B005S8O7YE EBOK (25 page)

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.

I
n 1970 Danny and Charlie formed a new band with Ralph Schuckett on keyboards, Michael Ney on drums, and Gale Haness singing lead. Their name, Jo Mama, was a play on the “yo’mama”
^*
verbal sparring they’d heard among jazz musicians.

At first Jo Mama rehearsed in the living room of the house where Gale and Michael were living as a couple. Then three transformative events occurred. First Gale changed her name to Abigale. Then she changed boyfriends from Michael to Danny. Rehearsals were predictably awkward until the third event, in which the band decided by one vote short of unanimous to replace Michael with Joel O’Brien.

Abigale was a powerful performer with an impressive vocal range. She was equally at home singing pop, hard rock, soft rock, gospel, soul, jazz, and R&B.
^†
She was also, as Danny put it, “easy
on the eyes.” With Abigale singing lead, Jo Mama accumulated a repertoire that few white bands could pull off with credibility. They released two albums on Atlantic:
Jo Mama
in 1970, and
J Is for Jump
in 1971.

Following the warm reception in 1970 of James and me at the Troubadour, Peter asked me to open for James and then play as a band member in James’s upcoming nationwide tour. We would be away for three weeks, home for a two-week break, then out again for another three weeks. The offer grew sweeter when Peter proposed to have Jo Mama open the show before my set. The James Taylor–Carole King–Jo Mama show would be a three-act extravaganza in which we would all play in each other’s sets, culminating in a grand finale in which everyone, including both drummers and both bass players, would join James onstage to bring the show to a rousing conclusion.

Charlie’s vote in favor was already cast. He was excited about the opportunity to play, first with Jo Mama, then in my set, and then again in the finale. It took me a little longer to get there. Peter’s offer had tremendous appeal, but three weeks was longer than I’d ever left my girls. However, I did have someone reliable to stay with them, and I’d be with them for two weeks in the middle of the tour. After I said yes, I, too, was excited. Being on the road would be an adventure, it would be musical, and it would be fun.

Considering the variety of personalities, romantic attachments, and number of shows on the schedule, a collection of stories from the 1971 tour alone could surely fill a book. What I remember most is the feeling of being part of a big family. This is a common phenomenon on endeavors such as tours, films, shows, circuses, carnivals, and archaeological expeditions, and probably even more intensely so in military service. Thrown together by a common mission, far from home for an extended period of time,
people inevitably develop a strong bond. A social hierarchy evolves based on the group’s perception of how essential a person is to the overall effort. On tour everyone has an important role, but the buck stops with the headliner, which thankfully on that tour I was not. On a concert tour the headliner is at the top of the pile (a) because it’s his or her name on the marquee, and (b) because s/he is paying everyone. The corollary is that the headliner is responsible for making sure the show goes smoothly. It doesn’t matter how bad s/he might feel. A headliner has to show up and be a shining star onstage every night.

James was that shining star, and yet he was egalitarian. Every night he began the show by walking onto the stage in street clothes, which looked exactly like his stage clothes. Because headliners usually weren’t seen onstage until later in the evening, James’s early appearance caused a buzz that gradually built until the entire audience realized: Oh my God, it’s James Taylor! They cheered and applauded wildly until James calmed them down with a raised hand, gave Jo Mama a warm introduction, then left the stage.

At first Jo Mama played to half-empty houses while people were still coming in, but once word spread about the unique format of our show and the excellence of Jo Mama, the house was close to full from the jump (for which J was).

And that was only the beginning.

T
he word “cat” as a synonym for musician originated in the world of jazz. My personal definition of a cat is a skilled musician who cares about excellence, values the integrity of the music, and plays his or her instrument with a commitment to enhance the piece. A true cat plays for the sheer joy of playing. Under my definition, orchestral players and background singers also qualify, though orchestral players might not use the word “cat” to describe themselves.

Ever since there have been traveling bands and orchestras, someone in the position of tour manager has had to deal with the inherent difficulties of trying to move a group of cats from point A to point B. Before civil rights became law in the sixties, tour managers with big bands had to contend not only with the natural propensity of cats to scatter but also with the logistics of “white” and “colored” lodging, dining, and bathroom facilities. Add female singers of whatever color into the mix and you have a logistical nightmare far beyond the challenges that faced our tour manager, Jock McLean, in 1971—not that Jock’s job was easy.

One morning we had to wake up to catch an impossibly early flight to the next city. Upon leaving our room, Charlie and I saw a couple of musicians (who shall remain nameless) whose rooms were on the same floor. Having gone to sleep barely an hour earlier after a night of drinking and heaven knows what else, they had managed to put their bags out for pickup by the bell staff and were waiting for the elevator. When it arrived, the two cats stumbled into it and we entered behind them. Both were wearing sunglasses. Each peered at the other as if he were unsure whether he was looking at the face of the other guy or his own face in the mirror. Each was probably thinking how messed up the other guy looked and hoping he didn’t look that bad. No one spoke. A full three minutes elapsed before any of us thought to look up at the lighted floor numbers. With a sudden rush of clarity, I realized that the numbers weren’t changing.

“Oh! Right!” I said, and pushed “L” for lobby.

As soon as the elevator stopped and the door opened, Charlie and I stepped into the lobby. The two cats remained in the elevator, drifting in and out of their early-morning fog. Jock was paying the group’s bill at the cashier’s desk when he noticed a familiar pair of boots inside the elevator. As the door began to close, Jock ran over and pushed the “up” button just in time. When the door reopened Jock escorted the musicians onto the bus, where they slept soundly in their seats until we arrived at the airport. After Jock had checked the rest of us in, he went back for the two cats and escorted them to the boarding gate, where they slept until it was time to get on the plane. They slept all the way to the next city, and if we hadn’t had a gig that night, they’d probably have slept until a reasonable hour for a rock musician to wake up, typically defined as midnight.

James and I both relied heavily on our cats. Even though we
didn’t use all the same players, we made no distinction between his cats and mine in terms of affection and respect.
^*

The first show of the tour began with James’s introduction of Jo Mama. With half the audience still drifting in, the members of Jo Mama were uncertain how their set would be received, but they played with a nervous energy that the audience members who were paying attention perceived as excitement. By the end of their set, they looked and sounded confident enough to elicit a fair amount of applause. The band took an exultant bow and left the stage. The lights went up for the first intermission, and the crew began to reset the scene.

Fifteen minutes later I was waiting in the wings. I wouldn’t say I was afraid, but the butterflies in my stomach were keenly aware of the importance of my first solo appearance ever on tour. When they called “house to black,” most people were back in their seats. The spotlight found James as he walked onstage to introduce me. I entered from stage right, walked to center stage, and reached up to hug him. He reached down to return the hug, waved to the audience, then exited stage left. I walked over to the piano and sat down. It was a very big stage, and I was alone on it. As I prepared to play for thousands of people, I took a breath. Then I dove in and performed the first few songs of my set solo.

Considering how shy I had been about performing, I was surprised at how comfortable I was. During the solo part of my set I really did feel as if I were playing in a living room (albeit a large one) for a receptive audience. And rather than detracting from the
intimacy, Charlie’s entrance drew them in. Later, when we played the Los Angeles Forum before an audience of twenty thousand people, I didn’t believe we could achieve a comparable level of intimacy. Just before my set that night I had peeked out from the wings and watched the streams of people walking back and forth across the various levels, buying souvenirs, getting refreshments, and going to and from the restrooms. With so many diversions for the audience, I didn’t know if I could connect with them. But as soon as I hit the first notes on the piano, I forgot how many people I was playing for. As at the Troubadour, I had the sense of playing for a familiar, collective friend.

Often I began my set with
“Song of Long Ago”
and played “I Feel the Earth Move” second, but sometimes I opened with “Earth Move” to get the crowd (and probably myself) going. On future tours with drums and an electric band I would perform it much later in my set. A full band would allow me to indulge in another of my favorite ways of connecting with an audience—a full-on rock performance with me up front and a cat playing my piano part. I love leading my band and the audience in a rock concert experience in which every musician is giving his or her all with peak energy and volume, yet with professional awareness and control. I love to watch an audience become caught up in the sizzle of the groove and the heat of the beat, clapping and dancing, up on their feet.

Gloria Steinem once called me the first woman to give a downbeat. Though I’ve given many downbeats, I’m not sure I was the first, but my experience has always been that gender doesn’t matter to cats as long as they respect the bandleader as a fellow cat. Being a sideman taught me that nothing makes a cat happier than having a good song to play and a leader who recognizes a cat’s ability to play it.

Such was the case for every cat on tour in 1971. The fact that I was one of a close-knit group of musicians having a fantastic time performing onstage sustained me for a while. But the grind
of touring affected each of us. It hit me one morning toward the end of our second week, when I woke up depressed. I was tired of being on the road. I didn’t know that few touring bands enjoyed the amenities we did, or that many bands slept on a bus and rarely made use of hotels, airports, or comfortable hygienic facilities. I should have been thankful that our travel included a nightly hotel room with a clean, comfortable bed and a hot shower. But I was weary of going from airport to hotel, with little time to do more than fumble around in my suitcase for toiletries and something to wear the next day. Every night I grabbed a shower and a few hours’ sleep, then rose to the jarring ring of a wake-up call the next morning, followed by “bags out” and a quick breakfast before boarding the bus to the airport. We flew, landed, got on a bus to the venue, where we did a soundcheck, played the gig, then got back on the bus and went to the hotel, and so on. Most of the time we were booked to play three nights in a row followed by a night off. Every night off was a welcome respite. It was also a night of vocal rest as long as I didn’t go out with the band to a restaurant or a smoky club in which I had to shout to be heard by someone sitting across the table. The monotony of the routine, the constant travel, and living out of a suitcase were wearing me down. I missed being home, I missed my daughters, and hearing on the phone how much they missed me only made me feel worse. But I wasn’t the only musician to succumb.