August 12, 2010
(Posterous video) Wayne Cochran was one of America's most energetic, exciting entertainers...But the fast life ruined him...Then he swiped a Bible....
was one of America's
exciting entertainers...But the fast life ruined him...
Then he swiped a Bible....
Wayne Cochran was one of America's most energetic and exciting entertainers.
But the fast life ruined him.
Then he swiped a Bible.
DO YOU LOVE THE LORD?
DO YOU KNOW WHO THAT GUY is WHO ADVERTISES DIABETES MEDICINE AND WHAT HIS NAME IS? BECAUSE IF THIS WASN'T ALREADY THE BEST MOST FREAKIN' HOLY ROLLIN' VIDEO I'VE FOUND BY SHEER INTERVENTION ON THE BACK PAGE OF A SHUT DOWN SOUTH FLORIDA 'ALL-DENOMINATIONAL' ($1s,$5s,$10s) EVANGELICAL HIDEAWAY FOR THE WILDEST MAN IN SHOWBIZ. THE MAN WHOSE HAIR MADE ELVIS FEEL INSECURE...MR. WAYNE COCHRAN! PARDON...
REV. WAYNE COCHRAN!!!!!!!!!!
AND LOOK! GOD IS GREAT. HERE ARE SOME POSTS FROM AND HERE'S HIS HIGHNESS ON JACKIE GLEASON!
- I'M BUSTIN' OUT IN GLOSSALALIA AND SPEAKIN' IN TONGUES AT THE SAME TIME. HOBAMAMAMAMAMAM
NEXT STOP YOUTUBE, THEN OFF FOR THE TALK SHOW CIRCUIT WITH MY SWF FILE IN MY BRIEFCASE FULL OF INFERIOR MP4s. YES LORD!
There were times back in the mid-Seventies when Wayne Cochran would wake up in the middle of the night, cold and clammy, soaked with sweat, terrified. He'd run to the bathroom and just lose it, his moist hands gripping the back of the toilet bowl, puking his insides out, thinking seriously about suicide as he cleaned up the mess. Not long before those nocturnal episodes, Cochran had been one of the most popular and well-paid entertainers in America, a pompadoured icon of blue-eyed soul and a veteran of a nightclub circuit that stretched from the hotel lounges of Miami to the casino showrooms of Las Vegas. He and his well-honed, razor-sharp band, the C.C. Riders, attracted the elite of the film and music industry, from Jackie Gleason to Louis Armstrong, from Frank Sinatra to Barbra Streisand. But Wayne Cochran had become a scared man, addicted to pills and addled by alcohol. The rigor of his nonstop touring schedule was taking its toll. Divorced once already, he lost his second wife -- she left him and took the kids with her -- and one of his business associates was sucking his bank account dry. And while the bills piled up, Cochran noticed that the crowds were getting smaller as disco turned his Sixties-based R&B into a dusty, archaic relic of the past. Amid the fog of too much coke and too many drinks, he could see the end looming. He decided he wasn't afraid of dying; he was afraid of living. "I remember dreading the thought of living another 30 or 40 years," Cochran recalls nearly twenty years later, his thick Georgia drawl adding drama to the memory. "I had this absolute fear of tomorrow. I had had everything. I had gone from nothing to everything and was heading back to nothing. I got to the point of attempted suicide, because when your past is more exciting to you than the future, then you're basically dead. And there was the humiliation of knowing your mama was going to find out the truth about you, that you weren't that good little boy. You just want to get out. You start wondering if there's an answer out there for you." And Cochran found one. God gave it to him. The Voice for Jesus ministries is a 22,000-square-foot operation that rests on a wooded stretch of NW 159th Street in North Miami. It's the third location for this growing Pentecostal church, which Wayne Cochran -- Pastor Wayne Cochran -- founded in 1981 with his second wife Monica. Every Sunday morning anywhere from 350 to 500 parishioners of all races gather to sing praises to the heavens and take part in a multimedia explosion of faith that mixes a down-home gospel celebration with the spectacle of the most impassioned and showbiz-savvy televangelists. There's a twenty-member choir and a four-piece band, video projectors flashing images on the wall behind the stage, and dramatic track lighting. Even the foyer is a studied exercise in design; it resembles an idyllic Southern town, from the white-picket fences to small trees strung with Christmas lights. Certainly the ministry's original incarnation was hardly so lavish. "September 9, 1981, was the day the State of Florida gave me my first corporate nonprofit number, and that night we had a meeting in the living room of my house with fourteen people," Cochran remembers from his spacious office, the walls of which are covered with various proclamations and accreditations, as well as family photographs and some framed mementos of his years in the secular world of rock and roll. He is positioned behind a long, wide desk, dressed in gray slacks, a white polo shirt, and a loose-cut black sport coat. His right hand reaches habitually to stroke his thin white mustache. In conversation Cochran looks you square in the eye; his words come casually but are measured, each thought contemplated before presentation. "We borrowed six folding chairs and I took the back seat out of a conversion van. We had pretzels and chips and dip and drinks. I played the guitar, sang a few songs, and taught from the Bible. That's where all this came from." Cochran isn't the first entertainer to find refuge in the comfortable confines of Christianity. Still, his reawakening provides an unexpected turnaround to a tumultuous life spent on the merciless road of one-nighters -- a happy if unpredictable ending for an unlikely conversion candidate. Cochran was born in 1939 in Thomaston, a small town in central Georgia. The only son of T.A. and Minnie Lee Cochran, Wayne was raised in a home that for the most part was devoid of the Christian influence. His parents were believers, he says, but his family seldom went to church. "We had a Bible in the house, but nobody ever read it," he explains. Instead of religion, young Wayne -- shy and reserved, with an interest in football and basketball -- turned to music. The family radio boomed with the honky-tonk rhythms of Ernest Tubb and Hank Snow, and after taking a few piano and guitar lessons, Cochran formed his first band. "I got a couple of guys from the neighborhood interested in playing, so we put a little band together and learned some songs," Cochran says. "We were the Blue Cats, and our first bass was a number-two washtub with a broomstick and a piece of trout-line wire. We'd play around on the weekends on front porches and in people's living rooms. Then I got another band together, a four-piece called the Rocking Capris. We got a job playing at the Veterans Club on Friday night, where all the city folk would go. We made $50, $12.50 apiece. Now remember, my dad was only making $25 to $30 dollars a week working in a textile mill, so I thought, 'Man, this is it.'" Cochran dropped out of school in the ninth grade to devote himself full-time to music, and it didn't taken long for him to outgrow the minuscule music scene in Thomaston. By the late Fifties, he had headed a hundred or so miles southeast to Macon. Once there he cut a few sides for some local labels, including "Last Kiss," a Cochran-written song that failed to launch its creator but became a hit in 1964 for J. Frank Wilson and the Cavaliers and in 1973 for the Canadian pop group Wednesday. Cochran also struck up a friendship with a young Macon-based soul singer named Otis Redding, who, at that point in his nascent career, was singing in the Pinetoppers, led by local guitarslinger Johnny Jenkins. A 1960 single by the group -- a raucous piece of Southern-fried R&B called "Shout Bamalama," issued on the Confederate label -- featured Cochran sitting in with the band on bass. (The song was also published by his Cochran Music Company.) After Redding left Macon to become a soul legend in Memphis, Cochran formed a band of his own to take on the road. He relocated the quartet to Bossier City, Louisiana, for an extended stint at an R&B club called Sax's Boom Boom Room, where he augmented the lineup with a horn section and rechristened the unit the C.C. Riders. The name was short for the Cochran Circuit Riders, but it didn't hurt that R&B singer Chuck Willis had a huge stroll hit in 1957 with a song by the same name. The Riders started touring immediately, crisscrossing the country by bus and hitting seemingly every nightclub, showroom, and roadhouse joint in the country. They played a frenetic kind of R&B that was based on the airtight dynamics and blues-baked wallop of James Brown and his Famous Flames. Cochran's frantically paced shows were patterned after Brown's energetic concerts, just as he borrowed some of Brown's dexterous and intricately choreographed moves. Cochran, though, made everything faster, louder; everything was bigger, from the size of his carefully coiffed 'do to the size of his band. And for white audiences reluctant to venture across the tracks to hear Brown and his black R&B contemporaries, Cochran offered a powerful and impassioned shot of blue-eyed soul, not unlike what the Righteous Brothers and Mitch Ryder's Detroit Wheels would soon be taking to the top of the pop charts. In 1964 Cochran moved the band once again, this time to Miami, where they debuted at the grand opening of the Barn, one of the city's favored R&B haunts in North Bay Village. Cochran and the band began to hone their intense live performances. "Back then," Cochran remembers, "the big thing was to be a dance band. If the people weren't dancing, you didn't work. But when they're dancing, they don't see you, they don't watch you. So what we'd do, during the big dance songs -- things like 'Shout' -- I would go out on the dance floor and the horn players would follow me. I'd drop down on my knees and they'd form a circle around me. Then everybody would stop dancing and start watching, and we just kept doing that until we became a show band, where people sat down or stood at the dance floor and just watched us.
much more of this fantastic article on WC after the praydieu