Chapter Sixteen
In the early 1970s, a booking at Doug Weston’s Troubadour in West Hollywood could put an artist on a fast track to fame. That was the case with many singer-songwriters, including Jackson Browne, Joni Mitchell, and Elton John. Doug’s club had a reputation for being an encouraging place both to be and see a new artist. Audience members who had enjoyed a performer’s early appearances there took even greater pleasure in going back to see that performer at the Troubadour, knowing that she or he was drawing huge crowds in much larger venues. I didn’t know until later that Doug’s contracts required performers to come back and play the club periodically for very little money no matter how successful they became. My first appearance at the Troubadour was as an audience member.
When I learned that James Taylor was scheduled to headline at the club for a week starting November 24, 1970, I was just thinking about how much fun it would be to see my friend play there when Peter Asher rang to ask if I was available to play those dates as a member of James’s band.
I was.
Peter then called Lou to enlist his help in persuading me to open for James as an artist in my own right. With Tapestry about to be released, Lou was happy to make that call. He was less happy, though not surprised, when I told him I wasn’t ready to do an entire set on my own, and I definitely wasn’t ready to do it at the hottest club in town.
“You’re already going to be playing with James,” Lou said. “All you have to do is sing your own songs just as if you were playing for friends in your living room.”
“It’s not the same.”
“Remember when you told me how much you enjoyed performing ‘Up on the Roof’ in James’s set?”
“Ye-es,” I said, wishing I hadn’t told him that. “But that was just one song in someone else’s show. It’s not the same as performing a whole set.”
“Would you feel more comfortable if Charlie played string bass with you on some of the songs?”
“Maybe.”
“What if we brought in the rest of the string quartet?”
He was referring to violinist Barry Socher, violist David Campbell,* and cellist Terry King.
It would be a beautiful presentation.
“Okay. I’ll do it.”
Charlie and I rehearsed, the quartet and I rehearsed, and I rehearsed alone until I felt as prepared as I would ever be. I made a long burgundy-colored velvet dress for opening night. My hair would be done by—no one. It was my hair. I wouldn’t require much makeup either. I was a natural woman in life, and that’s who I’d be at the Troubadour.
On opening night there was a line around the block. This was not unexpected. James’s show was reportedly one of the best around. More than two-thirds of the crowd were record industry people and friends of James. The rest were fans. There was overlap in that many industry people were James’s friends, fans, or both. When the show finally started, it was well beyond fashionably late. Every table was filled to capacity, with barely enough room for the waitresses in their skimpy outfits to sidle past each other with their trays held high above their heads to deliver the overpriced drinks that were the lifeblood of Doug Weston’s income stream.
As the opening act, I wouldn’t have a chance to ease into any kind of comfort zone. There would be no pre-loved introduction. The lights would go down and then I would be out there, just me and a piano and three hundred people expecting me to be really good. Charlie and the quartet would join me later in the set.
Looking down from the dressing room upstairs, I could see the stage. It was little more than a platform, roughly twelve by six feet, which stood two and a half feet above the audience. I checked my hair in the mirror. It was still my hair. I double-checked my makeup, now even more natural because my blush and lipstick had faded. I began whispering to myself: “… friends in my living room… friends in my living room…”
Then it was time. The lights dimmed to half and I walked down the stairs. From the sound and light booth, a disembodied voice intoned, “Ladies and gentlemen… Carole King!” and the house went to black except for the bar and the stage. I walked onstage and bowed to acknowledge the audience, then I walked over to the piano, sat on the bench, and looked down to make sure that a glass of water had been placed next to the upstage leg of my piano. (It had.)
My first song was “I Feel the Earth Move.” I played the pounding bass notes of the piano intro and then launched into the first verse. I was too nervous to remember to sing as if I were singing for friends in my living room, but, as usual, the song carried me through. I completed the earthquake ending and then waited five agonizing years during the infinitesimal pause between the ending and the audience’s realization that the song was over. Their response was encouraging. I bowed my head and said quickly, “Thank you very much,” and bent down to take a sip of water. Sitting up again, I ventured a shy smile over my right shoulder to acknowledge the audience members who would mostly see my back because I was facing the other way. Then I started the boogie blues shuffle that kicked off “Smackwater Jack.” Thank God the song was up-tempo. It was fun to sing. After the last chord rang out, the audience was genuinely warm, which made me less nervous about my singing, but I still had no idea what to do or say between songs other than “Thank you very much.” My sense of theater was telling me that I needed to say something more, and I needed to say it right then, before the third song. My mind was racing.
Should I welcome them? Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.
No. Too formal.
I could ask if everyone could hear me… or how they liked my dress… or I could bellow, “Are ya ready to rock and rooooooollll?”
No, no, and no.
As the applause began to die down I saw six people at a table in the back talking animatedly to each other about something I was certain had nothing to do with my performance. The rest of the audience was looking at me expectantly. Panic began to set in. What should I say?
All of a sudden, the same voice that had introduced me came over the loudspeaker.
“Uh, Carole… we’re gonna have to ask everyone to leave the club in an orderly fashion. Don’t worry, it’s just a rumor, but the L.A.P.D. heard that there might be a bomb in here.”
I didn’t think. I just spoke.
“As long as it’s not me.”
The audience’s laughter broke the tension, and everyone filed out as directed. People were in a surprisingly good frame of mind considering what had just been announced. Twenty minutes later we were escorted back into the club with the assurance of the L.A.P.D. that there was in fact no bomb. With everyone reseated, I came back to finish my set, and what do you know? I was happy to be there! Not only was I excited about the songs I was playing, but the interruption had just forced me through a barrier that had been there only because I had created it. Once surmounted, it disappeared and the audience responded with unbounded enthusiasm. Performing wasn’t something to fear; it was a merely a larger circle of collaboration. The more I communicated my joy to the audience, the more joy they communicated back to me. All I needed to do was sing with conviction, speak my truth from the heart, honestly and straightforwardly, and offer my words, ideas, and music to the audience as if it were one collective friend that I’d known for a very long time.
I had found the key to success in performing. It was to be authentically myself.