Owen Elliot-Kugell was only seven years old when her mother died unexpectedly. And though her mom’s birth certificate read “Ellen Naomi Cohen,” fans around the world knew the woman with the powerhouse voice and buoyant stage presence by another name: Cass Elliot.
Still more knew her as “Mama Cass,” derived from her best-known role as one of the four voices in the folk-rockers The Mamas and The Papas of the 1960s. They hit big with songs like “California Dreamin’,” “Monday, Monday,” “Dedicated to the One I Love” and “I Saw Her Again Last Night.”
But it was two showstopping vehicles for Elliot that showed her range. The sweet-sounding “Dream a Little Dream of Me” and the volcanic “Words of Love” really showcased those pipes.
And after the group broke up, Elliot had embarked on a solo career that found her adding a bit of show and Broadway tunes to her repertoire, while appearing on many TV variety shows and even guest-hosting The Tonight Show.
However, Elliot died in 1974 at just the age of 32, leaving Elliot-Kugell to be raised by her aunt and uncle. For the past 50 years, she’s asked and been asked questions about her mother’s life, legacy and loss.
It all comes full circle in Elliot-Kugell’s new book, My Mama, Cass (279 pp., $30, Hachette Books). Equal parts biography, autobiography, and memoir, it’s a tale that Elliot-Kugell has literally waited her entire life to tell.
“There was always a deficit for me in her story and my ability to tell the story. I always felt that I didn’t know all the bits and pieces to put it all together. But now it’s all in this very linear thing,” she says over the phone. “It was magical, and I feel so fulfilled. And now I can answer everybody’s questions!”
Cass Elliot’s story is told from her beginnings as an aspiring singer and member of folk groups to falling in with John Phillips, his wife Michelle, and Denny Doherty to form The Mamas and The Papas—though she had to fight tooth and nail for the position.
John Phillips was on the fence about including Cass in his new project. When the trio embarked on a journey to the Virgin Islands to put things together, Cass followed them. When the trio got a job singing on stage at a local restaurant & bar on Creeque Alley (detailed in their song of the same name), Elliot took a job waitressing there. And did not hesitate to add her harmony while serving food to customers during shows.
“They wouldn’t have been what they were without her. Oh, to have been a fly on the wall on in that restaurant when my mom was waiting on tables. Her calling in her vocal parts from the floor! It was like ‘You may not want me to do it, but you’re going to continue to hear it!’” Elliot-Kugell says.
“But she got the last laugh when they begged her to go to that first meeting with [record producer] Lou Adler. And when they came back the next day, there was a contract waiting for her.”
John Phillips’ reticence about Elliot also extended to one ugly part: Her overweightness was an issue, seemingly “messing up” the visual image he wanted the group to project. Elliot herself had long steeled up with a sort of self-deprecating response. She’s often made a “fat joke” before anybody else could to diffuse the situation.
Still, it’s hard today to watch some of those post-Mamas & Papas TV appearances today where Eliot’s size is the butt of a joke, with her standing right there. The lyric from “Creeque Alley” that goes “And no one’s getting fat/Except Mama Cass” was cruel then, and ages worse.
Elliot-Kugell says that her mother’s size would not likely even be an issue in today.
“We’ve come so much further as a society. We don’t allow people to make fun of people’s weight today,” she says. “We know now what the damage it does, even in a society that I think is over-therapized. You can’t make a fat joke about somebody and expect them not to be upset about it.”
A related bit has to do with Elliot’s purported cause of death. It was first reported and became urban legend that she had died choking on a ham sandwich in bed. In reality, while there was a sandwich (possibly never even bitten into) on her nightstand, the actual cause of death was due to a heart attack that Elliot suffered in her sleep.
But the sandwich story took flight when her manager Allan Carr—cognizant of the recent spate of drug-induced rock star deaths—strangely believed that the choking story would somehow look better, at least initially. And with the willing participation of journalist Sue Cameron of The Hollywood Reporter, it became “fact.” A guilt-ridden Cameron even apologized to Elliot-Kugell years later. She hopes that the truth is set in stone once and for all with this book.
But the majority of the narrative focuses on Elliot as a lively, boisterous and joyous person. Her home in Laurel Canyon became a defacto musical salon as visiting rock royalty would pop in and out at all hours. And she had a direct hand in introducing members of the Lovin’ Spoonful and Crosby, Stills and Nash to each other for the first times.
“I know that the people who are fortunate enough to still be around to recall those days feel that it was an amazing place to be. David Crosby loved to be there because you never knew what was going to happen or who was going to show up,” she says.
Elliot-Kugell also points out that toward the end of her life, Cass Elliot had made three records for RCA that pointed the direction her career was heading to as more of an all-around entertainer: Cass Elliot, The Road is No Place for a Lady, and the unsubtle Don’t Call Me Mama Anymore. They are being re-released on vinyl with Elliot-Kugell’s participation, and she was also a driving force in getting her mother a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.
There was one other big hole in Elliot-Kugell’s life growing up: the identity of her birth father. Cass Elliot would never reveal the man’s identity, but with the help of Michelle Phillips, he was pinpointed as touring Mamas and Papas bassist Chuck Day—though he and his daughter never had a close relationship.
Finally, the last portion of My Mama, Cass details Elliot-Kugell’s own on-and-off again toe dipping in the music industry as a singer in her own right. A solo record was recorded, but never released in a record company shakeup.
In a more intriguing note, she began singing informally with three other rock star scion: Carnie and Wendy Wilson (Brian Wilson) and Chynna Phillips (John Phillips). However, Elliot-Kugell was dismissed from the group purportedly because her voice was “too loud.” Wilson Phillips went on to score hits in the ‘80s and ‘90s.
“You know…that was the reason I was given. And I just took solace in that my mom’s voice was too loud too! And I was like ‘Well…OK! It’s all good!’” Elliot-Kugell says today. She adds that Carnie Wilson has long been one of her best friends.
“Carnie is the best. We have each other listed—I can’t tell you what it is because it’s too vile! But when you say ‘Siri, call blankety-blank-blank” it calls her. And I freak out in laughter!” Elliot-Kugell laughs. “She’s one of my besties, for sure.”
Recently, she was bemused that a TikTok trend showcased users singing to Cass Elliot’s solo hit “Make Your Own Kind of Music.”
“I don’t know how this computer shit really works, but I thought it was coming to just me because of algorithms!” she laughs. “I was loving the fact that it was being used tongue in cheek, which my mother would have loved!”
Finally, she says that her focus for the near future is promoting the book and her mother’s story. It’s a task she takes seriously.
“When you have a high-profile parent, and that parent isn’t around anymore, you have a responsibility to make sure that their legacy is remembered in the best light possible. And that’s all I’m trying to do,” she says.
“I’m so passionate about this book. And hopefully, other things will come our way. I truly believe that things build on each other.”
This article appears in Jan 1 – Dec 31, 2024.
