A classic torch song, sung softly and straight—David Cassidy turns “Cry” into a late-evening comfort more than a showpiece.
Start with the anchor that places it on your shelf. “Cry”—the 1951 Churchill Kohlman standard first made famous by Johnnie Ray—returned in David Cassidy’s hands on his hits set Then and Now (UK release 2001, U.S. 2002). It’s on both editions (UK track 18; U.S. track 12), a fresh studio reading produced for the compilation rather than a vintage Bell-era cut. The album itself became a late triumph—Top 5 in the UK and ultimately Platinum—so Cassidy’s take on “Cry” was heard by exactly the audience most likely to appreciate its unhurried warmth.
A word about the song he chose to inhabit. “Cry” is one of pop’s most durable laments, written by Churchill Kohlman and carried into legend by Johnnie Ray & The Four Lads in the autumn of 1951 (paired, on 78 and 45, with “The Little White Cloud That Cried”). Ray’s recording—trembling, confessional—etched a template for the modern torch performance: you don’t perform sorrow; you admit it. Cassidy’s version keeps faith with that idea, but he lowers the temperature, trading Ray’s operatic cracks for a steadier, conversational ache.
On tape, the Then and Now reading breathes like a small room at the end of the day. The tempo is unflustered; the string writing lifts without swamping; the rhythm section moves in long phrases, leaving Cassidy all the space in the world to place a syllable half a beat behind and let it land. Listen to the opening verse and you’ll hear why older ears lean in: no dramatics, just presence. Where a younger singer might reach for vocal fireworks, Cassidy trusts the lyric to carry itself and uses texture—grain at the edges, an exhale you can almost feel—to make the promise believable. (Most digital editions clock it at about 3:18; just enough time to change the air in a room.)
The story behind this version is really the story of the album framing it. Then and Now was conceived as a bridge between the boy who lit up AM radio and the grown man who could inhabit standards and soul tunes with a lighter touch. It gathers re-recordings, a few deep memories, and a handful of new performances into one doorway. Placing “Cry” there isn’t a stunt; it’s a statement. Cassidy isn’t trying to “better” Johnnie Ray. He’s telling you, with a calm voice and unfussy band, that he knows exactly what the song is for: not catharsis you display, but consolation you share. The album’s UK chart run—No. 5 and brisk sales—confirms that listeners heard the intent and welcomed it.
If you grew up with a kitchen radio and a stack of 45s, the meaning lands in familiar light. “Cry,” sung Cassidy’s way, is less about the spectacle of heartbreak than the permission to feel it and move through it without embarrassment. He sands away the theatrical sobs that made Ray a legend and replaces them with late-life poise: the warmth of a shoulder, the hush of strings, the small courage of an adult voice saying, go on and cry; I’ll be here when you’re done. It’s the kind of reading that honors the song’s bones while making it fit a quieter room.
There’s also lineage in the phrasing. Cassidy came up in an era that prized melody you could hum while washing the dishes; that craft shows here. He tapers lines as if he were speaking across a table, and when the chorus opens, he doesn’t punch it—he lifts it, letting the orchestra glow behind him. The result feels less like pop theater than a neighbor’s kindness. And because he never oversells the bridge, the final refrain arrives with the dignity of someone who has already lived through the worst day and knows the way back to the door.
As an entry in the catalog, this isn’t a chart trophy—it wasn’t a single—but it functions as a signature of intent for the compilation that houses it: a reminder that David Cassidy could carry tenderness without sugar, that he knew when a standard needs polish and when it needs air. When the record ends, you don’t remember vocal feats. You remember breath, patience, and the old pop wisdom that sorrow eases when someone stays in the room while you let it out.
So cue “Cry” again—on the Then and Now disc you keep near the player or the stream that brings his voice back into the house. Hear how simply it works: a classic song, sung cleanly; a grown man taking a lyric that once belonged to a 1951 night and making it feel like today. That’s not nostalgia; that’s good company. And some evenings, good company is exactly what the heart is asking for.