Chapter Ten
I recorded and released three albums for Ode between 1968 and 1971, beginning with the City album. Lou produced Now That Everything’s Been Said and Tapestry; Gerry Goffin and John Fischbach produced Writer. Though I didn’t realize it then, I view those three albums as a trilogy, with a progression from Now That Everything’s Been Said, through the slightly more confident Writer, and culminating with the elements that contributed to the success of Tapestry. But there was an additional element in Tapestry. If Danny’s observation is true that the seeds of Tapestry were planted in the two prior albums, then the influence of James Taylor brought water and sunlight.
In 1969 “sunlight” might not have been a word that sprang to the mind of Peter Asher in connection with James. After producing James’s first album in London, Peter accompanied him back to America, dropped him off at a rehab center on the East Coast, then went on to Los Angeles. Peter’s mission was to put together a band and produce an album on which James’s voice and guitar would be the focal points. Among the musicians Peter assembled were Danny Kortchmar on guitar, Russ Kunkel on drums, Chris Darrow on fiddle, Red Rhodes on steel guitar, and alternately on bass*Bobby West, John London, and Randy Meisner.† When Danny suggested to Peter that I play piano, Peter asked Danny to bring me over for a rehearsal that would be scheduled as soon as James arrived in L.A.
The day after James landed, I went with Danny to Peter’s house. I was already a fan of James’s songs. I was also a fan of Peter and Gordon. In addition to their string of hits including “A World Without Love,” “Nobody I Know,” and “I Go to Pieces,” the duo had recorded “Crying in the Rain.”
Peter’s house on Longwood Avenue in the Wilshire district was an elegant old home. Describing a house in Los Angeles as “old” wasn’t a negative. It simply meant that the house had been built as long ago as thirty years. With his trademark red hair and eyeglasses, the man who answered the door could only have been Peter. His British accent, upper-class background, and natural generosity made him a casting director’s dream for the role of sociable host. He embraced Danny, then welcomed me with a warm handshake. As we walked through the foyer I could see other rooms. In contrast to the elegance of the exterior style and location, inside, the décor resembled that of a rehearsal studio. The living room was devoid of furniture in any conventional sense. There were acoustic and electric guitars set in stands, a set of drums in front of large arched windows, several microphones, two guitar amps, one bass amp, a couple of mismatched straight-backed chairs in front of a large fireplace (the latter showing no evidence of use), a few odd tables on which to put drinks, charts, pens, and ashtrays, several stools for the bass and guitar players, stereo components and speakers on the floor, and wires everywhere. There was also a grand piano. And there was James, sitting on a tall wooden stool tucked into the curve of the piano.
It was the first time I’d seen James since the Night Owl. He was now twenty-one. He didn’t notice us at first because he was playing the guitar softly, his head bent with close attention. Once again I had the impression of how tall and angular he was, and even with his head down, his presence was compelling. When he looked up and saw Danny and me, he looked blank for a second. Then, realizing that it was Danny, James smiled broadly, set his guitar into a stand, unfolded his body, and stood up to embrace his friend.
Danny said, “James. You remember Carole.”
James turned to me and said, “Sure!”
As we shook hands and smiled with mutual pleasure, our eyes met. That was the first moment of our decades-long friendship.
Peter had booked the rest of the band to arrive later so that James and I could play, just the two of us, before they showed up. I sat down at the piano and played a few chords. Nice piano, I thought as James picked up his guitar. Soon James and I were playing and singing songs we both knew—some by him, some by me, and some by other artists.
Magical…? Transformative…? Timeless…? Adjectives fall short. It was as if I were playing with an extension of myself. Every time I thought of a chord or note that I wanted James to play or sing at that moment, he was already there. Our musical vocabulary was the same, and we found that we had an impeccable vocal blend. Piano, guitar, chords, notes, and vocal harmonies rolled around each other like puppies playing in a pile of newly cut grass.
After a while, James asked Danny to join us. Danny leaped forward, plugged in his guitar, executed a few licks, and then the three of us were jamming. As a trio we had a similar familiarity, but with Danny added there was an exponential increase in volume and energy. We might have continued for hours, but Peter was listening for the doorbell. As soon as the rest of the band arrived, we stopped playing, exchanged greetings, and then we began to rehearse the new material.
With Peter producing, James recorded Sweet Baby James at Sunset Sound in 1969.
That year, in addition to being a mom to my seven- and nine-year-old daughters, I played and sang on James’s album, recorded my own Writer album, and wrote songs and made demos for other artists. After Warner Bros. released Sweet Baby James in February 1970, James started appearing in small venues around the United States to promote the new album. As his manager, who was also a friend, Peter traveled with James and did his utmost to keep him clean and sober. He wasn’t always successful in keeping the darkness of James’s addiction at bay. Even so, James’s talent and charisma shone through brightly enough to build a following.
The next time I saw James was in the summer of 1970. As before, he was staying with the Ashers, and Danny had invited me to join him in catching up with his old friends. Peter’s house had changed quite a bit since I had last been there. Now the interior had an elegance to match the outside. Peter’s spacious living room still had the fireplace and grand piano, but without the drums to block the view I could see the greenery framed by the large arched windows. There were new stereo components and speakers in a proper cabinet, two sofas, several comfortable armchairs, small side tables with coasters on which one could set a drink, and a coffee table on its own legs.
Danny had already told me that James was preparing to go on a college tour to further promote Sweet Baby James. The band would include Kootch on lead guitar, Lee Sklar on bass, and Russ Kunkel on drums. On this visit, after about twenty minutes of casual conversation, James migrated over to his guitar and picked it up. Danny plugged his guitar into an amp artfully tucked among the décor. I sat down at the piano. With Peter encouraging us, clapping, singing along, and sometimes joining in on acoustic guitar, we played whatever came to mind. We laughed, sang, and let the music pour out of us. We were four individual musicians riding a collective wave of easy enjoyment.
When at last we stopped for a break, Peter seized the moment and invited me to join James’s band on tour. I was no more inclined to go on the road than I’d been previously, but Peter had anticipated my concerns about leaving Charlie and the girls. He explained that going on the road with James wouldn’t take me away from my family for long periods of time. The tour would involve six to eight college shows on weekends during the fall of 1970, with trips home in between.
The opportunity to play music with James again was difficult to resist. After consulting with Charlie, the girls, and Willa Mae, I said yes.
It was during one of those weekends that I wrote “So Far Away” completely on my own. I had Charlie in mind personally and James in mind musically. James’s songs can be deceptive in their apparent simplicity. They’re actually quite complex and not always predictable. James creates subtle distinctions that make every verse and chorus not quite like any other, yet each new section feels completely familiar and natural. I was so inspired by James’s writing style that I began to incorporate it into my own songs. I had developed the skill of writing for other artists in the Aldon years. Though I wasn’t writing for James, it was his voice I heard in my head while I was writing “So Far Away.”
It was on a night during another one of those weekends—more than a year after Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin took “one small step for [a] man, one giant leap for mankind” on the actual moon!—that James figuratively dragged me kicking and screaming to the front of the stage. Later, I learned that he had been looking for an opportunity to help me make the transition from sideman to performer. Once he’d made the decision that the transition would happen that night, he was more assertive about it than I’d ever seen him be about anything.
With all due respect to the astronauts, from where I sat, the moon was a lot closer than the front of the stage.