Just found this aswell.
By 1975, Jackie Wilson was nothing more than an oldies act. Despite one of the most powerful voices and hyperactive physiques in the business, he was no longer able to put his name on a hit record. Sure, some awe-struck kids like Prince Rogers Nelson and Michael Jackson would still go to his gigs (and take notes). But the man's career had to be put on life support by the ubiquitous Dick Clark, who featured him in a package tour called the Good Ol' Rock 'n' Roll Revue. In September 1975, Jackie slid out onstage at Camden, New Jersey and kept his audience burning with high-energy versions of hits like "I'll Be Satisfied", "Whispers", and "(Your Love Keeps Lifting Me) Higher and Higher". Towards the end of his climactic signature tune, "Lonely Teardrops", Jack leapt high into the air, and fell abruptly backwards. "My heart is cryin', cryin'" -- those were his last words. His head hit the stage with a loud crack. Dick Clark rushed to his side, yelled "Is there a doctor in here?" to the stunned audience, then began sobbing over the unconscious singer's motionless body. Jackie Wilson blinked twice, and rolled his eyes up in his head. He remained in a coma for eight years until, in January 1984, he stopped taking nourishment and passed away.
Sometimes the worst tragedies are the ones that creep forward slowly. Jackie Wilson -- a man who could throw a punch like Sonny Liston, who could out-sing and out-dance the entire Motown stable, whose enthusiasm for food and sex were epic -- he spent his last eight years a vegetable. But the bigger tragedy was his career itself. Just like Sonny Liston, Jackie's gifts -- his voice and body -- were owned by the mob.
Jackie was a banger from the outset, and his entire singing career is best viewed in this light. The shifty teenage pugilist who would enthrall the rough wine-soaked members of Detroit's Shaker Gang with soaring renditions of "Danny Boy". In exchange, they would jump in and protect his pretty face when the fists started flying He thought with his fists, and his dick, allegedly getting a score of girls pregnant by the time he turned sixteen. Running and fighting, and occasionally stopping to sing, he became a local hero, and indeed the pride of the Shaker Gang. He was in and out of jail, but only when he landed in the Lansing Correctional Institute at age sixteen would he take boxing seriously. Joe Louis was Detroit's hometown hero, and countless boys were yearning to follow in his footsteps. The connection between music and boxing was always very intimate in everyone's minds. Whenever people thought of Sonny Liston, they thought of his jumping rope to the tune of "Night Train" (always "Night Train"), a bigger and badder mess of footwork and jazz you had never seen. For years, Jackie Wilson claimed to have trained as a professional boxer, a competitor in the Detroit Golden Gloves, a welterweight champion, and finally (briefly) a pro boxer. He did box, yes. But according to Jack Douglas' exceptionally well-researched biography Jackie Wilson: The Man, The Music, The Mob, the stories of his welterweight championship, and of his brief pro career, were fictions. Still, boxing was always central to his identity, and it's easy to see why: it taught him to dance. By all accounts, the man couldn't dance a lick with a partner, and always fled the dance floor. But to see him glide out onstage, twirling, flipping, diving throwing the mike around without missing a note -- he was shadow-boxing for the masses. His body -- often quite drunk -- combined a precise, trained choreography with a stunning sense of physical intuition. He always seemed to know exactly how to manipulate an audience with his movements. The girls saw it was time to start tearing off his clothes once he leaned back, back, back into his rope-a-dope until he was practically laying supine on the stage. Elvis Presley watched and learned. So did James Brown.