Chapter Eleven
I’ve always enjoyed being a sideman. For the record, it is “sideman” regardless of gender. It was especially fun to be a sideman with Danny, Russ, Lee, and James, who went out of their way to make me feel welcome. As the focus of attention, James had the responsibility of directing the flow of the show and making sure the audience was having a good time. Part of his audiences’ enjoyment came from James’s generosity in showing off the musicianship of members of his band, to whom he always gave plenty of latitude to stretch out within the framework of a song. Sometimes I was so entertained by the musical interplay among my bandmates that I forgot what I was supposed to be playing. Along with the audience, I was in awe of Danny’s guitar work. I couldn’t fathom how he managed to come up with so many different inventive solos night after night. As the tour progressed, I became quite comfortable as James’s sideman.
As I write this, I remember my grandmother saying, “Kehdeleh dollink, dunt get too comf’tah-bull.”
What happened next was the opposite of comfortable, and I never saw it coming.
Most of the songs James performed were self-penned, but sometimes he sang other people’s compositions. Originally released by the Drifters in 1963, Gerry’s and my song “Up on the Roof” was one of James’s favorites. It was on the set list the night we were to perform at Queens College.
Usually James performed the first part of his set alone, accompanying himself on acoustic guitar. James and I were waiting with the rest of the band in the backstage area when the house lights flickered, signaling that the show was about to begin.
James leaned down and said, “I’d like you to sing lead on ‘Up on the Roof’ tonight.”
It was a long moment before I fully absorbed what he had just said.
“Oh, no… n-no… please… James… I couldn’t… I mean… you sing it so beautifully…”
I stopped, took a breath, and exhaled as I spoke.
“James,” I said. “Don’t make me sing lead in front of all those people!”
James wasn’t having it. “Don’t worry,” he said. “They’ll love you.”
“James, I can’t do this. It’s my alma mater!”
“You’ll be fine,” he said. “We’ll do it in your key.”
Oy, I thought. He knows my key.
“Tell the band,” he said, unnecessarily, since they were right there. And with that he hoisted his guitar and strode onstage. A few audience members caught sight of him and began clapping; it became a wave of excitement and then an ocean of applause from the entire audience.
I stood immobile. They were welcoming James. They didn’t know me. I was James’s piano player. And I was terrified.
That night James played and sang, as he always did, with confidence and authority. There was no sign of shyness when he sang. And when he spoke to the audience between songs, his down-to-earth demeanor gave the impression that he was speaking completely off the cuff about whatever had just come into his mind. Normally his performances and patter had a calming effect on me, but not that night. He was so good. I couldn’t imagine following him.
Soon it was time for me to go on as James’s sideman. Thankfully, my fingers played the piano part on “Fire and Rain” and “Country Road” without my having to consciously direct them, leaving my mind free to careen around the white-knuckle edges of panic.
Some friend! I thought over the quarter-note chords in the first verse of “Fire and Rain.” Why is he putting me on the spot? Is he really going to make me do this?
Not only was he going to make me do it, he was going to make me do it without a rehearsal! With terror running through my head like a team of track racers sprinting for the finish line, we ended the song that preceded “Up on the Roof.” Prolonging my agony, James chose that moment to introduce the band, player by player, as he does at some point during every show. That night, he saved me for last. Before saying my name, he mentioned some of the songs that I had cowritten that the audience was likely to know. Then he announced that I had gone to Queens College. When the audience applauded I wasn’t sure whether they were applauding for me, the songs, or their school.
Then James pronounced my name.
“Ladies and gentlemen: Carole King!”
I could either freeze in place and pray that the stage would open up and drop me into the basement, or I could go ahead and sing the song. I took a breath and brought my hands to the piano.
As I played the opening chord, the lights around me dimmed, leaving me alone in the spotlight. My voice came out sounding timid.
When this old world starts getting me down
And people are just too much for me to face…
I continued through the second verse and began the first bridge.
On the roof it’s peaceful as can be…
I was wondering how I would make it through the rest of the song when suddenly I felt the audience make that infinitesimal yet impossibly vast transition from tentative to attentive. I may have been unfamiliar to them, but the song wasn’t.
And there the world below can’t bother me…
They were with me.
By the time I got to the second bridge, to my surprise, I was there, too. I looked over at my bandmates, and every man had a big smile on his face. The biggest smile was on the face of my sideman, James Taylor, who was playing and singing, in my key, parts that fit perfectly with what I was doing.
Together we sang:
On the roof’s the only place I know
Where you just have to wish to make it so
Let’s go up on the roof…
The audience’s warmth filled me with confidence. I played the lead piano instrumental with gusto, and then some of the audience joined us in singing the last bridge. My mind was still running along parallel tracks. On one track I was performing; on the other I was tremendously touched to see all those people holding hands, swaying, and singing along with James and me.
Right smack dab in the middle of town
I found a paradise that’s trouble-proof…
On one track I was aware of leading the audience; on the other I was thinking, Leave it to Gerry Goffin to find such an evocative description of an earthly paradise—“trouble-proof”—and have it rhyme with “roof.”
When the song ended, the audience clapped and cheered and wouldn’t stop. They loved the song and, as James had predicted, they loved me because I’d written it. I basked in the applause, and when they still wouldn’t stop, James waved me up and I took a bow. Then James stepped up to the microphone and everyone, including me, remembered whose show it was. I sat down, flushed with exhilaration, while the audience became quiet, ready for the next James Taylor song. As before, I had no idea what my fingers were playing, but thankfully they still knew what to do.
Later that night, in one of those insightful moments that come just before we fall asleep, I understood that rather than putting me on the spot, James had given me a priceless gift. He had set me up for a favorable reception from the audience. James’s introduction and choice of song had virtually guaranteed that I would be pre-loved. My inaugural experience as a lead performer was successful because of a thoughtful send-off from a generous, caring friend. I will always be grateful to James for putting me on the path to become a confident performing artist, and also for being an excellent example of how to perform unselfconsciously with joy and integrity.