DISGRACELAND - Spade Cooley: Jealousy, Torture, Murder

Episode Date: October 30, 2018

Spade Cooley was one of Postwar America’s biggest celebrities and most talented musicians. He was also a violent drunk and homicidal psychopath with no heart. Mean, jealous, abusive, and almost totally driven by the deep-seated insecurity that he wasn’t good enough for any of the women who flocked to see him in concert, on television, and on the movie screen, Spade Cooley couldn’t bear the thought of his wife with another man so he he did the unthinkable—and what followed was, at the time, the trial of the century. To see the full list of contributors, see the show notes at www.disgracelandpod.com.   Sign up for our newsletter and get the inside dirt on events, merch and other awesomeness - GET THE NEWSLETTER Follow Jake and DISGRACELAND: Instagram YouTube X (formerly Twitter)  Facebook Fan Group TikTok  See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

This is exactly right. Double Elvis. Disgraceland is a production of Double Elvis. A quick heads up for those who may be triggered by tales of sexual abuse and violence. This episode of Disgraceland depicts both. The story about the King of Western Swing, Spade Cooley, is insane. He was a violent, drunk, and homicidal psychopath who at the time was one of the biggest stars in the country. His TV show reached millions.

He appeared in countless movies, scored numerous. top 10 hits, and once hosted Frank Sinatra as a favor to help Frank get his career going again. But Spade Cooley had no heart. Spade Cooley cared only about Spade Cooley. He was mean, jealous, abusive, and almost totally driven by the deep-seated insecurity that he wasn't good enough for any of the women in his life, a fear that in the end proved to be tragic for both him and his family. But Spade Cooley made great music. That music you heard at the top of the show, that wasn't great music. That was a preset loop from my Melotron called Slow Walt's Guitar Low, MK2.

I played you that loop because I can't afford the license for Wedding Bell Blues by the Fifth Dimension. And why would I play you that specific slice of champagne soul-infused cheese could I afford it? Because that was the number one song in America on November. 23rd, 1969. And that was the day that the heartless spade coolly stepped out on stage for the last time. On this, the final episode of Season 2 of Disgraceland, Psychopathic Jealousy, Champagne Soul, slow waltzing guitars and the king of Western swing, the heartless spade coolly. I'm Jake Brennan, and this is Disgraceland. You got to shake your hips and snap your fingers too. Move them shoulders.

Of course, moving them shoulders was a ruse to force her to shimmy her breasts. She was 18 and beautiful. Shy, though, not quite jailbate, but quite positively a cocktease. Spade Cooley didn't care. Yet. He dragged on his cigarette, filled his lungs, leaned back in his office chair, and studied this fine little thing in front of him. Yeah, she'd do, he thought. She'd be able to cut it in his band.

And if not, no sweat. He had sway with his audience. They'd endure a prude singer on his stage for a minute or so, so long as she looked like this. And the potential upside for Spade was too much not to risk. The Peggy Sue was gorgeous, and she could sing. But could she pull it all together? And could Spade put her in the sack, he wondered. Not tonight.

Not on the day of her audition. The man had her heart, after all. He wasn't an animal, for Christ's sakes. So Spade decided to give her the gig and give her some time before taking what he now viewed as right. rightfully his. He could wait, at least until tomorrow. Spade's mind wandered back to this day in 1945 while on the stand in 1961, on trial for his life at age 54, for the murder of his 36-year-old wife, Ella May Cooley. Why his mind did this, he had no idea. Ever since his dick got hard, he had this thing where certain women from his life, some inconsequential, others very consequential,

would just pop into his head out of nowhere. And right now, Peggy Sue, from back in his days at the Santa Monica ballroom, was a welcome distraction, far more interesting than the prosecutor in the $10 suit grilling him in this dusty Bakersfield court. Those are the days. Spade hadn't quite gripped life by the balls full-fistedly yet, but he was well on his way to tightening his grip.

He had a bona fide smash hit, shame on you, and was packing them in weekly out on the pier, and broadcasting his brand of highly popular Western swing music to homes all over Southern California on KWLA. And people were driving from miles around in this era of gas rationing to see him play. And this was 1945, World War II wasn't quite over yet. But Little Miss Peggy Sue refused to shake her hips. Spade, impatient, with a cigarette hanging from his lips,

quickly rose up from behind his desk and over to within an inch of Peggy Sue's face. She could smell as atrocious breath. He vibed on the smell of her cheap candy store perfume, and before anything even happened, she felt the shame swell within her. Spade felt his dick start to chub up. He put both his hands on her hips and forced them to sway. Gently, first to the left, then to the right.

And Peggy Sue looked up at him blankly, unsure of what she should do. She needed this gig bad, but she was scared. This man, he was the local celebrity. He could pay her more in a month than she'd earn out on the boardwalk behind a counter in a year. But he was a mean-looking bastard, short, slick back hair, black eyes, like oil slicks. They shined but offered no reflection, still and lifeless.

Her fear now replaced her shame. You see, Peggy Sue, you got to move a little. Give the men in the audience something to think about when they get home with their tired old wives. He smiled. Incredibly, it seemed to her, with just his upper lip. And Peggy Sue nodded in fear. Spade took it for obedience. And when she lowered her eyes, Spade swore she was gesturing to her breasts.

He just knew that under that raggedy wool sweater there was a body to beat the band. And Spade couldn't wait to get his hands all over it. He suspected she was just the type to give it out willy-nilly to the soldiers on leave. In Spade's estimation, gutless, square-jawed ex-letterman, who'd rather ship off overseas to shoot at faceless jams and take their chances shooting the moon and stars as Spade had been doing since he first came to Hollywood back in the 30s. Spade knew their kind.

Every weekend while on shore leave, they'd fill his dance hall. And right now, one of them was back home in Fresno, filling his ex-wife with what Spade suspected was a very sizable small-town cock. Fuck this. Tomorrow was too long away. Spade turned his head, spit out his smoke, and smashed his slimy lips into Peggy Suez. And she kept her mouth shut and pulled back. Spade used his weight to push her up against the wall.

His hands were all over her, first on the outside of her sweater and then up and under her skirt, feeling for her panties. She squirmed, tried pushing him back. She could feel his penis now, hard and pressing up against her belly, and she was repulsed but relieved at its size or lack thereof. Spade slid his hand around to the backside of her panties, and in that motion Peggy Sue bit down on his lip, hard. Spade pulled back in with a quick pain, shocked but aroused even further. And in that instant, Peggy Sue slid up from between. Spade coolly in the wall and made her break for the door. The thought of this event from his past still excited him, even here in the distraction of the courtroom. And to the crowd in the court,

Spade appeared heartless. It had little to do with his demeanor or looks and everything to do with the gruesome charge that this one-time television star had tortured and murdered his wife in front of their teenage daughter. The celebrity and lurid details made for sensational and damning headlines and what they did to one's imagination. It was too much. Innocent, before being proven guilty was a farce. And this was the trial of the century, the biggest thing since Faddy Arbuckle. This was pre-JFK assassination, pre-Manson murders,

and it was impossible to see Spade Cooley for anything other than what he was. A murderous creep. But that didn't stop Spade from trying to sway the jury's opinion. He testified that his wife was a horror who was enraptured by a free-love sex cult and that she had admitted, to Spade at least, to sleeping with two men at a time

as part of her duties in said cult. And perhaps even more damning to Spade, his wife was rumored to have been sleeping with Spade's mentor and sometime rival Roy Rogers, the singing cowboy. It wasn't like LMA at all, Spade testified. It was though she was an animal. Mr. Cooley, do you own any animals? No, sir, but I've used them in my act. Dogs, to be precise, I love animals, sir. Would you ever hurt an animal? No, sir, I hardly eats any meat, some bacon every now and them and not much meat.

at all. Can't stand the thought of hurting animals, not even a mouse. The main difference between psychopaths and sociopaths is a lack of empathy for fellow humans. Sociopaths can develop long-lasting family relationships and live out their antisocial lifestyles. And this is in part because of their capacity to feel for other humans, to experience guilt. Psychopaths, on the other hand, well, the general belief is that they do not feel guilt. And this is how they're able to torture and kill and feel nothing, and they are heartless. And a strange thing about psychopaths is their love of animals, despite their ability to torture them, particularly at a young age. Psychopaths seeing animals' unconditional love that humans cannot offer them, so they develop strong bonds of love and affection with animals and pets.

As spate coolly loved animals, but deep down he hated and feared women. He hated the power they had over him, the ability they had to send his blood boiling with jealousy. When the cops came knocking the afternoon after the incident with Peggy Sue, Spade was semi-shocked. Surely they can understand, Spade Cooley was an important man around town, and women threw themselves at him. The cops ran through Peggy Sue's assault allegation, as if it were a minor formality. Spade assured them he didn't rape her. He couldn't rape her. She was only 18.

He was old enough to be her daddy. Plus, he loved the little birds who came to his shows. In the end, it was his word against hers. he said she said. In other words, what he said was bond and what she said wasn't to be believed. Spade gave an official statement to the police and after a minute got back to the business of being Spade Cooley. And that was that. And Peggy Sue kept her virginity, found the courage to put Spade Cooley in the rear view, and proceeded down the path of building a career to business overpopulated with perverts and controlled by letterous creeps. Show business. Peggy Sue had the last laugh, though. When years later, she had a bit of

appeared on Lawrence Welk. A man, Spade Cooley hated and saw as partly responsible for his slide and popularity in the entertainment world. Spade was jealous of Welk's success. Spade was jealous of most men who had anything he perceived himself to be without. Spade Cooley's jealous streak ran a mile long. It fueled him. At first he was jealous of his buddy Roy Rogers' career. And so he took his own swing at showbiz. And then he was jealous of his bandleader Jimmy Wakely. So he took his own swing it being a bandleader. And since his high school days as a short little runt, he'd always been jealous of the tall, all-American types with the broad shoulders who threw the football around in the yard after school and threw the cheerleaders around in the back seats of their daddy's cars on weekends.

So he took his swing at 18-year-old Peggy Sue when he saw the opportunity. Sitting on the stand now, Spade couldn't get Peggy Sue out of his mind. She was one of the few sexual conquests that went unconquered. And because of this, she always was. She always the she occupied a special place in Spade's memory bank. He fantasized about her frequently, not having sex with him. Instead, having sex with Ned Rasmussen, the hometown boy next door who stole his wife away while he was out on the road with the West Texas sons of the sagebrush,

trying to make a buck to feed his family. Ned had what Spade hadn't. Physical appeal and the respect that only a tall man can command immediately upon entering a room. And Spade knew he just knew that Ned was just, Just the type of no-talent, empty-letter sweater-wearing shipbird that Peggy Sue gave it out to willy-nilly. And the thought of the two of them going at it, it got Spade's blood pumping, fast. His heart, if that was indeed heart, beat like a jean croup of snare, wild. On the stand, Spade could hear voices coming at him, but they were distant, underwater sounding.

He could no longer see the defense attorney pitching softball questions at him, Just Ned Rasmussen with his perfectly quaffed hair leering down at him from behind Peggy Sue as he thrust his ample cock into the beautiful young virgin who had denied him. Spade Cooley, the king of Western Swing. Spade swore Ned, that smugged prick had just smiled at him. And Peggy Sue was panting. It was pleasure and pain all at once. Spade's heart felt like it was going to bust out of his chest, run out into the courthouse hall to a payphone, and call the fire department to come through cold water of the deeply hot and passionate.

sex scene playing out for courtroom in Spade's imagination. Spade felt his eyes burn and then widened. His lips started to pull apart, and the cigarette he'd been smoking hung stuck to his bottom lip. Smoke trailed to the rickety courtroom ceiling fan. The prosecutor grew concerned, as did the judge turn towards Spade. Mr. Cooley, Mr. Cooley, are you all right? Spade smacked his chest with his right hand and a strained and muted tone and said,

My heart! And with that, he fell over in his chair and passed out. We'll be right back after this word, word, word. The electrocardiogram administered to Spade after his heart attack showed that, well, it wasn't really a heart attack. After all, it's tough to have a heart attack when you're heartless. What it was was most likely a panic attack. Either way, Spade Cooley, the so-called King of Western Swing,

the genius fiddle player and showmen who packed them in up and down the Southern California coast, who'd recorded a number one hit and had a string of top ten singles, appeared in 38, 38 westerns, hosted his own nationally syndicated television variety show, won two Emmys, and even once hosted Frank Sinatra. That's Spade Cooley, the same Spade Cooley who built a sprawling Willow Springs ranch in the desert for his wife and kids,

was now back in the Kern County courtroom, his hollow eyes darting every which way, trying to avoid what was taking place on the stand. his 14-year-old daughter, Melody, testifying against him. She spoke softly. Spade gave me three minutes, and then he started counting. You have two minutes left. You have one minute.

Time's up. Who is Spade, the prosecutor asked. My father. Did you ever call him Daddy? Yes, sir. When did you stop calling him Daddy? When he killed my mother, The story, as explained by his daughter, was familiar to Spade, but not in a subjective way.

Melody's recounting jived with Spade's memory, but it was as if he was remembering someone else committing the crime. Spade could remember the rage. He still felt it. He knew L.MA had been fucking around on him. First with Roy Rogers, that prick, and then with her two queer friends she'd been hanging out with on weekends. Gay, yeah, maybe, deviance definitely. And LMA was a deviant as well. It was in her nature, just like it was with his ex-wife, and just like it was with that cocktee's Peggy Sue.

Women, they were all the same, spade thought. But Ella May, she had the nerve to not only cheat on him, but to then want to leave him. For what? Because he called her on her bullshit? Because he knocked her around a little to keep her in line? She was weak, spade thought. No one near as tough as Benita, the side piece he kept down in Santa Monica. Or Harriet, the tough Jewish seamsters who'd shown him around Hollywood back in the day.

LMA was weak-minded and disloyal The Spade couldn't just let her mess around on him Sure, his career might not have been what it once was Western Swing might have gone out of fashion The TV show might have been cancelled But Spade had plans The amusement park he was building out in the desert Was gonna put Willow Springs in the map

And make it the Palm Springs of Central California Spade was a big man now as an entertainer But he'd soon be even a bigger man as a developer And what has someone heard? heard about LMA and what she was up to. It was bad enough the rumors about Roy Rogers, but some queer from the desert? And then she was going to leave?

Of course, L.M.A. Cooley hadn't slept with any of these men. But Spade couldn't shake the jealousy, but it ruled him ever since adolescence. Spade thought back to that night, LMA threatened divorce for the last time. And when she told Melody to pack her bags, and they were leaving. And then and there, Spade felt his head ignite with fire.

He could feel the rockets explode in his skull, the jealousy. It was all-consuming. He raged, went blind, and came to with the sight of his daughter in his bedroom doorway. He looked down at his pants and shirtless chest. There was blood all over him. Someone else's. He grabbed his daughter by the hair, pulling her through the master suite's bedroom and into the bathroom. Come in here.

I want you to see your stupid mother. There on the bathroom floor lying in the shower, naked and bloodied with the water. her raining down on her, flushing her blood down the drain as quickly as it exited her wounds, was what was left of Melody's mother and Spade's wife, Ella Mae Cooley. Spade had ripped her hair out of her head by the fistful before pummeling her with those same fists. Hold up. This story is about to get very graphic and very dark, so much so that it was hard for me to

write and even harder for me to voice. If graphic depictions of murder and physical abuse turn you off, then I urge you to skip about 60 seconds. Spade pounced on top of LMA, held her down, whispered into her ear, this is the last fuck of your life, and then proceeded to rape her. And when he was done, he shoved her into the shower to clean herself up. But that wouldn't do. She'd be cleaned up in no time and out again parading herself all around town. Fuck that. Spade had to make her undesirable to all men. He grabbed the broom from behind the toilet, held her down to the bathroom floor, and did the unthinkable. Rammed it.

repeatedly, up and into her. When he saw the mess he'd made, he kicked the lifeless LMA repeatedly in the belly. He masked the damage he'd done with the broom handle. Now, an hour or so later, he sat at the edge of his bed while his daughter surveyed the damage. Come here, baby. His daughter stood still in the doorway,

frozen by the sight of her nearly beaten to death mother. You hurt your father. Petrified. Melody joined Spade on the bed. Spade pulled her onto his lap. She could smell the whiskey on his breath. These days it was rare if she didn't. He rubbed her shoulder and then

mashed his slimy lips into his daughters. He crammed his tongue down her throat. All he could think about were the football players at her school, with their broad shoulders and their big cocks wanting in on what was rightfully his. His daughter, Melody fought him off. At his drunken state, he wasn't much of a match. The melody split.

Spade pulled his wounded wife from a shower and tucked her into their bed. He waited four hours before calling the ambulance. By the time they arrived at the emergency room, L.M.A. Cooley had succumbed to her wounds. The judge leaned forward in his chair after thanking the ladies and gentlemen of the jury and then addressed the rest of his court. It is the judgment of this court that you, Donald Clyde Cooley, aka Spade Cooley, be committed to the state prison for life

for the crime for which you have been convicted, and that you'd be remanded custody of the sheriff of this county for delivery without further delay. Spade Coley was led out of the courtroom into a state mental hospital, where he didn't exactly serve hard time. His supposed heart troubles and his failed insanity plea and his celebrity status it was reasons were enough for him to do his time in a private hospital room rather than an actual jail cell. Some suspect that his old friend from back in his Hollywood days, the new governor of California, the one-time actor, Ronald,

Reagan had something to do with his cushy prison digs. And it was with Reagan's eventual support seven years later that Spade Cooley was granted parole to begin February 1970, meaning Spade would be serving a total of eight years for the murder and rape of his wife. In the meantime, he was to be granted a 72-hour furlough to perform a benefit concert for the Deputy Sheriff's Association at the Oakland Auditorium. It was one of those traveling grand old operatives. spectaculars. Spade took the stage on November 29th, 1969. He grabbed his fiddle and led the band

through a hellfire version of his hit, Shame on You. The crowd of 3,000 lawmen went apeship for Spade coolie. The bona fide celebrity on stage, their very own prisoner, there to entertain them for their benefit. Spade killed. After his set, he asked the waiting paroleman in the wings if it would be all right for him to have a minute alone in his dressing room. The moment had clearly affected Spade Cooley. His first time on stage, his first time out of prison in years, and the reception, pure love from the audience. Spade was emotional.

The parole man gave him the okay. Head backstage and cool out for a second before we go back to prison. Spade Cooley walked into his dressing room and closed the door. He thought of L.A. her body naked in the shower, a mangled mess of a woman who drove him crazy, and at his estimation, got what was coming to her. His anger flashed, the rage returned, and then his breath quickened in his chest caved in with pain. The heart attack came on him quick.

He fell, face down, and died instantly. His body lie on the dressing room floor. Heartless. I'm Jake Brennan, and this is disgrace. Disgraceland was created by yours truly and is produced in partnership with Double Elvis. Credits for this episode can be found on the show notes page at disgracelandpod.com. If you're listening as a Disgraceland All Access member, thank you for supporting the show. We really appreciate it.

And if not, you can become a member right now by going to disgracelandpod.com slash membership. Members can listen to every episode of Disgraceland ad free. Plus, you'll get one brand new exclusive episode every month. weekly unscripted bonus episodes, special audio collections, and early access to merchandise and events. Visit disgracelampod.com slash membership for details. Rate and review the show and follow us on Instagram, TikTok, Twitter, and Facebook at DisgracelamPod, and on YouTube at YouTube.com slash at disgraceland pod. Rockerola.