The headline of the recent New York TImes obituary for Bobby Rydell is as good a way as any to summarize his 79 years of life and work into five words: “Teenage Idol With Enduring Appeal.”

It requires somewhat more verbiage to fully describe what Rydell was capable of — that he had the talent to be something more than a teen idol and that, with a little more support from the right people, he could have, as the saying goes, been a contender.  

Alas, many who write about music seem to ignore the overwhelming evidence that reaches their ears, relying instead on such external crutches as musicians’ geography, ethnicity, and chronology.  

Bobby Rydell, who was born Robert Louis Ridarelli and who died a few weeks before his 80th birthday on April 26, was grouped too often — even by the artist himself — with teen idols who flourished in the JFK Era of  Pop music, that previously undefined time between Elvis and the Beatles.

Cultural historians invariably place him in the same category as Frankie Avalon and Fabian, and it’s true that they all were born within a block or two of each other in the Italian-American neighborhood of South Philadelphia, and all had a golden moment on the pop charts at the same time, even as the 1950s gave way to the ‘60s. 

Yet if you listen to Rydell’s greatest work — particularly live performances on TV variety shows — you find yourself ranking him alongside some slightly older singers who started in teeny bopper pop and ultimately graduated to adult standards, jazz, and the Great American Songbook, such as Steve Lawrence (born 1935), Jack Jones (1938), and, most spectacularly, Bobby Darin (1937).

The young Ritarelli was first exposed to music via Gene Krupa and the big band era in the late 1940s, when his father took him to clubs on Philly’s vibrant music scene. He always knew he would be a musician and a singer, and for his entire career he was a pro-level drummer as well as a gifted vocalist. 

His infallible ear, coupled with his drummer’s sense of timing, enabled him to become a master impressionist and comic as well — which helped when trading punchlines with the likes of Red Skelton, Jack Benny, and Milton Berle.

On the few occasions when I interviewed Rydell, I got the impression that for him, real music meant Benny Goodman and George Gershwin. When the opportunity came to step into the spotlight, he had no qualms about attaining the upper brackets of teen pop with catchy trifles like “Wild One,” “I Dig Girls,” and “Kissin’ Time.” (How can anyone resist a song with the opening live, “We’re kissing in Cleveland?”)  

He was one of the definitive voices of the Brill Building in Manhattan during the last years when the Brill ruled the music world, right before it was reduced to rubble by the singer-songwriter movement spearheaded by Bob Dylan and the Beatles.  

His most notable single was the American pop version of “Volare,” the Italian canzone inspired by the Russian Sputnik. In a rough parallel with another European import, Darin’s “Mack the Knife,” this is surely one of the last 45s that was equally enjoyed by twisting tweens as well as by their parents.  

Most Rydell greatest-hit collections also include his twist-driven, Sammy Davis Jr.-ish version of “That Old Black Magic,” and a treatment of “Sway” that may even best Dean Martin for its adroit combination of rhythm and charm. There are also songs like “The Cha-Cha-Cha,” a delightfully minor ditty with an infectious beat on which Rydell is fairly irresistible; he could easily have overpowered it with his cha-cha-cha chops, but instead he made it work for him. 

Rydell’s stay on the charts essentially ended in 1964, and even dovetailed with the coming of Beatlemania. Paul McCartney, who was born six weeks after Rydell on the other side of the Atlantic, gave credit to “Forget Him” (in some accounts, the song was “Swingin’ School”), whose yeah-yeahs inspired the Beatles hit “She Loves You.” 

More importantly, Rydell recorded the single best version of “A World Without Love,” the most significant Lennon-McCartney song never performed by the Fab Four themselves.

It was at this moment — when he was about to turn 22 — that Rydell should have begun doing albums of jazz and of show and pop standards, much as he was doing on live TV and in his nightclub act at the Copa, Vegas, and everywhere else.  

It wasn’t to be: Just as the pop music world was abandoning the idea of full-time professional songwriters, no one wanted to hear someone the same age as Dylan and the Beatles singing “All the Things You Are” and “Ol’ Man River.”  

The one major exception was Barbra Streisand, who was born two days before Rydell and whose singing career was boosted by her moviestar status. Even though Rydell was the single best thing in the movie version of “Bye Bye Birdie” (transforming Hugo Peabody from a nonentity in the original play into a brilliant picture debut), he didn’t seem interested in acting. 

Instead, Bobby Rydell kept on keeping on, triumphantly rising from the ashes of a drinking problem and touring extensively for much of the second half of his career with Mr. Avalon and Fabian. 

Yet his best work is only partially to be found on Spotify and Apple Music; most of it is on YouTube: Look for those 1960 and ’61 appearances on “Perry Como’s Kraft Music Hall.” There’s a “Fascinating Rhythm” deep in the groove of Mel Torme on which he plays drums as well, and readings of “Sway” and “Black Magic” that are even more animated than the singles.  

He may have done his absolute best singing ever on “The Red Skelton Hour,” including a fairly magical reading of the Italian “Al-Di-La” with The Modernaires, and an honestly and astonishingly sincere “The Girl That I Marry.” 

At 22, he had already reached a degree of balladeering that most male singers don’t arrive at until they’re considerably older, if even then. I’ve heard “The Girl That I Marry” sung by great baritones from John Raitt to Tom Wopat, but Rydell’s is the only version that ever made me reach for a tissue.

When I spoke with Bobby, he never gave any indication that he regretted anything. The only regrets came from superannuated fans such as myself, who wished he had done fewer songs like “Good Time Baby” and more like “Fascinating Rhythm.”  

Like I said, he could have been a contender. In fact he was.