Special Guest Blogger: Nat King Cole

Hello, darling. About time i was asked to do this but but no I had to wait behind the woman who was in MASH! Priorities, people.
Anyway. I know the profound injustice of being remembered mostly for The Christmas Song which I recorded on a 98-degree August day, while wearing a woolen jumper and mentally hallucinating chestnuts. Roasting. On an open fire. Bless my heart.
Let’s start at the beginning, being born in Alabama in 1919, son of a preacher, raised on hymns and the firm belief that dancing was probably a sin. My father thought I was going to be a minister.
I started on the organ, played in church, in the school band and later in speakeasies in the King Cole Trio, I named it after myself. Bold? Perhaps but we were a hit. Piano, guitar, bass and me, crooning like a love letter dipped in honey.
And the ladies? Oh, the ladies. If I had a shilling for every time a woman swooned after I sang Mona Lisa, I could’ve bought my own island and declared it a sovereign nation.
Being a Black man with a voice like warm cognac in mid-century America was… complicated. After being spotted by Bing Crosby and signed to Capitol Records, I broke barriers like the first Black person to host a national TV show only to have it cancelled after a year because advertisers weren’t ready because apparently America wasn’t ready for a black man singing love songs to a national audience.
After moving to a house in Los Angeles and days later finding a burning cross on my front lawn and my dog dead from eating poisoned meat and an attempted kidnapping i decided i wasn't ready for America either so I pivoted.
I went big on albums and became the velvet-voiced diplomat of integration with songs such as Unforgettable, When I fall in Love, Smile, . Some folks said I wasn’t Black enough but frankly, I was just a man who liked good suits, fine music, and the occasional martini.
And then the end. Lung cancer. Bit of a buzzkill, really but i knew smoking was bad. I mean, they put a warning on the packs these days in bold, capital letters but back then Cigarettes were practically a fashion accessory. You weren’t a proper singer if you weren’t coughing elegantly between takes.
I died in 1965. Age 45. Too young, really and just when I was getting good at golf.