The late Joe Cocker’s debut album, With A Little Help From My Friends (released 4/23/69), should be regarded as one of the finest debut albums in the history of contemporary rock. In a career that would subsequently become mottled with erratic behavior and performances, this is a thoroughly consistent piece of work, that ever-so-rare instance wherein superior musicianship matches the selection of material, the potency of both elements heightened by unobtrusive yet discerning production.
Overseen by Denny Cordell, the man who would subsequently establish Shelter Records and mentor a young Tom Petty, the result of the combined efforts involved a veritable who’s who of British session players and various other musicians of note. Steve Winwood and (to a much lesser extent) Jimmy Page are two of those who intuitively fused their talents with the stellar likes of drummer Clem Cattini and bassist Carol Kaye.
The latter appears on Cocker’s fevered rendition of “Feeling Alright,” taken from Dave Mason’s tumultuous Traffic tenure. The aforementioned man at the kit bonds with keyboardist Chris Stainton (co-author of the sole three originals of Joe’s here) to provide careful emphasis for an almost unrecognizable rendition of “Bye Bye Blackbird:” commanding attention it might not otherwise be afforded, the arrangement of this standard finds Joe wringing every last ounce of emotion from it.
Featuring Stainton plus fellow future Grease Band guitarist Henry McCullogh, “Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood” is likewise a complete and total exorcism of personal angst. And it sounds all the more so via its juxtaposition with “Do I Still Figure In Your Life:” the organ hovers around and through the latter like the shadow of doubt rendered all the darker as the Cocker’s own performance reaches into the furthest corners of his psyche.
Joe, Denny, and the company reaffirm that their artistic hearts are in the right place, with two choices from Bob Dylan’s justifiably revered body of work. This magisterial rendition of “Just Like A Woman” is heartrending, but no more so in its own way than this slow tortuous take on “I Shall Be Released;” credibly seen as a foreshadowing of Cocker’s fragile state of mind (and body) later on in his career, with fifty-five years hindsight, it sounds like an excerpt from the man’s inner dialogue.
In singing style, Cocker isn’t much less comparable to Ray Charles on the other selection of Beatles material besides the title song. The melodrama might be a bit apparent in this take of “She Came In Through The Bathroom Window.” Still, there’s no denying how it brings due attention to one of the (few) bonafide song standouts on the iconic Liverpudlian group’s final studio album Abbey Road.
Despite the extreme turbulence that affected Cocker’s career, beginning fairly early on with the Mad Dogs and Englishmen project, the native of Sheffield, England, now stands as one of the premier interpretive artists of his time (he never wrote his own material more than one that first record?). In attaining that pinnacle (and sharing it with Linda Rondstadt), Joe lied to the rumors concerning the ravages of his lifestyle: in short, he never wholly succumbed.
On the contrary, 1974’s I Can Stand A Little Rain embroidered upon the autobiographical slant of his early work, including his eponymous sophomore album. But he didn’t reach the pinnacle of his commercial success til the next decade, ironically, in a duet with Jennifer Warnes: “Up Where We Belong” (from the film An Officer and a Gentleman) won not only a Grammy, but an Academy Award.
Yet Cocker refused to rest on those laurels. Perhaps equal parts inspired and humbled by the circumstances he alternately savored and endured, he released one of the finest albums of his career in 1982: the seamless Sheffield Steel no doubt benefitted from its recording in the balmy atmosphere of the Compass Point studios in the Bahamas, but the uniformity of the production by Island Records’ owner Chris Blackwell also makes it a wholly arresting record.
Featuring the redoubtable rhythm section of bassist Robbie Shakespeare and drummer Sly Dunbar and a supporting cast also sporting Jimmy Cliff, Robert Palmer, and Adrian Belew, it is arguably the best work of Joe Cocker’s history since his earliest and for much the same reason(s): no matter who’s playing and singing, on any given tune, the musicians and vocalists all unite in service of the song(s) as the means to support the man who ultimately becomes the star of the show.
As such, the album renders moot the man’s satires (largely based on the late John Belushi’s over-the-top SNL impersonation). But the record’s unremitting passion, like the one thirteen years prior, also underlines the leverage provided by the man’s lasting impression on the mainstream, as captured in the Woodstock movie.
There he’s depicted performing–what else?–the famous cull from Sgt. Peppers provided not only the title but the modus operandi of this very first Joe Cocker outing.
