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No Successor. During a concert in Birmingham in 1956, five white men leaped onto the stage and knocked him down. Cole was unhurt. That is, until later, when the Negro press scalded him "for kneeling before the throne of Jim Crow" by playing before a segregated audience. In Harlem, some juke joints ceremoniously smashed his records. "I'm an entertainer," he answered, "not a politician. I'm crusading in my own way. I feel I can help ease the tension by gaining the respect of both races all over the country."
That he did to a degree rare in any profession. When he died last week of cancer of the lung in Los Angeles, at the age of 45, men of both races mourned. The city council adjourned a session in his memory; the flags at the new Music Center were lowered to half-mast. And perhaps the best tribute of all came from his fans. On the day following his death, Capitol Records was deluged with orders for more than 1,000,000 of his records—the legacy of an uncommon King who would know no successor.