YOU ARE STILL BEAUTIFUL, JOE

I know, I know, Joe Cocker died last year, December 22 2014, I think; but I was looking through some old stuff and I found this piece which I wrote 20 YEARS AGO. And I still agree with myself. So consider this a late farewell to a remarkable talent.

YOU ARE STILL BEAUTIFUL, JOE

In 1972 I had no faith; I returned my ticket and got a refund because they said Joe Cocker was being deported, the concert was off. In the end, of course, the concert went ahead, but I and my equally craven friends missed out. In 1995 it was therefore important to go to hear Joe. I know, he’s been in town a couple of times since 1972, but it didn’t seem to matter as much as now. I teeter on the threshold of 40, and reminders of my youth are so much more poignant than they were 10 years ago.

So I paid my $47 plus booking fee for my ticket- I could have had it for $12 in 1972, but that’s the price you pay for not standing firm, and they say that the almost-cancelled concert was his best ever, too- and waited impatiently for the Big Night. I discovered all sorts of unsuspected Cocker fans who were going to be there, or wished they could be there, or would have gone with me had I told them about it etc; there was a lot of interest.

I’m glad I didn’t read the nasty little review in the Age, not that I would have missed out again. Yes, he’s old, grey, balding, fat, ugly and twitchy; OK, he can’t hit the top notes, not that he ever really could; but the raw truth of the voice is there, and now that he’s been around so long, you can really believe him. To sing a song for 25 years and still sound like he means it is an achievement. So excited because his baby wrote him a letter! So in need of a little help from his friends! And plenty of new stuff too, big production numbers, simple solos, a great concert, and all the fans were happy. So there, mean little whippersnapper of a critic, I bet nobody will be looking up your newspaper pieces 25 years from now.

As I tell my bemused children during our rock appreciation lessons, usually conducted in the car while listening to a CD, the thing about Joe Cocker is that he has no ego. When, say, Tom Jones or Mick Jagger, or young Axl Rose, for that matter, sing, there is a strong sense of self-parody. There is always the feeling of ‘Here I am , singing this song! Aren’t I fabulous? What a presence!’, a self-consciousness which comes through especially in live performance. Not so with Joe. He opens his throat and lets the raw emotion, the anguish, the love, the despair, just pulse out; he is the song. He always was, whether drunk or drugged or swigging Evian, it made no difference. He didn’t even write the songs; he took them from others and made them his own. He grimaces, he twitches, he’s awful to watch. He doesn’t bop or hop or wiggle his butt, he just stands there awkwardly, a bit shyly, and SINGS. He’s got the best ‘AAAARRGH!’ in Rock history, he has a voice like sandpaper and gravel, and he sounds like he really, really means every word, even if you can’t quite make out some of them.

Joe, you are still beautiful to me.

Shyrla Pakula 22/10/95