With tears and smiles, Philadelphia bids farewell to the Geator

The line of mourners at the Cathedral Basilica of SS. Peter and Paul stretched around the block as Philadelphia bid farewell to Jerry Blavat on Saturday.

The legendary Philadelphia DJ, band manager, promoter, and Philadelphia music historian — “The Geator with the Heater” — died Jan. 20, at 82.

It was perhaps the only funeral at which “Disco Inferno” and other oldies the Geator introduced thousands to were piped through speakers as people waited their turn to go inside and pay their respects, but that seemed fitting.

» READ MORE: Jerry Blavat, ‘The Geator with the Heater,’ dies at 82

The Geator was eulogized by acclaimed singer Dionne Warwick, whom he first met in 1962, when she released her song “Don’t Make Me Over.” Theirs would be a lifelong friendship, marked by phone calls and visits and Blavat’s annual Christmas delivery of macaroni. He played her music and promoted Warwick relentlessly.

“He knew from the beginning, and he told me, ‘You know, my Nubian queen, you are going to be a star,’” said Warwick. “It is a joy knowing that Jerry Blavat made me who I am.”

A son of South Philadelphia, Blavat spun records, but he also nurtured people. David Raezer always ribbed his friend over the number of meals Blavat bought for people he barely knew.

“He’d say, ‘You never know who’s going to be on the jury,’” Raezer said. “He knew it all came down to the relationships you build.”

City representative Sheila Hess read a letter from former Gov. Edward G. Rendell, another Blavat admirer. The Geator had 10,000 people dancing at Rendell’s inauguration, he said; Blavat was the essence of Philadelphia.

“He did show them what the best of Philadelphia is,” Rendell wrote.

Sidney and Caroline Kimmel could not attend the funeral of their dear friend but asked recently retired TV anchor Jim Gardner to read their eulogy. Caroline Kimmel said she will never forget the night she met Blavat, backstage at the old Latin Casino in Cherry Hill, where Frank Sinatra had just performed.

“He was sure to make us smile wherever and whenever we saw him,” the Kimmels wrote.

Mayor Jim Kenney was also among the mourners, as were radio personalities Patty Jackson, Pierre Robert, and John DeBella; TV reporters Alicia Vitarelli and Bob Kelly, both Blavat friends, gave Bible readings.

But though he belonged to Philadelphia, Blavat cherished being a father, grandfather, and great-grandfather.

Even if he was on the radio, at a show, her dad always took her phone calls, said Stacy Braglia, one of Blavat’s four daughters. When his children were young, he’d sneak into their rooms and kiss them goodnight after arriving home late from gigs. He dispensed advice and love, even after his girls became adults.

“Smile, be nice — but sometimes, you gotta show your teeth,” Blavat would tell Braglia. He was funny, compassionate, patient, his daughter said. And he had a way of calming everyone.

“Don’t worry about it, Stace. Don’t worry about nothing,” he would tell his daughter.

Blavat had a hand in some of the funeral details: songs, including “Love Is a Many Splendored Thing” and “Climb Every Mountain,” and speakers (none of whom talked longer than 2 minutes, 30 seconds, the typical length of the 45s the Geator would play on his shows).

A capacity crowd attended the funeral Mass, and thousands more live-streamed it. City flags were flown at half-staff in the Geator’s honor.

The mourners were men and women who had grown up listening to the Geator, dancing with him.

“That’s my boy!” said Gwen Brown, who took buses and the subway from Mount Airy to get to the service. The senior citizen listened to Blavat for decades, from the time she was young. “He was the boss with the hot sauce!”

Brown loved what Blavat represented: “He was for all people, all ethnicities. He brought us together. He was a pillar in the community.”

Next to her in line, Sylvia Bennett, another senior citizen, nodded.

“He did so much good for Philadelphia,” said Bennett, who lives in South Philadelphia. And he could move, said Bennett. She went to one of the Geator’s events at a casino this fall, one of thousands of “yon teenagers” who followed him around the region.

“He held my hand, and we danced,” said Bennett, a little dreamily.

Outside the cathedral, the Geator’s immaculate white SUV was parked. Like him, there was nothing subtle about it: festooned with giant decals of Blavat and advertisements for a local car dealership. People on the sidewalk wiped tears from their eyes and took pictures of it.

A large screen set up outside scrolled through photos of Blavat, impossibly young and handsome on his wedding day; older, holding up a glass of wine; on the bike he loved to ride through Center City; posing with a young fan, always smiling.

The crowd that gathered to mourn the Geator was large, and diverse, some in furs and others in hoodies, many with white hair but plenty of young people, too. A knot of Philadelphia police officers stood near Blavat’s coffin as mourners filed past; flower arrangements were everywhere, everything from red roses to flowers dyed and formed into the shapes of records and microphones and a giant representation of Memories in Margate, the club the Geator owned and made famous for weekend dance parties.

People signed their names dutifully in one of several guest books. Someone left hot sauce, a nod to one of Blavat’s many nicknames.

After the funeral Mass was over, spontaneous applause broke out in the cathedral. Outside, there was a send-off fit for a Geator: As hundreds of people watched, an honor guard removed the Philadelphia city flag draped over Blavat’s coffin and presented it to Keely Stahl, his partner of 30 years.

Then, as pallbearers carried Blavat’s coffin into the hearse, the Quaker City String Band played and sang “My Buddy.”

The band stayed to play long after the funeral procession drove away. Everyday Philadelphians broke out into the Mummers strut on the sidewalk.

“Jerry would love it!” a friend shouted.