Little Girl Blue

by Randy L. Schmidt

  Frankie Chavez recalls Karen as only slightly overweight in high school, but if she had body image issues at the time, he never noticed. There were no warning signs during the period they were close. “She never gave any indication that it bothered her that she carried a little extra weight,” he says. “She always seemed very self-confident, and I don’t think she ever even contemplated dieting when I knew her. Karen was a perfectionist as far as her performances were concerned, and she set the bar very high for herself, but there was no indication that she had any problems at all.”

  During the summer of 1967 Agnes took her to see their family doctor, who recommended the popular Stillman water diet that was introduced that year by Dr. Irwin Maxwell Stillman. The plan promised quick weight loss through limiting intake of carbohydrates and fatty foods while increasing daily water intake to eight glasses. Karen hated water, but after only six weeks she shed twenty-five pounds and was determined to maintain her new figure. When Spectrum’s late-night rehearsals ended, everyone in the band was hungry and went for dinner, which was frustrating for Karen. “All the guys would want to go to eat at Coco’s,” she said, “and I would sit there with my hamburger patty and cottage cheese while the guys ordered forty-seven-layer cheeseburgers and giant sundaes.” From the summer of 1967 until early 1973, Karen remained at or around the comfortable weight of 115 to 120 pounds.

  IN EARLY 1967 Richard had received a call from a local singer named Ed Sulzer, whom he had accompanied during a gig back in 1963. Sulzer heard Spectrum was recording in Joe Osborn’s garage and offered to shop their demo to various record labels around Los Angeles. He quickly became acting manager of the group. With rare exceptions, Sulzer’s enthusiasm for Spectrum’s distinctive sound was not shared by the record labels and venues he approached. “People hear what we accomplished, and it sounds like such a natural now,” John Bettis explained. “Back then, what we were recording and what we were writing went completely against the grain of what anyone else was doing. And they told us so.”

  Leslie Johnston describes Spectrum’s sound as rich, thick, tight harmony, but she feels the group’s creativity was out of sync with most of their audiences. “Here’s this middle-of-the-road group with this great sound,” she says. “We were such an in-between kind of group. Back then it was either hard psychedelic rock or it was elevator music. We had this pretty sound; it was nice to listen to us, but we weren’t a dance group. Agents that would come to the Troubadour just kept telling our manager, ‘They’re terrific, but where do we put them?’ Radio stations were afraid to play us because we were too mild for some and yet we weren’t the old style either. We were having a tough time, and we were getting discouraged. We really were and should have been a recording group exclusively.”

  Sulzer secured Spectrum a block of studio time at United Audio Recording Studio in Santa Ana. The group cut several demos of original songs, including “All I Can Do,” “All of My Life,” “Another Song,” “What’s the Use,” and “Candy.” The latter would later become “One Love” on the 1971 Carpenters album. Positioning microphones in the studio, Glen Pace, United Audio’s owner and engineer during the Spectrum sessions, noticed a young girl unpacking a set of Ludwigs. “Gee, your boyfriend has you trained really well,” he called out to her across the room.

  “What do you mean?” Karen asked.

  “He has you trained really well for you to come and set up his drums for him.”

  With a sheepish grin she replied, “I’m the drummer.”

  “This was the first girl drummer I’d ever come across,” Pace explains.

  Unable to afford more studio time, Spectrum moved their recording sessions back to the Carpenters’ living room. Using Richard’s Sony Tapecorder, the group began making recordings at home and employing the bathroom as an echo chamber. A string of live performances arranged by Ed Sulzer found Spectrum at the legendary Troubadour in West Hollywood where every Monday night was Hoot Night. Dozens of acts lined up in the alley in hopes of securing a performance time slot. “You had to wait in this huge line to play,” Karen explained to the Los Angeles Times in 1972. “I often stood there talking with kids, along with people like Jackson Browne and Brewer and Shipley.”

  Richard purchased a Wurlitzer 140-B electronic piano from Jeff Hanna of the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band and in keeping with his fascination with automobiles personalized the instrument with a 426 HEMI engine decal. Spectrum members routinely unloaded the station wagon and lugged the new Wurlitzer, drums, and various instruments and amplifiers down the alley and through the crowds to perform for fifteen or twenty minutes. Then they turned around and hauled everything back through the crowds to the car. “You should have seen us with our crew-cuts and blue velvet jackets,” says Leslie Johnston.

  Randy Sparks, who led a group called the New Christy Minstrels, heard Spectrum at the Troubadour and offered the group a week’s engagement at Ledbetter’s, his club on Westwood Boulevard. This was one of their first major paid engagements. “They were a bit more like a lounge act than a folk group,” Sparks says, “which was my niche in the business of music. But Karen was a wonderful singer, and they had a pleasing—if not exciting—sound. They were much appreciated by my crowd.” Sparks believed Karen and Richard each displayed unmistakable talent, far beyond that of the group’s other members. “The other folks in their band were essentially invisible, in my estimation.” As Spectrum spent several weeks on the stage at Ledbetter’s, Sparks witnessed their growth with each successive performance. “That’s what my operation was all about. Ledbetter’s was a place to perform, to experiment, to rehearse, and to develop skills in dealing with audiences.”

  Next, Sulzer booked Spectrum at the Whisky a Go-Go, where the group opened for Evergreen Blue Shoes, a band whose bass player, Skip Battin, would later join the Byrds. The Whisky (often misspelled “Whiskey”) was a popular nightclub on the Sunset Strip and inspiration for the Loggins and Messina song “Whisky.” Its lyric instructs:

  Don’t do anything mellow at the Whisky . . .

  Don’t sing anything pretty at the Whisky . . .

  ’Cause if you do, your musical insurance better be paid up

  For the most part Spectrum was mellow and their music indisputably pretty. They did not stand a chance. “The customers sat and listened to us,” Karen said of the engagement. “That wasn’t what the club wanted. If you sit, you don’t dance. If you don’t dance, you don’t get thirsty. In that case you don’t spend, so we were kicked out.”

  Karen also recalled opening for Steppenwolf at the Blue Law, a large warehouse-turned-club. “At first, the audience was so restive,” she said. “We thought we were going to get killed, but we kept going, and they shut up and listened.” Again, not what club management preferred.

  “Steppenwolf? Oh my God, I was so embarrassed to be there,” says Leslie Johnston. “We’re in the dressing room with Steppenwolf, and they couldn’t have been any more hard rock. In fact, I liked them, but we were so mad at Eddie for that booking. I think we were there maybe two nights. I was just dying because the people were waiting for some hard rock to dance to. They didn’t boo us, but they looked at us like we were nuts. We had this great, full sound, but Steppenwolf was probably in the dressing room laughing.”

  As Sulzer struggled to secure live performance opportunities in venues appropriate for Spectrum, the group’s sights were set on securing a recording contract. When two major recording companies, Uni and White Whale, presented contracts on the same night at the Troubadour, the group was encouraged, but Richard declined the offers once he realized the labels were demanding too big a cut. Spectrum’s members became disheartened and soon began to scatter. Leslie Johnston was asked to go on the road with another group as lead vocalist. “I agreed,” she says, “because nothing else was happening!”

  CONTINUING TO record in Joe Osborn’s studio, gratis, Karen and Richard worked toward the creation of a new demo tape. They usually recorded on weekends or after midnight when Osborn’s other
sessions ended. According to Karen, “Since Richard did all the arranging and chose the material, and we did our own playing and singing, Richard said, ‘We might as well do it ourselves, just overdub it.’ . . . All of a sudden that sound was born.” She marveled over the quality of sound they were able to achieve in Joe’s studio. “That garage studio had a sound that I don’t think we ever matched. It was big and fat.”

  For an a cappella arrangement called “Invocation” they began with two-part harmonies, then built to four-part, and finally eight. Their eight-part harmonies were tripled, totaling twenty-four voices in all. “Wow, we couldn’t believe the results,” Karen later recalled. “All of a sudden this ten-ton thing was born. This couldn’t miss!” Their demo tape also featured Richard’s original “Don’t Be Afraid” and another he penned with John Bettis called “Your Wonderful Parade.” Although the arrangements were identical to those of Spectrum, there was something special about the familial sound that resulted from the layering of Karen’s voice with Richard’s. Now officially a duo, Karen and Richard chose the name Carpenters, sans prefix. They thought it was simple but hip, like Buffalo Springfield or Jefferson Airplane.

  As recording demanded more and more of their time and energy, Karen and Richard saw their obligations at Cal State Long Beach as less of a priority. They often carried copies of Billboard and Cashbox with them to class and would read them behind their textbooks, so it is no wonder Karen flunked out of a psychology course twice. And she loathed biology: “What good is biology going to do me?” she asked rhetorically in a 1970 interview. “On the stage it’s of no use, right? A biology major doesn’t have to take a music course.” Frank Pooler went to bat for Karen several times in attempts to justify her continued absences from several classes. “She wasn’t showing up for some boring class,” he says. “I remember going to talk to the president of the university about her. I said, ‘Hey, some people need special consideration. Besides, I wouldn’t take the class myself.’”

  In the summer of 1968 Richard heard about a new national television program called Your All-American College Show. Produced by radio legend Wendell Niles and sponsored by the Colgate-Palmolive Corporation, the program gathered top musical talent from college campuses across the country. Along with new recruit Bill Sissoyev on bass, their act was well received during auditions, and they ultimately advanced to the televised portion of the competition. Wearing showy white go-go boots and a wide white headband, Karen tore through their Mamas and the Papas–inspired “Dancing in the Street” with much energy and gusto. Her drumming was intense and her singing strong and deliberate. They appeared as a trio several times during that year, and the group won $3,500.

  The publicity alone was enough to keep the trio excited about Your All-American College Show, but Wendell Niles and his organization also expressed interest in representing them. Everyone was surprised when celebrity judge John Wayne wanted Karen to audition for the role of young frontier girl Mattie Ross in his upcoming film True Grit. The part ultimately went to actress Kim Darby, and Karen continued to explore various musical opportunities. With Richard’s blessing, she auditioned for the girl singer spot in Kenny Rogers’s group the First Edition. The position had been vacated after vocalist Thelma Camacho was fired for missing too many rehearsals and performances. Surprisingly, Karen was overlooked, most likely due to the fact that it was not a recording audition, and much of Karen’s appeal was facilitated by a microphone. The spot was filled by Camacho’s roommate Mary Arnold, an Iowa-born singer who later married Roger “King of the Road” Miller.

  With the ongoing assistance of Ed Sulzer, Karen and Richard continued their mission to get their demo tape around to each and every record label in Hollywood. But Columbia Records had hits with Gary Puckett and the Union Gap’s “Young Girl” and Bobbie Gentry’s “Ode to Billie Joe” and were looking for soundalike acts. Similarly, Warner Brothers Records asked the Carpenters if they could sound like Harper’s Bizarre, but they had no interest in emulating others. Richard was convinced that their overdubbed sound and Karen’s vocals were commercially viable and that it would only be a matter of time before they would be recognized. Karen felt strongly that A&M Records, a label known for its attention to artistry, would give their music a fair listen, but even the guard at the gate turned them away. Not to worry, Ed Sulzer assured them. He had a friend who knew a trumpet player named Jack Daugherty who might possibly deliver their demo to A&M’s cofounder Herb Alpert. It seemed like a circuitous route, but Karen and Richard gave their approval.

  In the meantime, a call came in from brothers John and Tom Bähler, well-known jingle singers in Los Angeles. The Bählers had caught one of the Carpenters’ appearances on Your All-American College Show and invited the duo to audition for a campaign called “The Going Thing,” which was in development by the J. Walter Thompson advertising agency for the Ford Motor Company. The brothers auditioned approximately two hundred acts in New York and another two hundred at Sunset Sound in Hollywood, where Karen and Richard were ultimately selected. Visiting the agency, they signed individual contracts and were informed the group would assist in premiering the new 1970 Ford Maverick. It was not a recording contract as they desired, but the contracts came with the promise of fifty thousand dollars each and a new Ford automobile of their choice.

  4

  SPRINKLED MOONDUST

  A&M RECORDS was unlike any other record label on the West Coast. Capitol, Warner Brothers, and others had undergone numerous reorganizations and were starting to be seen as enormous, impersonal conglomerates. A&M was a “family” label, founded precariously in 1962 by trumpet player Herb Alpert and Jerry Moss, his partner in production and promotion. Each contributed one hundred dollars to start what was first called Carnival Records, but after learning the name belonged to an existing label the two renamed the company with the initials of their surnames. A&M Records’ first single was Alpert’s “The Lonely Bull” recorded with the Tijuana Brass. Records by the Brass, the Baja Marimba Band, and Sergio Mendes and Brasil ’66 helped keep A&M afloat throughout the late 1960s. Other artists signed to the label included Leon Russell, Joe Cocker, and Burt Bacharach. The Bacharach-penned “This Guy’s in Love with You” became a #1 hit single for Herb Alpert in 1968, A&M’s first chart topper.

  The A&M Records lot itself was as unique as the label. The studio opened in November 1966 with a skeleton crew of thirty-two employees. Located at 1416 North La Brea Avenue in Hollywood, just south of Sunset Boulevard, the site once housed Charlie Chaplin’s movie studio. Says songwriter Paul Williams, who came to the young and vibrant company in 1967, “There was such a sense of history just because of the location. It was charming in its look, and it reeked of Hollywood history. I showed up in a stolen car. I was an out-of-work actor and stumbled into the songwriting career. They were looking for a lyricist for Roger Nichols, and I wound up with a career. It was one of those great accidents. One door slammed shut, and another one opened.”

  Roger Nichols remembers A&M as an artist-friendly company and attributes most of the label’s early success to the recordings of Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass. “Thanks to them, A&M really had money,” he says. “They didn’t have money to burn but money to do things right. They treated people nicely. It was like the crème de la crème of the record companies at that time and a great place to be. There was a great creative energy to the lot, and the premise of the company was that you could pretty much do whatever you wanted to. When I was asked to record for A&M they said, ‘Make whatever kind of record you want to.’ That was unique. I don’t know where you’d go to find that today. There wasn’t so much control of the product.”

  Nichols and others around A&M were acquainted with Jack Daugherty, a Cincinnati-born musician who worked at North American Aviation in Downey, where he made presentations detailing the company’s work with the Apollo program. Daugherty worked part time as a music copyist and in his spare time wrote counterpoint exercises and chorales. It was while working at North
American that he received a copy of the Carpenters’ demo. “I had it for about two months,” he recalled in a feature for High Fidelity, “and every once in a while I’d listen again. That’s a pretty good test.”

  Daugherty visited A&M’s publishing office almost every week to drop off lead sheets he had prepared for Chuck Kaye, head of Almo/Irving Music, A&M’s publishing arm. “You have to hear this group,” Daugherty told Roger Nichols. “They’re a brother and sister. Call themselves Carpenters.” But it was Daugherty’s friend, Tijuana Brass guitarist John Pisano, who ultimately handed the Carpenters’ demo tape to Herb Alpert. “I put on the tape, and I was really knocked out with the sound of Karen’s voice to start with,” Alpert said in 1994. “It touched me. It had nothing to do with what was happening in the market at that moment, but that’s what touched me even more. I felt like it was time.”

  Manager Ed Sulzer contacted Richard and let him know that Alpert had heard their demo, loved their sound, and wanted Carpenters on the A&M Records roster. The standard recording contract outlined a 7 percent royalty on all record sales and an advance of ten thousand dollars. Karen and Richard were thrilled, but timing posed a problem. Only days earlier they signed with the J. Walter Thompson agency’s “Going Thing” campaign for Ford. Though they were grateful for the opportunity and honor, the two asked for release from the contract, each surrendering the fifty thousand dollars and new car. A recording contract with a major label like A&M had the potential for longevity. John and Tom Bähler understood the dilemma and convinced J. Walter Thompson to let Karen and Richard out of their contracts.