by Carole King
My son’s bar mitzvah took place on a perfect spring day in April 1987, with the Pacific Ocean as a backdrop. As Rudy and Lorna came to be known, the Guessae (pronounced Guess-eye) attended along with other friends and family members. Rick came to L.A. for the occasion and was in a rare and delightful humor the whole time. It was the last time I would see him that way.
Chapter Two
City Streets
In November 1987 I was cast in a play written by Hindi Brooks called A Minor Incident. It ran for a month at the West Bank Café Theater in New York. Paul Hipp played the young man injured in the accident that Hindi had written about to begin the play. In addition to being an actor, Paul was a singer, songwriter, and guitar player whom I had met before. It was by sheer coincidence that he was cast in A Minor Incident. I had met Paul when he was putting all his talents to use in an off-off-Broadway show called Rockabilly Road that featured, among others, Paul and my daughter Sherry. With dark good looks and a robust baritone voice, Paul had been so strongly influenced by rockabilly that he sometimes appeared to be channeling Elvis Presley. A year later he would achieve acclaim, first on London’s West End, then on Broadway, playing the title role in the musical show Buddy: The Buddy Holly Story.
During our run at the West Bank, Paul and I began writing and performing together. He and his band had a regular gig playing the 1 a.m. to 4 a.m. shift at the Red Lion Café on Bleecker Street. When he invited me to a rehearsal on one of our days off, I zipped my black Telecaster guitar into a padded gig bag, hoisted the bag on my back, took the subway, and walked up Bleecker Street affecting casual familiarity with the Village until I remembered that I had earned that familiarity as an audience member. On my way to the Red Lion I passed several locations of clubs at which I had witnessed some of the great jazz players and emerging rock bands more than two decades earlier. With the exception of the Village Vanguard, most of the clubs were gone or had new names.
Jamming on guitar with Paul and his band was so much fun that when Paul invited me to sit in with them it was an easy yes. With Paul and Mark Bosch covering all the guitar parts, as long as they kept my guitar level down no one would notice if I made mistakes. The truth is, no one noticed much of anything. By the time 1 a.m. rolled around, most of the people in the club were several sheets to the wind. Even so, the waitresses kept bringing drinks to the tiny tables. The more drinks they imbibed, the louder the patrons talked, which made other patrons talk even louder. After fifteen minutes of performing mostly for ourselves, Paul turned the mic over to me. With Paul handling harmonies, I sang “Will You Love Me Tomorrow.” Most of the patrons conversed right through my performance, which significantly increased my appreciation for musicians who regularly play the 1 a.m. shift in a bar.
One or two people looked up with a vague sense of recognition. I could almost see them thinking, Is that…? No. Can’t be…. But I could tell who knew for sure by their attention and the knowing smiles and nudges they gave their tablemates.
My connection with Paul was fun and musical, but not physical. Wanting to share my life in New York with Rick, I had invited him to come see me in the play, an invitation on which he had not yet taken me up. A couple of days after I told him that Paul and I were playing on Bleecker Street, Rick came to New York unannounced. When he showed up at the apartment where I was staying, I was surprised but glad to see him. I wasn’t sure how he felt but I assumed he was tired after hours of travel. That night he attended the play. Then he came to the Red Lion to watch Paul and me perform. The next day he flew back home and moved into the cabin on the creek—the very cabin in which I had wanted us to live.
To be fair, the woman Rick had met in Burgdorf had told him that she wanted a simple life. Inexplicably to him, I was being drawn back into a scene for which he had little regard, and that scene included a young man with whom I was spending more time than with him. Rick had made a big change from his chosen lifestyle—at the time, that of a mountain man—to live in the more modern-day world to which my children and I were inextricably connected. Where was his wife?
From my point of view, the man I had met in Burgdorf was then doing everything necessary to support his chosen lifestyle, and he had made me laugh with his dry sense of humor. Where was that man?
It was possible that our economic inequality, the complicated nature of my work and family, and the stress of years of litigation had contributed to the decline of our relationship. Whatever the reasons, although our divorce wouldn’t be final until the following year, our marriage was effectively over.
In May 1988 I attended one of Bruce Springsteen’s Tunnel of Love concerts at Madison Square Garden. The phrase “blew my mind” unquestionably applied to that concert. In addition to the band’s scorching musicianship, Bruce and Patti Scialfa were newly in love. Not only did Patti’s three-octave vocal work complement Bruce’s raw, gritty singing style, and not only was her attire exactly right for the theme of a carnival, but the chemistry between Bruce and Patti was electrifying. Old songs, new songs, it didn’t matter to Bruce’s fans. We loved every minute of every song. We loved the carnival atmosphere. We loved the expanded horn section. And we loved watching the Boss and the Big Man (saxophonist Clarence Clemons) lean up against each other with the affection of longtime friends delighted to share their musical history with fifteen thousand other friends. Two and a half hours after the first welcoming roar from the audience, I was elated to have attended that energetic and emotionally charged rock concert and at the same time disheartened because I didn’t think I could ever make an audience that happy. But soon my dejection gave way to action. I had already written a few new songs. I added a few more, re-signed with Capitol Records, and recorded the City Streets album at Skyline Studios in New York with Rudy Guess playing guitar and coproducing. Among the many first-rate musicians who responded to my invitation to join me in the studio were drummers Steve Ferrone, Omar Hakim, and Max Weinberg; saxophonists Branford Marsalis and Michael Brecker; and Eric Clapton.
I was recording that album when Rick called me at the studio to tell me that the Idaho Supreme Court had upheld Judge Beebe’s ruling and the ranch road was now legally confirmed as private. His delivery of the news was followed by a pause during which I could almost imagine his unspoken thought: And aren’t you ashamed of yourself for not being home with your husband to acknowledge how much a part of the victory he was?
My husband was very much a part of the road victory, and yes, I did feel his pain about my not being there with him. But then I remembered his gloomy outlook when I was there, which made me not want to go home, which added fuel to his frustration, which kept me away. And there was the inescapable reality that I had work that brought in necessary income that I couldn’t do at home. My work took me to places of which Rick was openly contemptuous, places where I interacted with people about whom he complained on a daily basis. My children lived in some of those places, and they and their fathers were some of those people.
Hearing what I interpreted as a reproachful silence at the other end of the line, I sensed a hunger in Rick for someone I no longer believed I could be. My own hunger for artistic creativity and optimism was too strong. As I tried and failed to find words to express my appreciation, the silence grew painfully uncomfortable.
What I thought he was hoping to hear was, “I want to be with you so much that I’m putting my album on hold and coming home tomorrow. I promise I’ll stop running around and stay home with you.”
What I said was, “Thank you.”
I replaced the handset. The ranch, the road fight, and the man who was still legally my husband began to recede. However, like objects in a rearview mirror, they were closer than they appeared and would remain so for a long time.
I was exceptionally happy with the City Streets album and was actually looking forward to going on tour to promote it. (Yes, I did just say that!) I incorporated some of the elements from Bruce’s show that had inspired me. Obviously I wouldn’t have Bruce, Patti, Clarence Clemons, or someone wit
h whom I was newly in love, but I would have a well-designed set, gorgeous lighting, a collection of both new and familiar songs, and a stellar nine-piece band led by Rudy and me. Though not everyone in the tour band had played on the album, all were ready, willing, and able to rock the outdoor venues known as “sheds.”
The City Streets Tour lasted for two and a half months during the summer of 1989. It was the longest I had ever been away from my Larkey children, though I did build in some days off that allowed me to visit them. When I first learned that we would be traveling by bus I envisioned something like the Trailways bus that had brought my mother and me to Florida in 1951. But touring on a bus designed for the specific needs of a touring band turned out to be so much better than flying from city to city that a bus became my tour transportation of choice from then on. Note to reader: this was true only if none of the choices was a private jet.
Because few women who have been pregnant would ever describe being with child as “easy,” let me just say that my daughter Sherry’s pregnancy with her second child in 1989 was uncomplicated enough for her to sing backup and play percussion alongside Linda Lawley on the City Streets Tour. Linda’s husband, Danny Pelfrey, played saxophone, guitar, and other instruments. Sherry’s husband, Robbie Kondor, played keyboards. Lorna’s husband, Rudy Guess, played guitar and sang backup. We were one rockin’ family. Several months after the tour ended, my biological family increased by one with the birth of Sophie Leann Kondor on October 17, 1989. I have no doubt that my granddaughter’s experience of a tour in utero contributed to her decision early in life not to become a professional musician.
Knowing that my fans wanted to hear songs from Tapestry, I gladly delivered them. They were probably a little surprised when I liberated my inner Chrissie Hynde by strapping on a low-slung guitar and slamming out a hard-driving rhythm with my band, but I appreciated that my audiences were kind enough to indulge me. Our last song before intermission was “Jazzman.” After the apex of Danny Pelfrey’s last saxophone solo, I climbed up on the piano to propel the band as they increased the intensity of the Big Rock Ending, then I gave them a cutoff by jumping off the piano. That was so much fun it should have been illegal.
Chapter Three
McCartneys in Tokyo
In 1990 I took the City Streets Tour to Japan. One afternoon, with no show that night, I went off on my own to sightsee in Tokyo. I meandered up one street and down the other with no destination in mind. I crossed lanes, avenues, and alleys to explore little shops with lacquered dishes, silk kimonos, or luggage. Every fourth storefront was a sushi bar, each of which would have been impossible to walk past had they not all been closed between lunch and dinner. After another leisurely hour of strolling, I walked into a giant electronics store where hundreds of sounds were competing for my attention at peak volume. Equally loud visually were the displays in Japanese of vividly colored neon logos flashing so brightly that I wondered when the heavy metal rock band would appear. I didn’t stay to find out. Emerging onto a noisy street that seemed silent by comparison, I looked around to get my bearings and saw that all the street signs were in Japanese. There were no signs in English, and I didn’t see any landmarks that I recognized. I had no idea where I was. I could speak enough Japanese to order sushi, but that wouldn’t get me back to my hotel.
None of the people I stopped on the street spoke or understood English. There were phone booths, but they required Japanese coins and an ability to read instructions in that language. With cell phones not yet in common use, I had no way to call anyone. I began to feel a sense of panic. The interplay of people and vehicles in motion under signs I couldn’t read was making me dizzy. I had just sat down on a bench when I remembered that the desk clerk had given each of us a card at check-in with the name and address of our hotel in English and Japanese. Oh, God. Did I bring it? I rummaged frantically around in my purse until… Yes! I stood up, hailed a taxi, and showed the driver the card. He nodded with understanding, beckoned me in, and delivered me to my hotel.
The revolving door spun me into the lobby, where I saw some of my companions having a drink. They waved me over and excitedly informed me that Paul McCartney and his band were playing at the Tokyo Dome that night.* Did I want to go?
Yes! Definitely!
It didn’t take long for my tour manager, Joe Cardosi, to confirm that Paul’s people would set aside twelve tickets. Looking at his watch, Joe told us we had barely enough time to go upstairs to freshen up and meet our transportation outside the hotel.
“Ten or tails,” Joe warned on his way to the elevator. “Ten” was the number of minutes before departure, and “tails” were the taillights a latecomer would see pulling away.
No one was late. At the venue we descended en masse from the vans and headed to the box office expecting to find twelve tickets in my name. But our tickets could not be found.
“Anata no onamae wa?”
“Carole King.”
“A-noh, group-u…?”
I gave the Japanese pronunciation of my name. “Karoru Kingu.”
“So sorry, other namu?”
Joe said, “Try Cardosi.”
No tickets.
My band and crew were disconsolate as we stepped away from the window. I thought, I am not going to give up. There has to be a way.
Before I could finish saying, “Let’s go to the stage do—” Joe was already headed that way.
The stage door had several levels of security. Joe’s use of my name got us through the first and second levels, but we could not get past the third. With only a few minutes left until showtime, we were stuck in an anteroom adjacent to the backstage area. Suddenly a door at the far end of the anteroom opened. Through the opening we saw several men walking past holding instruments. We assumed they were Paul’s bandmates making their way to the stage. Maybe I could get one of them to vouch for us. I was just about to call out when a man holding a bass guitar came into view. Was it…? It was!
“Paul!” I called. Paul McCartney stopped, peered into the room, and stared intently at me.
“Is that Carole?”
“Yes, it’s me! How’s it going?”
“Well, just great,” he said, stepping into the anteroom, revealing Linda standing in the doorway behind him. Paul handed his bass off to a member of his crew, took Linda’s hand, brought her over, and said, “You remember Linda.”
Of course I remembered Linda. Who didn’t remember Linda? In my case, in addition to what I knew of her, I had actually met her at several public occasions, but we had never conversed. There had been so many people, greetings, photographs, and questions from the media around her and Paul that there hadn’t been a chance to say anything more meaningful than “Hello”—if that.
“We’re about to go on,” Paul said. “D’ya need a seat?”
“Well, I thought we had seats, but apparently we don’t.”
“No problem,” he said. “How many d’ya need?”
“Twelve,” I said, mentally cringing. I didn’t want to be pushy, but I couldn’t bear to send any of my friends away. I needn’t have worried. When you’re Paul McCartney, finding twelve seats at literally the last minute is not a problem. Paul directed an assistant to look after us and then said, “We always leave right after the show. Why don’t you join us at our hotel afterward?”
“All of us?” I asked. “Aren’t we too many?”
“Not at all.” He took Linda’s hand with one hand and retrieved his bass with the other. “Right, then. See you anon!”
Then he and Linda turned and walked through the doorway leading to the stage.
Twenty seconds later we heard a roar from the audience indicating that the house lights had just gone down. Our ticket broker (whose former band had made musical history) would make his entrance in less than two minutes.
I was convinced then, and still am convinced, that Paul emerged from his mother’s womb performing. In addition to being musical and outgoing, he’s a consummate professional. He knows wh
at his audiences have come for, and he gives it to them. That night not only did he give his Japanese fans Paul McCartney, he gave them as close to the Beatles as Paul McCartney could get without George, Ringo, or John. Among the songs Paul performed that night were “Can’t Buy Me Love,” “The Long and Winding Road,” “The Fool on the Hill,” “Good Day Sunshine,” and “Eleanor Rigby.” He also performed some of his post-Beatles hits, including “Band on the Run,” “Jet,” and “Live and Let Die.”
Paul ended his show with a long, energetic version of “Hey Jude,” by the end of which everyone was chanting the “Nah nah” part. Following each chant, Paul executed yet another seemingly impossible set of vocal gymnastics around the words “yeah” and “Judeh.” When at last “Hey Jude” ended, Paul and the band took a bow, then everyone left the stage. I joined the audience in applauding loudly, but I was disappointed that Paul hadn’t performed “Yesterday.” Oh well. I knew how it was. A performing artist with so many well-known songs to his credit couldn’t possibly perform everything everyone wanted to hear in one show.
Silly me. I had been so caught up in how terrific the show was that I forgot the rhythm of a concert. Of course Paul came out for several encores, the first of which was an acoustic version of “Yesterday.” The other two were “Get Back” and the three-part epic “Golden Slumbers/Carry That Weight/The End.”
Now the show was over, and wasn’t that a dandy way to spend a night off.
The Japanese had the unique ability to rock, roll, roar, get rowdy, and then file out of their seats in an orderly fashion, row by row. As we waited for our turn to exit, Joe, Lorna, Rudy, and I reminisced about the early days when Paul and Linda were first falling in love. We all knew that Linda, née Eastman, had been born into a wealthy family and had achieved success in the sixties as a photographer of sought-after rock performers. Linda had incurred the wrath of millions of the mostly female fans of the Beatles when she married one of the most sought-after rock performers. After the Beatles broke up, when Paul formed his band Wings and included Linda in his shows, she was widely panned by critics and excoriated for daring to play and sing with Paul and his other more experienced musicians. But that night at the Tokyo Dome, I couldn’t help but be impressed by the improvement in Linda’s musical skills. My respect for her had grown in other ways as well. I admired her for persevering in the face of relentless criticism, for her activism on behalf of animals, and most of all, for being a source of happiness for Paul. I hoped that I would have the opportunity to tell her that.