Chapter Five
I was twenty-five and still living in New Jersey in 1967 when I ran into two of the Myddle Class in a music store on West 48th Street. Rick and Charlie were there to look at guitars, and then they were going to a club in the Village to catch a band they knew.
“You gotta come see these guys,” Rick said. “They’re unbelievable!”
The Flying Machine was playing four sets a night. With Gerry in the studio and the girls in New Jersey with Willa Mae, I could catch an early set and be home by eleven.
The Night Owl Café was bustling when we entered. Charlie and Rick immediately recognized three of the Flying Machine among the people milling around the bar. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness the musicians greeted each other with what appeared to be some kind of secret handshake. Then Rick introduced me to drummer Joel “Bishop” O’Brien, and Danny Kortchmar, who sang, wrote, and played guitar. Charlie added that Joel and Danny had been two of the Martha’s Vineyard King Bees. Then Danny introduced me to Zach Wiesner, the Flying Machine’s bass player. Following Zach’s glance, I noticed an extraordinarily tall man with long hair standing off to one side of the bar.
Following my look, Danny brought me over to the tall man and said, “James! Say hello to Carole King.” James Taylor mumbled something like, “Hrrph, harya,” then turned and covered the distance to the dressing room in several strides. Danny looked at his watch. It was time for their set. Danny, Bishop, and Zach quickly followed James.
Years later, James would tell me that he had so much respect for my songs that when Danny introduced us he didn’t know what to say, but at the time I felt like an unwelcome intruder.
“I should go,” I told Charlie.
“You’re already here,” he said. “Just stay for one set.”
“Trust me,” said Rick. “You’ll be blown away!”
With that, Rick took my arm and guided me toward the center of the club where some people were already seated in church pews. We were seated at a table barely big enough to hold a candle, drinks, and an ashtray. A waitress materialized to take our order, which arrived just as the Flying Machine began to file onto the stage. James pulled a mic toward his acoustic guitar, Zach and Danny plugged in their instruments, Bishop picked up his sticks, and the stage lights went up.
From the moment I heard the first notes out of James’s guitar, I was mesmerized. When the band came in on the downbeat of the first verse and James began to sing, I felt as if I were witnessing a long-lost friend who also happened to be an angel. Rick was right. I was blown away. As much as James tried to blend in with the band, his stage presence was unmistakable. His songs and the quality of his voice evoked an astonishing range of emotions. His modest demeanor was authentic and endearing. He told stories and jokes between songs with a dry, self-deprecating sense of humor, and his banter with Kootch, Zach, and Bishop was witty and familiar. His joy at being onstage was apparent and infectious, and when he threw his head back to hit the high notes, there was no doubt about it: James Taylor loved to sing.
After the set James was swarmed by audience members eager to tell him how good he was. Though I shared their opinion, I didn’t relish being part of an after-show crush, and I was a little gun-shy following our earlier encounter. I was also experiencing that sense of borrowed time that mothers of young children often feel when they’re out having a good time. I decided to head back to New Jersey without saying goodbye to James or the band. Charlie and Rick walked me to my car, and I drove home to suburbia.
Like so many other bands who had come to New York, the Flying Machine believed that a record deal was all that stood between them and their ascent to the top of the charts. After all, their main songwriter was James, whose gift for singing and songwriting was manifest. Danny, in addition to being an accomplished guitar player, was also an excellent songwriter. And Zach was James’s cowriter on “Rainy Day Man.” But the potential of the Flying Machine would not be realized in that incarnation. As the seasons of New York changed around the smoky clubs in which hopeful bands played, the atmosphere inside remained the same, as did the availability of hard drugs in Greenwich Village. In addition to being one of a number of bands competing for the attention of A&R men, the Flying Machine was struggling with James’s addiction to heroin. In the fall of 1967 the hopes of the band were dashed to “pieces on the ground.”* In desperate need of help, James called his father, Dr. Isaac Taylor, a professor at the University of North Carolina. Ike drove to New York and brought his son home to Chapel Hill.
After several months, James felt that he had recovered sufficiently to look for another career opportunity. His decision to fly to London turned out to be fortunate. Peter Asher was already known to the world as half of Peter and Gordon when the Beatles put him in charge of A&R for Apple Records, a division of the Beatles’ Apple Corps, Ltd.* It was Kootch who suggested to Peter that he give James a listen, and Peter had the wisdom to sign James immediately. The result was James’s eponymous first album.
The first time I listened to the songs on James Taylor I thought, I could hear these songs a thousand times and never grow tired of them.
That theory would be tested and affirmed.