The story of La Forrest “La La” Cope isn’t just a tale of talent—it’s a jazz-infused odyssey of grit, soul, and destiny. Born into the heartbeat of East Elmhurst, Queens, where the scent of fried fish and sweet pound cake drifted from brownstone kitchens, where doo-wop harmonies echoed down 25th Avenue, and where Black excellence wasn’t a dream but a daily reality, La La was destined to make noise.

 

Her father, a pillar of the community, ran Cope Cars For Hire—one of Corona’s first Black-owned businesses, where the hum of dispatch radios mixed with the sounds of kids playing stickball. Her mother, a healer by trade and heart, held down the emergency room at Elmhurst Hospital, patching up the community’s wounds, from knife fights to busted knees. Their church, First Baptist on Astoria Boulevard, was more than a place of worship—it was a sanctuary where voices soared, and faith met music. And in that holy house, young La La sat in the front pew, her small fingers tapping imaginary piano keys on her lap, waiting for her moment.

 

Then came Dennis Moorman. The church’s music minister—a man whose fingers danced across the piano like a conjurer—saw something in her. He offered to come to her house and teach her, a gesture that would change everything. It wasn’t until years later that she discovered Moorman was the brother of the legendary Melba Moore. That meant La La wasn’t just learning from any pianist—she was being molded in the shadows of R&B royalty.

 

By five, her fingers were fluent in the language of music. By nine, she was in Carnegie Hall, her tiny frame dwarfed by the grand piano, but her talent filling every inch of that gilded chamber. The city bustled outside, but inside, a girl from Queens made time stand still.

 

Then came The High School of Music and Art, a breeding ground for prodigies, where the halls smelled of sheet music and ambition. But La La wasn’t content to just learn—she wanted to perform. So, she formed Jack Sass, a band that burned through New York’s club scene, flipping top 40 hits into something fresh, something raw. Every gig was a lesson, every note a steppingstone. And as she stood under those neon lights, mic in hand, she realized she wasn’t just covering music—she was creating it.

 

Juilliard followed. The prestigious conservatory was a place for the elite, where the air was thick with legacy and expectation. But La La wasn’t there for their approval. She was there to sharpen her blade, to master her craft. And master it she did.

 

Then, in 1981, fate came knocking. Stacy Lattisaw needed a touring keyboardist to open for the Jacksons, and La La got the call. It was her first taste of the industry’s fast lane—big crowds, bright lights, and the pressure to deliver night after night. She soaked it in. She lived for it. Then came Luther Vandross and Change. She lent her vocals to the now-iconic track “The Glow of Love,” a song co-written by her childhood friend Wayne Garfield, another East Elmhurst talent whose pen helped craft its timeless groove. In that moment, La La wasn’t just singing—she was carrying a piece of her neighborhood into R&B history, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with legends and leaving an indelible mark on the sound of a generation.

 

But her true superpower? Songwriting. That’s where the magic lived.

 

She penned “Stone Love”, which caught the ear of Kashif, a kid with golden hands on the keyboard. He recorded it for his debut album in 1983, and the song soared. But La La wasn’t done. She had one more in her pocket—something special, something timeless.

“You Give Good Love.”

 

She wrote it from the heart, not knowing that it would land in the lap of a then-unknown Whitney Houston and change both their lives forever. The song catapulted Whitney into stardom, but behind the scenes, it cemented La La as a heavyweight in the industry—a songwriter with a gift for crafting hits that would outlive generations.

Her name buzzed in boardrooms. Melba Moore. Lillo Thomas. Glenn Jones. They all wanted a piece of what she had. The girl from East Elmhurst had officially arrived.

 

In 1987, she stepped into the solo spotlight with her debut album “La La,” featuring duets with Glenn Jones and Bernard Wright, with production from the powerhouse group Full Force. It was smooth, it was sultry—it was her. She followed up with “La La Means I Love You!” in 1991, proving she wasn’t just a behind-the-scenes maestro but a front-and-center force.

 

But the industry is ruthless. Trends shift. Labels play favorites. And for every meteoric rise, there’s an industry storm waiting to knock you down. La La faced it all—the politics, the egos, the fleeting nature of fame. But she never folded.

 

Instead, she evolved.

 

She became a vocal producer, a mentor, and an English professor. She shaped voices, sharpened lyrics, and molded the next generation of artists. She wasn’t just a musician—she was a movement.

And in 2024, the world finally gave her flowers. She was inducted into the Women Songwriters Hall of Fame, a recognition long overdue.

 

Standing on that stage, she wasn’t just La Forrest Cope, the Juilliard-trained pianist, the singer, the songwriter. She was the kid from East Elmhurst, the daughter of a chauffeur and a nurse, the girl who found her calling in the church pews, who turned dreams into records and records into legacies.

 

The music industry had tried to box her in, but you can’t confine brilliance. La La had written her own symphony. And it was a masterpiece.

 

 

— Ron Lawrence, Backspin Chronicles, Multi-Platinum Record Producer, Historian & Cultural AI Film-Maker