The boy from a smog-drenched city who sang through addiction and into our hearts

didn’t hint at greatness—his voice hadn’t even fully settled—but the drive was already there. Persistent. Quiet. Unshakable.

For years, nothing came of it.

He scraped together money for demo tapes that went nowhere, borrowed equipment, and played for crowds more interested in their drinks than the stage. Even when Decca Records gave him a chance in 1964 continue reading …