The Pop Corporation

We were listening to ‘Come On, Eileen’ by Dexy’s the other day, and for the first time ever, wondered what that opening line was all about. If you’re not familiar, its: “Poor old Johnnie Ray; sounded sad upon the radio, moved a million hearts in mono. Our mothers cried, sang along, who’d blame them?“

That’s not your ordinary opening line, but then, Kevin Rowland isn’t you’re average songwriter. With that, we decided to have a look into this Johnnie Ray because, who exactly is he?

The singer was a star in a pre-Elvis pop world, with many citing him as a pivotal player in what would become Rock ‘N’ Roll, and was the soundtrack to a thing that hadn’t existed before the World Wars – teenagers. Compared to some of the gyrating pretty boys that followed him, Ray was tall, partially deaf and slightly awkward, lending a fragility to his soaring songs.

Tony Bennett was a fan, referring to Johnny as the “father of rock and roll”, and Ray cut his teeth singing in his early teens, getting a following playing small clubs that were predominantly Black in Detroit. He quickly caught the pop market’s imagination, having hits with songs like ‘The Little White Cloud That Cried’ and ‘Cry’.

The latter, a melodramatic and utterly wonderful song which showcased Ray’s magnificent connection with the words he sang. He didn’t simply sing them – he became them. While he may not have the unhinged, wild qualities of say, Little Richard or Gene Vincent, Ray’s performances must have seemed huge compared to the restraint of post-war swing performers.

However, this isn’t just the story of a singer everyone seemed to have forgotten all about. Why was he forgotten? Well, let’s get into it.

Ray wasn’t a natural superstar, with a childhood where he felt isolated thanks to his hearing loss (which hadn’t been diagnosed until he was a teenager, wearing a hearing aid). It wasn’t until he performed in jazz clubs that he felt like he started to belong. In a radio interview in ’67, he praised the Black community that he shared those evenings with, saying: “If it hadn’t been for the Black community, there really wouldn’t be any Johnnie Ray around. At that time, I was supported by virtually all Black people who were my friends. I didn’t have any white friends. I was literally fed and clothed and kept in that community.”

Is this a tale of prejudice, with racist Whites shunning him? While it can’t have helped, it was a different type that would begin to hamper Johnnie’s life.

During his club years, he ended up in jail for soliciting. Johnnie asked a plain-clothed police officer if he’d like to go back to him room for a drink, and that was enough to set the wheels in motion for one of the world’s cruellest tricks. Ray pled guilty, paid the $25 fine, and more arrests for solicitation were to come.

While a star, the press would nickname him “the Prince of Wails,” “Mr. Emotion,” and “the Nabob of Sob.” He was having hits, but his private life was turbulent. Would his legions of fans accepted him for who he was? We can never tell, but by the same token, we cannot blame him for wanting to keep private things private.

Teaming up with big time music producers, considered hit-makers of the ’50s, sadly, rock ‘n’ roll passed Johnnie Ray by, because it was decided the whole thing was poor quality and a mere flash in the pan. Friends watched as the singer was turned into “white bread”.

By the time the ’50s were wrapping up, Johnnie’s star was all but faded, surpassed by Elvis & Co, who would soon be surpassed by the British Beat Boom. All the while, a hearing impaired closeted man wrestled with more than just a dimming spotlight. There were movie roles, starring alongside Marilyn Monroe and more, but alas, it was only fans in the UK and Australia who stood by him, albeit in smaller numbers than previously imagined.

The world was Johnnie Ray’s, but those around him weren’t ready.

While his initial obscurity saved him from becoming a notorious homosexual man, rumours dogged him. There were women. He married Marilyn Morrison – the daughter of a nightclub owner – making front page splashes in national newspapers. Knowing of his sexuality, Morrison would inform friends that she was confident she’d ‘straighten’ him out. The two divorced.

There were more arrests, one more notably in a gay bar, to which he seems to have got off with a charge because the bar was a well-known haunt for musicians of all stripes. Friends, meanwhile, would privately acknowledge that Ray was bisexual.

He would have another substantial relationship with Dorothy Kilgallen, taking in her child who had been disowned by her birth father. Kilgallen would stay by Ray’s side despite persistent rumours of affairs, even bringing a male lover into their home in Manhattan. When she caught the two in bed together, she decided it was time to keep face, but mentally check out of the scenario.

And again, it was Ray’s relative obscurity that would keep this from being national news.

Ray’s career trundled on, and after a European concert tour with Judy Garland, the two formed a friendship where Ray would even be the best man to her marriage to Mickey Deans. As the ’60s and ’70s rolled along, Ray would make occasional television appearances, but he was largely a forgotten man.

The ’80s came along and he would make a fist of reviving his career, with big band tours, leading Ringo Starr to point out that, in the early days of The Beatles, they only loved “Chuck Berry, Little Richard, and Johnnie Ray.” A brief cameo as a taxi driver in Billy Idol’s ‘Don’t Need A Gun’ video, in which he’s namchecked, would be another slither of success.

Keeping his sexuality under wraps, a wasted career and bad advice, deaths and his own inner darkness and solitude would see Ray struggle with alcoholism for most of his adult life. It wasn’t until the ’90s when Ray tried to get help, checking in a centre to try and get sober. However, his liver would fail in February ’90, and the world lost one of its most important singers.

His legacy would build a small amount of steam in the years after his death, eventually culminating in a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.

Music journalist Robert A. Rodriguez noted: “Though barely remembered today, to the fifties record buying public Ray was something of a former-day Leonard Cohen or M*rrissey, creating a body of work that was the very definition of depressionfest. With titles like “What’s the Use”, “Oh, What a Sad, Sad Day”, and “Here I Am Broken Hearted”, coupled with a stage show that was as emotionally draining as a revival meeting, Ray dominated the pre-rock & roll charts.”

Mentioned in a Billy Idol song. The opening lines of ‘Come On Eileen’. A cultural touchstone in Billy Joel’s ‘We Didn’t Start The Fire’. Mentioned in ‘I Want To Be Evil’ by Eartha Kitt (“I want to sing songs like the guy who cries”). Bob Dylan, saying: “He was the first singer whose voice and style, I guess, I totally fell in love with. There was just something about the way he sang ‘When Your Sweetheart Sends A Letter’…that just knocked me out. I loved his style, wanted to dress like him too.”

Proto-rock legend. A story of tragedy. Johnnie, we’ll remember you.