At age 6 or 7, remembers singer Gregory Porter, he made a homemade tape recording of himself singing, played it for his mother and was struck by her response.
"She said: 'Boy, you sound like Nat King Cole,' " recalls Porter. "I'm sure I didn't."
No one besides Nat Cole sibling Freddy Cole really does. But those words from Porter's mother launched his lifelong fascination with the music of a jazz giant born and trained on the South Side of Chicago.
So perhaps it was inevitable that Porter, the leading male jazz singer of his generation, last year released "Nat 'King' Cole & Me," an emotionally intense, vocally sumptuous homage. In effect, "Nat 'King' Cole & Me" _ featuring Porter's plush baritone with lush symphonic accompaniment _ addressed ideas the singer has been developing since childhood.
For after his mother compared him to Cole, he wasted no time raiding her record collection.
"We weren't supposed to do it, but I did it," says Porter, who will perform this music Monday evening in Orchestra Hall at Symphony Center.
Once he began spinning those records, he marveled at the "beautiful sound, rich tone and messages" of Cole's recordings. "That was my start with Nat, and his music has been with me really all my life, at the most significant times in my life.
"When my mother passed, that was the music to pick me up. Getting married. Even injuring myself at the end of my football career, I would self-medicate with Nat's music," adds Porter, referencing the torn right rotator cuff that ended his athletic dreams at San Diego State University in 1990 and, in effect, redirected him toward music.
"It always made me feel better. It felt like home. It felt like encouragement."
And not only because of his mother's inspirational words. Equally important was "the absence of my father," says Porter, whose dad was not around as he was growing up.
Cole's albums helped fill the void because of "that sound," explains Porter. "He's very fatherly in his singing and visually. All of his album covers have this strong image. Sometimes he's sitting by the fire. Sometimes he's in a big, comfy chair. Sometimes he's smoking a pipe. In the absence of that, I idealized that.
"I used to imagine that he was my father."
Moreover, the lyrics Cole sang carried particular messages for the nascent musician. The songs may have told of romantic loss, but "I wasn't taking it that way," says Porter. "I was thinking of love-loss and absence of my father. You change the meaning to fit what ailment you have."
As Porter grew up and began seriously exploring music, he naturally came to recognize other, deeper shades of meaning in Cole's music. And rather than outgrow his obsession, he embraced it more closely.
So while some listeners may hear pleasant tones and easygoing rhythms in Cole's music, Porter says he found something more.
"I feel like the profundity of a song like 'Nature Boy' has very much influenced me. I think of living my life that way: 'The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return,'" adds Porter, quoting the key line in "Nature Boy."
All of which makes one wonder if Porter was overwhelmed to record a tribute to someone whose art has meant so much to him for so long.
"People are like: It must have been daunting," says Porter. "Not at all. It wasn't a heavy thing at all. I dreamed of doing this. And I didn't put any pressure on myself in terms of criticism of even where I was in my career. This was a genuine love project, a genuine tribute to somebody who's been very important musically in my life."
What has Porter learned since taking this deep dive into Cole's art?
"The humanity of him," says Porter, referring to the grace of Cole's singing and the subtext of the lyrics he delivered in the face of harsh racism.
"Nat was really interesting in the way he dealt with his celebrity, dealt with himself as a black American. People can sometimes mistake Nat's music as this sweet, idealized milquetoast. It's not that at all.
"Quite frankly, Nat's music came in an extraordinarily turbulent time in America. He knew who he was when he traveled to the South, and he knew who he was when he decided to stop doing shows in certain arenas that didn't allow mixed audiences.
"He knew he was a black man when neighbors tried to get him thrown out of his house in Hancock Park (in Los Angeles).
"I would like to think he was sending a message out to all of his fans when he sang: 'Pick yourself up, dust yourself off and start all over again,' " adds Porter.
"Can you imagine hearing that song after the civil rights marches? Can you imagine him singing 'Smile, though your heart is breaking' during that time?"
When Porter delivers those lyrics, and others, it's not hard to imagine at all.
