Chapter Sixteen
The release of my singles in 1958 went virtually unnoticed by the public. It probably didn’t help that I wasn’t out there promoting them, but I was just as happy to stay home and prepare for college. As much as I would have enjoyed having a hit single, I didn’t want the peripatetic life of a performing artist any more than my parents wanted it for me. By then I was using the professional name I would use for the rest of my life. It had evolved in two steps. First I had added the “e” to Carol to distinguish myself from two other Carol Kleins in my school. Then, following a precedent established by Jewish entertainers before me who believed a non-ethnic name would improve their chances for success, I decided on King.
Tinkering with my name was more psychologically significant than the evolution implied. I was still seeking a change of identity. I was also trying to downplay my intelligence because brainy girls were considered less desirable, but playing dumb conflicted with my passion for learning. I loved knowing the answers, and I liked bringing home good grades. Though traditionally bestowed on men, education was important in my family. My grandparents were unusual among immigrants of their generation in sending both their daughters to college. It was then more common for a female high school graduate who wasn’t already wearing an engagement ring to be sent to work until she found a rich husband, married him, and moved out. It was my grandmother who had insisted on college for my mother and my aunt. My compliant grandfather did his part by working hard, coming home, and facilitating Sarah’s wishes.
That I would go to college was never in question, but I had yet to decide where. I considered Ohio State in Columbus, where my cousins lived, but if I enrolled as a resident in one of the five New York City colleges I could continue to live at home and tuition would be free. My older female relatives predicted that I would meet my future husband in college—as had my mother. Ideally, mine would be a premed student. Becoming the “Mrs.” in “Dr. and Mrs. (insert Jewish name here)” was the highest achievement they could imagine for a young woman. But first I had to pass the rigorous exams called Regents that New York State required of every senior. I passed with high marks and received my diploma as a graduate of James Madison High School in June 1958. I was sixteen.
Though my parents were unflagging in support of my musical ambitions, they wisely counseled me to choose a career I could count on to earn a living. I figured I’d get a degree, become an elementary school teacher, get married, have four children, and write songs in my spare time. I was about to enroll in Brooklyn College when my parents, then reconciled, announced that we’d be moving to Rosedale, a suburban neighborhood in Queens.
Queens? I thought with dismay. What could there possibly be in Queens?
When I entered Queens College in the fall of 1958 I had no idea that Art Garfunkel and Paul Simon were anything other than fellow freshmen until I saw their photo in a magazine with a caption identifying Artie as “Tom” and Paul as “Jerry.” Prior to ABC-Paramount’s 1958 launch of my ill-fated singles, a small company called Big Records released a single by Tom and Jerry called “Hey Schoolgirl.” Having made the top 50, it was considered a hit.
Paul and I soon became friends. Among the things we had in common were a similarity of age and a desire to stay involved in writing and recording popular music. Hoping to earn some extra cash, we began making demos together as the Cousins. Paul played bass and guitar, I played piano, and we both sang. Some songs were his, some were mine, and some were written by other people. The income was negligible, but we would have done it for nothing.
We were especially proud when part of an arrangement we created for a demo of a song by Mary Kalfin was used on a master release on Audicon Records. Though the single didn’t make it past #69 in Billboard, the Passions’ “Just to Be with You” is considered a doo-wop classic.
Paul and I never wrote a song together. When I asked Paul in 2006 why he thought that was, he said he’d never thought of himself as a collaborative songwriter and didn’t think he was any good at writing lyrics until “The Sound of Silence” went to #1 in 1966.
I was still writing my own lyrics in 1958, but they weren’t much improved from 1957. I needed a collaborative songwriter with better lyrical skills than mine.