It is a little strange how dated some of Sam Cooke's songs sound today. With such strong roots in the pop of the 1950s, the I-vi-IV-V "ice cream" changes (think "Duke of Earl") and uptempo R&B swing of his most famous songs tie him more securely to Frankie Valli and doo-wop than to his musical children like Al Green and Otis Redding. And surely, his clean-cut image was an artifact of his ambition, his intention to appeal to as many people as possible, white or black, rich or poor. Today, seen through the filter of the intervening half-century, through civil rights and black power and Isaac Hayes and Shaft and Ice-T, Sam Cooke comes off like a square. Even then, he was the safe choice of suburban parents everywhere. But that night at the Harlem Square Club, Cooke strained against the urbane pop sheen that had made him famous and brought a roughness to his voice and a grit to his performance that surely few in the audience had ever heard from him before. Perhaps he approached these heights in his gospel years; Guralnick's book suggests as much. But rarely in his pop years did he let it loose like he did that night.

In his biography, Guralnick dwells at length on the contradictions embodied in Sam Cooke. He was the American dream, a good-looking and well-mannered young black man singing music that transcended racial boundaries: he was "safe." He was the preternaturally talented, even arrogant architect of his own career, ruthlessly moving from one opportunity to another as he saw fit, leaving behind him a wake of disappointed compatriots and business partners. He was the most charismatic guy in the room, the casually cruel ladykiller who made every one of them feel special, leaving behind him a wake of single mothers and dashed hopes. That same charisma came through loud and clear on stage, on vinyl, and on camera, drawing audiences into the vortex of his personality through the sheer power and swing of his musical genius, making every single person his closest confidant. He was the generous friend. He was the big spender. He was, from time to time, the source of towering rage and terrifying fury when his trademark savoire-faire was exhausted.

Every single one of these features of his outsize personality are on display on Live at the Harlem Square Club. The audience is delirious even before he takes the stage, and as Cook asks the crowd, "How are you doing out there? ... I said, how ARE, you DOING, out THERE?" there is something powerful, smug, and almost cold behind his voice, as if he already knows the audience is his without even asking: what he is really saying is, "you are mine."