreciate it. And if not, you can become a member right now by going to Disgracelandpod.com membership members can listen to every episode of Disgraceland Ad Free. Plus you'll get one brand new exclusive episode every month, weekly unscripted bonus episodes, special audio collections, and early access to merchandise and events. Visit disgracelandpod.com membership for details, rate and review the show and follow us on Instagram, TikTok, Twitter and Facebook Disgracelandpod and on YouTube@YouTube.com Gracelandpod Rocka Rolla He's a bad, bad man.