A Natural Woman

by Carole King

  Charlie was twenty-seven and I thirty-two when our son, Levi Benjamin Larkey, arrived on April 23, 1974, in the customary headfirst presentation. After that our kitchen reverted permanently to its conventional use, and so did my body. Levi would be my last child.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Mommy and Grammy

  The year 1972 started off on a high note after Molly’s arrival. Then, on March 14, I attained the highest pinnacle of success to which a recording artist and songwriter could aspire: I was awarded four Grammys for my work on Tapestry. I didn’t accept the awards in person because the ceremony was in New York and I wanted to stay in California with my new baby. Along with his own Grammys, Lou accepted mine. With Tapestry now a multiplatinum-selling album that had wildly exceeded my teenage dreams, I didn’t know what to do with my success. I didn’t want the problems that came with being famous, and I didn’t want my private life to be public. I just wanted to do what I’d been doing as a wife and mother before the success of Tapestry. I made clothes for everyone in the family, tended our small garden, and occasionally went out for sushi lunch in Little Tokyo with my friend Stephanie. I taught at the Integral Yoga Institute and attended cooking classes at The Source. I continued to embarrass my Goffin daughters by bringing their vitamins to school. And I continued to bring home health food instead of the Cokes, Pepsis, and potato chips that Sherry wanted. When I said for the umpteenth time that health food was better for her, Sherry retaliated by saying, in a perfect imitation of my voice, “It’s nutritious!”

  Charlie was home a lot that year. When he wasn’t playing with Jo Mama or helping care for Molly, he was in his studio practicing. He was determined not to miss the important moments of Molly’s first year. When we were invited to dinner, a party, or some other social event to which neither of us was interested in going, Charlie was usually the one who said no on behalf of both of us. I didn’t mind. Charlie was better than I at saying no.

  I also continued to write and record songs. Because I was breastfeeding, I brought Molly with me to the studio. I had a bassinet that looked like a rectangular wicker basket, which I kept near the piano when I was recording. When I was working in the booth the bassinet was on a bench near the console. Molly didn’t seem to mind the noise and the activity. When she was ready to sleep, she slept. When she was awake she looked at the lights and the people and kicked her feet in the air with what looked like pure pleasure. When Charlie was in the studio he held her whenever he wasn’t recording. She cooed at him and made adorable baby faces at whoever else picked her up until she was ready for what only her mama could then provide. These lines from my song “Goodbye Don’t Mean I’m Gone” described my life in 1972.

  But it’s all I can do to be a mother

  (My baby’s in one hand, I’ve a pen in the other)

  In a song called “Weekdays” I articulated the struggle by many women of my generation to balance feminist goals with traditional wife- and motherhood. The woman in that song was a character I created along with others in the Fantasy album.

  Weekday mornings

  Coffee smell in the air

  After you’ve gone and the children have left for school

  I’m alone and I think about all the plans we made

  I think about all the dreams I had

  And I wonder if I’m a fool

  Weekday midday

  I’ve got the marketing done

  Plenty to do but nothing to tax my mind

  That’s all right—it’s a habit

  Heaven knows I can always watch the daytime shows

  And I wonder which story’s mine

  She loved a man she knew little about

  After so many years of trying

  So many years of doing without

  Oh, but what’s the use of crying

  Weekday evenings

  We sit and I realize

  You’ve dreamed, too, and I kind of understand

  I’ve been with you and you need me to take care of you

  But we’ll work it out so I’m a person, too

  And we’ll help each other out the best that we can

  ’Cause I’m your woman and you’re my man

  After Tapestry I would write and record six more albums for Ode: Music, Rhymes and Reasons, Fantasy, Wrap Around Joy, Thoroughbred, and Really Rosie.

  Each of the six albums after Tapestry went either gold or platinum. Music sold over two million. All were extraordinarily successful by any standard short of the one established by Tapestry. People often ask me if I was disappointed when subsequent albums didn’t do as well. Some are skeptical when I say no. But I never expected Tapestry to achieve the success it did, and I saw no reason to expect that level of success to continue. I was just glad I could keep writing, recording, and making a good living while enjoying a normal life. The meaning of “normal” was open to interpretation, but in 1972, the year I turned thirty, my life felt pretty normal to me.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Divergence

  My definition of a normal life continued in 1973 with my caring for Molly, being supportive of Charlie, chauffeuring two increasingly busy schoolchildren around, and writing and recording new songs. Charlie’s definition of a normal life included playing in three bands, none of which was Jo Mama. That band had broken up. One of Charlie’s bands featured David Foster on piano and William Smith—“Smitty”—on organ. Another featured Dave Palmer, with Danny Douma on guitar, John Ware on drums, and, at one point, Michael McDonald on vocals and keyboards (yes, that Michael McDonald). But the band that would become Charlie’s main gig was the David T. Walker band, featuring David T. on guitar, Clarence McDonald on keyboards, Harvey Mason on drums, Charlie on bass, and Ms. Bobbye Hall, a petite woman who made big sounds with percussion instruments.

  As a fellow musician I understood why Charlie enjoyed playing with David T.’s band. They were such superb players that I hired them to play on my Fantasy album. Rather than being a collection of songs in random order, that album had a connecting story and a predetermined sequence, and I had written every song with the specific intention of singing it myself. Just before Fantasy was released in 1973, Charlie and Lou suggested I promote it by going on tour with the David T. Walker band as my rhythm section.

  Promoting an album had never been sufficient inducement to get me to go on tour, but what interested me was the chance to share with an audience how much fun I’d had writing and recording it.

  Lou sealed the deal when he said, “Not only will you be playing with David T.’s band, you’ll be playing with everyone’s dream horn section.”

  He was referring to George Bohanon on trombone and euphonium, Dick Hyde, also called “Slyde,” on trombone, Oscar Brashear on trumpet, Gene Goe on trumpet and flugelhorn, and Tom Scott and Mike Altschul on saxophone.

  Though the Fantasy tour didn’t last as long as the 1971 tour, it, too, was successful. More than one hundred thousand people attended our free concert in Central Park.

  And though record sales never approached the level of Tapestry, the Fantasy album was critically well received. I enjoyed that tour very much, but as soon as we got home I readily slipped into my comfort zone of domesticity. Charlie took a different direction. I had always respected his dedication to music, but he was now taking it to another level. He played so many late-night club gigs that I rarely saw him.

  It was probably just as well that I had come up through the ranks of the music business without having to play late-night club gigs, because I’m not a late-night person. I’m an inveterate diurnal. I’m one of those really inconsiderate early-morning people that nocturnal people hate. Never giving a thought to whether someone might be sleeping in the next room, I rattle the cereal box, clink the spoon while stirring my tea, and yell at the top of my lungs to a dawdling child, “Hurry up or you’ll miss your bus!” Nocturnals enjoy watching the sun come up only when they’re making their way home after having been out all night. I prefer to watch the sun rise after I’ve sle
pt for eight hours.

  And that was the problem. Charlie and I still cared for each other, but we were spending almost no time together. Our disparate schedules continued through 1974 and part of 1975. Some couples are able to preserve their emotional connection from different cities or on different shifts, but our overlapping hours were simply not enough. We tried marriage counseling, discussions, therapy, and other options without success until we felt that we had exhausted all possibilities available at the time.

  Sadly, “at the time” was all we had. With tremendous sorrow on both our parts, we separated, then divorced. But we remained united in our resolve to be the best possible parenting team for our children. Charlie was a devoted father and a considerate coparent. Indeed, he would provide stability for our kids when my life choices were less than stable. Our shared commitment to our children’s well-being and mutual respect for each other’s rules even when we disagreed gave our kids a solid foundation. Had they tried to play us against each other, they wouldn’t have been successful. Grounded in their well-being, Charlie and I navigated cooperatively what is often treacherous territory for divorced parents and their children.

  Even after our lives diverged to include other partners, Charlie and I remained friends. Periodically we wondered if we might have tried harder to work through our problems and, in so doing, perhaps could have stayed together. We’ll never know, but we’re grateful for our shared history of love, respect, children, grandchildren, friendship, and music. We had the chance to make music together again in 2001 when Charlie played on “An Uncommon Love” and “Oh No Not My Baby” for my Love Makes the World album. Written with Gerry and recorded with Charlie, “Oh No Not My Baby” could have been subtitled “Husband Reunion.”

  I could not have predicted in 1975 that Charlie’s and my relationship would turn out to be an unconventional success story. All I could see then was another failure. After Charlie and I divorced I lost my center. Sometimes I felt as if I were floating away like the red balloon in the movie Le Ballon rouge. After Charlie moved out I found it too heartbreaking to stay in the house on Appian Way with the memories it held of our life together. Thankfully I could afford to move. My Goffin daughters didn’t want to leave the Canyon, but when I found a house on Encinal Beach in Trancas they were okay with that. Plus we had cool neighbors. Cheech Marin lived next door. His partner in comedy, Tommy Chong, lived just across the Pacific Coast Highway. Louise and Sherry knew two of Tommy’s daughters, Rae Dawn and Robbi, from school in Laurel Canyon. Neil Young lived in a cottage nearby on Broad Beach. Lou Adler and some of his friends lived on Carbon Beach. And J. D. Souther and Don Henley with Eagles shared a house just up the hill from mine.

  Because so many of my neighbors were celebrities, the invitations I accepted brought me to high-profile events and parties. I found myself spending social time with people actively seeking the very visibility that I had tried to avoid. Some celebrities were more intellectually curious than others. In addition to being a stellar athlete, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar had a vast knowledge of jazz and its place in history. But more often I found myself in the company of people who enjoyed gossiping about who was wearing what, who was dating whom, who’d had plastic surgery, and what the best places were to see and be seen. Even now I can’t explain why I continued to socialize with such people. Perhaps I was still trying to make up for my high school years, when I was rarely invited anywhere. But without Charlie to say no for me, I found it difficult to say no for myself.

  Though I was grateful that my family and I were free of serious problems such as illness or poverty, I was challenged by the much less serious problem of living a lifestyle I loathed, and I was upset with myself for continuing to pursue it. I was becoming a parody of a pop star. I began to dream of buying some land in the mountains with a small house and a much larger organic garden than the plot I had tried to cultivate on Appian Way. I had the means and freedom of workplace to make such a move, but I couldn’t find a way out. When I complained about my life to less affluent friends, they were predictably unsympathetic.

  “Poor Carole,” I imagined them saying as soon as the door closed behind me. “Her BMW is more than a year old and her champagne’s gone flat.”

  My escape from the fast lane was set in motion the night Don Henley hosted a thirtieth birthday party for J.D. John David Souther had been born in Detroit on November 2, 1945, and raised in Amarillo, Texas. Known variously in 1975 as a country rock singer, songwriter, actor, friend of Eagles, and companion of Linda Ronstadt, John David had written one of my favorite songs. Linda’s performance of “Faithless Love” on her 1974 album Heart Like a Wheel, with a gorgeous harmony by J.D., twanged every string of this city girl’s heart.

  It was a good two hours past my bedtime that November 2 in 1975 when Henley sent someone down the hill to invite me up. I could hear the sounds of music and celebration from my room, and it sounded like fun. With the kids asleep, a nanny in the house, less than two hundred feet between the children and me if they needed me, and my ability to say no completely inoperative, I saw no harm in joining the party.

  With each step up the hill I came one step closer to meeting a man who would bring momentous changes to the lives of my family and me. He would lead me to some of my highest highs, my lowest lows, and, ultimately, to a place I would call home for a very long time.

  PART III

  Chapter One

  Shepherd

  At the top of the hill I saw a cluster of people standing outside Don Henley’s house. Though I didn’t know them, they waved to me, and I waved back. Inside, I recognized Glenn Frey at the buffet table. We hadn’t met, but what the heck.

  “Hi, Glenn,” I said. “How’re ya doin’?”

  He looked up, answered, “Great, how’re you?” and then went back to filling his plate with ribs, chicken, gravy, and mashed potatoes.

  I walked toward the open glass doors leading to a deck on the ocean side of the house. The late fall breeze carried a touch of chill along with the sharp fragrance of the Pacific Ocean. Just inside the doors I saw Henley talking to a tall blond man.

  “Hi, Don,” I said.

  He said, “Hey,” gave me a hug, and introduced the blond man as Rick Evers. Don preempted the party question I wasn’t going to ask (“What do you do?”) by telling me about the sheepskin coats Rick was making for him, J.D., and Eagles manager Irving Azoff. The question “Why would someone living in Southern California need a sheepskin coat?” crossed my mind, but all I said was, “Hi, Rick. Nice to meet you.”

  “Nice to meet you, too,” he said in a husky voice.

  Don said, “Show her your coat.”

  Rick went outside and came back in holding a light tan sheepskin coat. He put it on. Immediately I became more interested in both the coat and its maker. The coat was stitched with hand-cut leather thongs and decorated with beads, antler buttons, and other rustic artifacts. On Rick’s slightly undernourished six-foot-one frame, the coat looked bold, striking, and artistic. His long, shaggy blond hair seemed to flow seamlessly into the ragged edges of the wide collar. If a person were looking for attention, wearing such a coat would definitely attract it.

  Don stayed with us a few more minutes, then left to mingle with other guests. Rick took off the coat and escorted me over to a couple of comfortable chairs in a corner. He helped me into one of them, draped the coat on the back of the other, and excused himself. A minute later he was back with a couple of glasses of water. He handed one to me and set his glass down on a side table, then we began a discussion of topics ranging from sheepskin coats to American Indian culture, music, politics, and things we didn’t like about L.A.

  With blue eyes, a square jaw, and a wheat-colored mustache, Rick was ruggedly handsome. He was exciting, passionate, and not a celebrity. He didn’t care who was dating whom, or wearing what, or whether the Lakers had won or lost. I had assumed that he was staying at Don and J.D.’s house, but as the conversation progressed I learned that he was living in a red Chev
y van with Rusty, his large yellow mixed-breed Labrador retriever. This revelation should have been a warning signal, but I chose to perceive the living arrangement as bold and adventurous.

  When I told Rick about my dream of living closer to nature, he offered to drive my children and me around the mountains of Colorado, Utah, and Idaho.

  “I’ve lived in all three states,” he said. “I know a lot of things you might find useful.”

  I listened avidly to his stories about living in the mountains and asked him a lot of questions. He answered all of them with a calm confidence I found reassuring. And there was no mistaking the sparkle in his eyes. He was attracted to me, and I was attracted to him. We were sitting near an open window. I didn’t notice the chill that had begun to creep into my bones until I looked around and saw that we were among the last remaining guests. When Rick saw me shiver, he stood up, picked up the sheepskin coat, and wrapped it around me. That’s when I allowed pheromones to elbow common sense aside and invited him to spend the night at my house.

  “What about Rusty?” he asked.

  “Of course. Bring Rusty, too.”

  Rick and Rusty would stay a lot longer than overnight.

  In hindsight, I probably should have asked Rick these two questions: “Why are you living in a van?” and “Are you by any chance psychotic?” But he was so handsome and interesting, and he was going to lead me to people and places I would have never encountered without him. One such person was Roy Reynolds, an artist who lived in eastern Idaho with his wife, Mon’nette (Mo-NEET). Roy had previously been a cowboy and an alcoholic, but by the time I met him he had quit drinking and had bought an Appaloosa colt to celebrate his sobriety. He named the colt Whiskey and channeled his tendency toward addiction into training the colt and making art. Roy painted the canvases that would become the album art for Simple Things. In 1977, in an act of characteristic generosity, Roy gave Whiskey to me. Standing a little over sixteen hands, that horse had more charisma than most movie stars.