There's a brilliant documentary on Netflix called The Two Killings of Sam Cooke that goes deep on his dichotomous personas at the peak of his powers. You can find it on Netflix here, but the gist of it goes like this: the Sam Cooke promoted by his label to white, suburban homes in the 60's was leagues apart from the man who effectively built the pantheon of American soul.
Cooke, who's cherubic smile and sinless tenor allowed him to make the difficult crossover from Gospel to Soul — whatever the hell that means — was known off camera as a proud activist and entrepreneur. On tour, when he would perform for majority black audiences, this sinless, fabricated veneer would give way to the man himself. These performances that so belied the persona his audience came to know would became the stuff of legends, and furthered Cooke's ascent as one of — if not THE — definitive American soul-stirrer.
So anyway, in 1963, at the behest of RCA-Victor, Cooke arranged a show in Overtown, Miami to record his first live album (at the time Overtown, a predominantly black community, was known for its raucous nightlife and was described as Southern Florida's musical hotbed). Sans pretence, Cooke's performance was loose, uninhibited and staggering in the pure power of his voice. He joked with the crowd, ad-libbed, hollered. All that jazz. It was magical and, in one of the most soul-crushingly bone-headed decisions in the history of recorded music, his handlers at RCA deemed the recording too 'loud' and 'raw' for the delicately manicured public persona they crafted around Cooke. It would collect dust for some 23 years before anyone with sense would release it.
Live At The Harlem Square Club finally came out in 1985, and instantly garnered a reputation as a definitive work in both Cooke's catalogue, and the greater Soul oeuvre. Hell, it's one of the best live albums of all time, full stop.
This is the Sam Cooke they literally didn't want you to hear, because you'll never be able to un-hear it. Not that you'd want to.
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