This song by Allen Toussaint has always been a big favorite of mine. It clearly questions the meaning of a successful life: the pursuit of money, or doing the right thing, even if it doesn’t bring in cash. The words to this song resonate because most people who are involved in creative pursuits aren’t in it for the money. It used to be that the music business contained a lot of these sorts of people: in it for the music, not necessarily for the money.

It occurred to me, after reading over this issue, that we have four—four—obituaries this month: Nicky Da B, Porgy Jones, Tim Green and Cosimo Matassa.

The first three were true musical artists; Tim Green was also one of the sweetest, most humble and talented people I’ve ever met.

But Cosimo—Cos—was in a class by himself. This was a guy who sort of “fell” into the music business by accident, and in doing so excelled at his craft and helped to create some of the greatest, most lasting music this city has ever produced. “He was one of the good guys,” said his son Louie, at Matassa’s funeral. “He was always honest and tried to do the right thing”—which, by the way, cannot always be said of some of the people involved in the music biz, back then and now.

Cos was a trip. I met him when I first got involved in music, back in the ’80s. I was a thirty-something know-it-all. I was someone who loved music and musicians, but—like most younger people—thought I knew every damn thing, and what to do to make it better. Cos’ brain was incredible; he was as sharp as they come, and always had plans for new and bigger projects. When I first met him, he was planning to build a CD manufacturing plant in New Orleans (it didn’t happen, he was a bit late getting into that game). Then he talked for a while about expanding his successful French Quarter market into a gourmet food emporium (Matassa’s was better off in its current location). His mind went a mile a minute. One of the things I remember best about him is how he made me laugh with his wealth of crazy jokes—mostly one-liners—that were sometimes corny, sometimes a little bad, but always funny. He loved his family and friends, his kids and his business. He was content in his life and where it had taken him: a true success.

Most of all, though, Cos taught me respect—for history, for heritage and for my elders, and for the knowledge and experience they bring. Now that I’m older than Cos was when I first met him, I’m so grateful for that lesson. He was truly a great man; talented in the ways that he needed to be; at the right place at the right time; a real mensch.

Thanks, Cos—I will always appreciate, miss and respect you.