1

There’s a giant hole in my life where Trump and his attendant news used to fit. I’m glad it’s gone, but I’m not quite sure what to fill it with. I still read the newspapers cover to cover, but all those news podcasts… That’s a funny thing about news outlets, they function every day, they keep on publishing whether the world blew up or the president got a hangnail. Don’t get me wrong, I like it this way, but what am I going to do with all the time I now have?

Joe Biden is better than anticipated, but the Republicans are worse. Did you hear about Pennsylvania, where they’re trying to have judges elected by gerrymandered districts? Rust never sleeps, nor do the Republicans. The best thing I’ve seen on this is the first five minutes of Sunday’s “Last Week Tonight.” The Republicans lose and are gung ho. The Democrats rest on their laurels and are still afraid of their shadows. Check it out here: https://bit.ly/3aquFlG John Oliver is a master.

So, it seems like I’ve contradicted myself, but not really. I go hiking and I’m starved for entertainment. Sounds antithetical, I know, but… We are not in the golden age of podcasts. We are in the golden age of podcast PRODUCTION, but not podcast content. What we’ve got is a pale imitation of thirties and forties radio. Mostly crime stories. Sort of a bad “Dateline” ad infinitum. And too many of the interview podcasts have bad interviewers. Let the damn guest talk, they’re who we want to hear.

As for music…

Playlists, the scourge of the music business. The hit to crap ratio is so bad… They’ve got to fire all the curators, they’re TERRIBLE! Just because they put out new music every week doesn’t mean it’s good, does not mean we need to hear any of it. A curator should be just that, someone who separates the wheat from the chaff, serves the listener not the label, who creates an intriguing list of songs that take the listener on a journey. Instead, all we’ve got is an ode to the skip button. They make new music look bad. I don’t want to hear a pale imitation of Joni Mitchell, I want to hear Joni Mitchell! But no one is that good anymore. I think about it all the time. They’re imitators instead of innovators. And they haven’t practiced enough, haven’t paid enough dues. And they don’t know about hooks and they don’t know how to finish a song. They’ll write a good verse and then a lousy chorus, or vice versa. And there’s rarely a bridge. There, did I put everybody in the ground, are you happy? Are you mad at me? And while I’m at it, what’s wrong with melody? To paraphrase Robert Plant, does anybody remember melody?

So I decide to go back to the oldies. I’m hiking last night and I pull up Simon & Garfunkel’s “Bookends,” one of the best albums ever made. Quick, name me something comparable today! Absolutely impossible. Forget “Mrs. Robinson,” how about the innovation of “Save the Life of My Child,” never mind the encapsulation of sixties wanderlust in “America,” Paul Simon channeled the zeitgeist.

And my plan, when it was over, was to call out to Siri to play “Parsley Sage, Rosemary and Thyme” But before I could do this, Apple Music slid into “Rocket Man.”

Yes, that’s a new feature of streaming services. If you don’t shut them off, they go on their merry way, providing songs in the genre of those you picked previously. Actually, I normally have repeat checked, and this does not occur, but last night I did not, and I heard Elton’s “Rocket Man.” Do I ever need to hear “Rocket Man” ever again? Not really. But I love the synths, so I stayed with it. That’s another thing, once you start fast-forwarding you lose the plot. It needs to be like radio, where you’ve got no choice, where you endure, waiting for the next song to appear.

And then a few songs later, I realize I’m going to hit a dead zone. Either I needed to pull up “Parsley, Sage…” right away or stick with Siri’s suggestions. What the hell, I decided to stay with the latter, for the sake of surprise, and that’s when I heard “The Best of My Love.”

2

The second Eagles album was a stiff. Which was quite surprising because the first one was such a success. There was a ton of ink, about the plot line, the photo shoot, but the album came out and…nothing. Now almost fifty years later, one can argue quite strongly that “Desperado” is the best pre-Joe Walsh Eagles album. As a matter of fact, it contains the second most legendary Eagles song, the one that was not a single, but is the encore for every concert, “Desperado.” Come on, you can hear those intro piano notes in your head right now, right?

Well, maybe you hate the Eagles. Fine, they don’t need you. That’s what people don’t realize, you can be hated by some and still have a huge, significant career. Then again, unless you’re mega-successful, people don’t really bother hating you anyway.

So, the first Eagles album was a triumph. It was led by the single “Take It Easy,” which was made for AM in an era where FM was everything, but not everybody owned an FM radio. As for the album, it was equally satisfying. “Witchy Woman” was haunting, “Earlybird” uplifting and unique, and “Peaceful Easy Feeling” another smash.

But as time was passing, tastes were changing, FM started to get harder. Whereas the Eagles were seen as somewhat soft, they were not a natural fit. Which contributed to the lack of success of the “Desperado” album. As for “Tequila Sunrise”… You might know it by heart, but it was not a big hit in ’73, it only made it to #64 on the Hot 100. Only #26 on AC. No, that track got traction when the Eagles became everything, after the triumph of 1975’s “One of These Nights” album, when the Eagles legend was cemented, when they owned both radio bands, when the album sold and sold, when it was ubiquitous, after the band started working with Bill Szymczyk, and the music had a harder edge.

Actually, that edge started to display itself in “On the Border,” the band’s third album, but that album started off slowly, whereas “One of These Nights” jumped straight out of the box with the title track, it was undeniable.

So the first two singles from “On the Border” were Glenn Frey songs. It was his voice that was emblematic of the Eagles for those listening to singles, as opposed to those who might have purchased the albums. I don’t think, and didn’t think, either “Already Gone” or “James Dean” were natural singles. To make an impact you need a 9, something that is not fodder for the airwaves, but something different, something outstanding. And if you can provide a 10, then you have a recurrent, a song everybody knows and never forgets that never ever really leaves the public consciousness, like “The Best of My Love.”

“Already Gone” made it to #32 on the Hot 100. And unless you made it to #20, maybe #15, that meant most stations in America were not playing it. There were a hundred songs on the chart, but big stations played maybe fifteen.

As for “James Dean,” that did even worse, it got to #77. Once again, the Eagles had whiffed. It looked like they could not ever match their first album’s commercial success. But then they brought out their secret weapon, Don Henley.

The Eagles were seen as Frey’s band. Henley was the drummer. How many drummers even sang lead? Well, there was that guy in Rare Earth…

As for Eagles photographs, it was hard to tell the members apart, they were all long-haired hippies, and their pictures weren’t even on the cover of the first and third albums.

Now the truth is the first and second albums were produced by Glyn Johns. And the Eagles chafed under his direction. They wanted to rock harder. And they were right, ergo the success of what came after, most especially “Hotel California.” So, fearful of another stiff album, they swiched horses to Szymczyk in the middle of recording “On the Border,” but two songs remained from the Johns sessions, one of those was “The Best of My Love.” And after the first two Frey singles didn’t break the bank, six months after “On the Border” had been released, the label put out “The Best of My Love.” And it went all the way to #1.

3

“The Best of My Love” was not jaunty like what had come before. Not upbeat and optimistic, not macho. Rather “The Best of My Love” was heartfelt. It was open and honest, women could relate.

“Every night I’m lying in bed

Holding you close in my dreams

Thinking about all the things that we said

And coming apart at the seams”

Don Henley was evidencing VULNERABILITY! There’s nothing a woman wants more in a relationship. Henley was on his way to idol status. But also it was his voice, smooth yet with a rough element, a bit of sandpaper that gave it an element of distinction, this was just not some studio singer, a guy singing somebody else’s song, this guy felt it, he lived it.

So I’m just at the verge of the dead zone. It’s my last chance to switch to “Parsley, Sage…” And I can’t fast-forward in the dead zone. There’s not enough of a buffer. I’ve got to live with what’s coming down the pike, like it or not. And I hear that acoustic guitar intro and…do I want to hear “The Best of My Love”?

I know what it is instantly. God, there’s not a baby boomer alive who doesn’t know that intro.

But now it’s dark. And I’m disconnected from the pinball machine of life. It’s just me and the trail and the sky. So I decide to let it play. And “The Best of My Love” reveals itself in a way it never has previously.

That’s the funny thing about songs. You can hear them to the point of intolerance and then decades later they come up and you gain new insights. You’ve got a few more miles on you, you’ve had more experiences, you can suddenly see what the writers saw. And that’s another thing, how did these songwriters know so much at such a young age?

“We try to talk it over

But the words come out too rough”

You know that moment… You’re lying in bed, or sitting in the living room. The yelling has stopped. And then, just when it appears that calmness will reign…someone says something and the yelling starts once again, and that’s when you say something you cannot take back, something that hurts, something that sticks with the other person.

“Beautiful faces

And loud empty places

Look at the way that we live

Wasting our time on cheap talk and wine

Left us so little to give”

The rock star lifestyle. It sounds good to many. Then again, everybody in America seems to think they’re a rock star anyway. They go to the bar to have a good time and… Bottom line, you have experiences but little intimacy. You’re together but you’re not. You’ve got history, but little personal story.

“That same old crowd

Was like a cold dark cloud

That we could never rise above”

You can get caught up in your group, especially when you’re young. It’s a roving party. And this was before everybody became Alex P. Keaton, went straight, put on a suit and tried to get rich. The early seventies were a laid back version of the sixties. No one was going anywhere fast, it was about life, experience. The hang was everything.

And then there’s a bridge, a lost formula that today’s acts are seemingly unaware of, never mind don’t employ.

“I’m going back in time

And it’s a sweet dream

It was a quiet night

And I would be all right

If I could go on sleeping”

Henley becomes even MORE intimate. His voice rises, he’s testifying, he’s reflecting, something too many males do not. It was great, but then too much happened, true identities came out, there was no way to put it back together again.

“But every morning

I wake up and worry

What’s gonna happen today

You see it your way

And I see it mine

But we both see it slippin’ away”

You’ve been there. You’re still together, but you’re pullling apart. If you just stay quiet and go through the motions, everything’s okay. But people didn’t do this in the seventies, the goal was to be your fully realized self and find your soulmate, desperation never figured in.

“You know we always had each other baby

I guess that wasn’t enough”

Not enough. When you realize that… You don’t want to, you want to continue blindly, but you can’t. Oftentimes both people know it’s impossible, sometimes only one. But when you see the future as fraught if you remain a couple, you know it’s just a matter of when it ends.

“Oh, but here in my heart

I give you the best of my love”

Well, maybe Don Henley can do this. Maybe some men can do this. But the truth is someone always gets the short end of the stick, breakups are never mutual, one of the partners always wants to give it another chance. But after all the fights, after the history, it’s too late. And the leaver might be able to be generous, but the left usually is not sanguine, there’s a heavy dose of resentment, which often goes on for far too long.

Then again, a song is a fantasy. You can plug it into your own life and dream. Maybe that’s the way they really feel about you.

“Oh, sweet darling…”

Henley’s gentle. Too many men are physical, nonverbal. But here’s this guy who’s cracked open his heart, who’s telling his story honestly, as if it’s the most important thing to him…and you know it’s the most important thing to her.

4

“The Best of My Love” changed everything for the Eagles. “On the Border” sold two million copies. The album wove its way into the fabric of America. It sustained.

And then came “One of These Nights.”

Now the first single was a Henley song, the title track, dark and edgy, this was a rock song by a band too often seen as soft country rock.

“One of these nights

One of these crazy old nights

We’re gonna find out pretty mama

What turns on your lights”

This is the flip side. Sure, women want men who are open, honest and forthright, but they also want to be taken on an adventure, especially when their needs are catered to, when the man does his best to penetrate her identity, discover what makes her tick, push the button and deliver what she desires.

But the chorus…

“Ooh, someone to be kind to

In between the dark and the light”

There was that sweet vocal sensibility from “The Best of My Love.” “One of These Nights” was both hard and soft.

“I’ve been searching for the daughter of the devil himself

I’ve been searching for an angel in white

I’ve been waiting for a woman who’s a little of both

And I can feel her but she’s nowhere in sight”

HERE I AM! Millions of women were now ready to volunteer, they wanted to join Don Henley and the Eagles on this ride, they were primed and ready. And confident. Henley was speaking to them as an adult, which is how they saw themselves, WHAT MORE COULD YOU WANT?

Turns out not much. “One of These Nights” sold and sold and sold. Then a greatest hits album compiled from the first four LPs was released and it became the best selling album of ALL TIME!

But then there was a complete surprise.

Sure, the Eagles had gotten rockier, with more punch and more edge. But the country element was still there, on a long continuum from Gram Parsons to Poco to…

There were great expectations. And as a result, the first single went all the way to #1. But “New Kid in Town” was more of a Glenn Frey song. Frey was the lead singer, but as the song wore on you heard Don Henley in the background vocals, and you also heard Don Felder’s biting guitar. “New Kid in Town” was a blend between the old and the new. The Eagles of the greatest hits album and…an underlying rock element.

And then came…

Many people bought the new album without hearing it first, and when they dropped the needle…

This was the era of big rig stereos, you needed to get closer to the sound. And the intro was delectable, and then the drum hit and it was HOTEL CALIFORNIA!

Ultimately the Eagles most famous song. Don Henley’s songwriting and singing chops were now fully developed, and rather than resting on his laurels, he pushed the envelope, both lyrically and vocally, and the guitar playing and…sometimes you only need to hear a song once, and then you need to hear it immediately once again, and again and again and again. That was “Hotel California.” Mix in “Life in the Fast Lane” and “Victim of Love” and Don Henley was the sound of the radio, his voice emanated from speakers for a year straight. And “Wasted Time” was “The Best of My Love” on steroids, anything but wimpy, maybe one of the best songs reflecting on a breakup ever.

But it all started with “The Best of My Love,” that was the turning point.

And I liked it when I bought the album, and I know it by heart, but I never really understood it until last night. Because in 1974 I had not lived with a girl. I had not had a serious breakup. I thought I knew what life was about, but I didn’t.

Don Henley knew more.

He gave us the best of his love.

Tune in today, February 16th, to Volume 106, 7 PM East, 4 PM West.

Phone #: 844-6-VOLUME, 844-686-5863

Twitter: @lefsetz or @siriusxmvolume/#lefsetzlive

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If you miss the episode, you can hear it on demand on the SiriusXM app: siriusxm.us/LefsetzLive

1

It was an album for everybody.

That doesn’t happen too often, but when it does, the music business takes a giant leap forward, everybody pays attention, everybody listens, music is talked about, it drives the culture.

Last example? Adele. Her album “21” sold ten times, literally TEN TIMES as much as everything else in the marketplace. It worked for hipsters and as well as casual listeners. It was an alchemy of songs and singing, of passion and precision. “21” was a statement by an artist, not just product to support a system.

Same deal with the Beatles. At first it was a teen phenomenon. Then came “Michelle” and “Yesterday.” No one could deny them as songs. A far cry from today when beats and rhythm rule and a song can have very few changes, if any at all. Anybody could sing “Michelle” and “Yesterday,” and they did, and we did. Never forget that singability is key to ubiquity.

No one was waiting for the new opus of Carole King. She was seen as a has-been…no, a relic. Her biggest successes were pre-Beatles. She was a songwriter with her husband Gerry Goffin when that was still necessary, before the artists wrote their own songs. The paradigm had shifted. What most people did not know is that Carole King had shifted with it.

James Taylor was for everybody. Not that it looked like that at first. His first Apple album was a stiff. Loved by listeners, but there were very few of them. And expectations were not high in the marketplace for “Sweet Baby James,” but word spread and by the fall of 1970 it was a phenomenon. Why was “Sweet Baby James” embraced? It was simple and heartfelt. You really thought it was James in the grooves. Maybe not someone you could completely identify with, but someone you wanted to know. And when “Fire and Rain” crossed over to AM radio…

Carole King was playing piano with James Taylor. She’d gone from songwriter to supporting player. Which was strange, because back in the day, she and her husband were bigger than the artists who recorded their songs. Classic example, “The Loco-Motion.”

I bought the single. This was a different era, if you wanted to hear something repeatedly you had to own it. And records were like drugs. You just couldn’t get enough of them, you had to mainline them. This is what has been lost in the modern era of big bucks when commerce is considered to be everything. Back then it was all about magic. And nearly sixty years later “The Loco-Motion” evidences just as much magic as it did upon initial release. It was the sound. The groove. The changes. You could not listen without moving, even if the only moving was in your mind, a fantasy of a better, more happy life, which is what music represented in that optimistic era. That’s when I first learned of Carole King. She and Goffin’s names were on the label, and those you studied, sometimes the record would spin and you would stare at it.

But this was back before the rock press. You had to be paying attention to know who Carole King was. There was no hype. And “Tapestry” did not blow up as a result of marketing, it was very simple, there was a song on the album, her version of her song James Taylor made famous, “You’ve Got a Friend.”

Not that Carole hadn’t tried before. “Writer” was a complete stiff upon its release in 1970. I did not know a single person who owned it. Then. But after “Tapestry”…people could not get enough, they always went back to the catalog, when there was a catalog and the hit parade was not dominated by barely pubescent youngsters selling fresh-faced sexuality more than talent. You not only have to pay the dues if you want to sing the blues, you’ve got to pay ’em if you want to last. It’s the journey that beefs up your chops, teaches you how to deal with the ups-and-downs, that toughens your skin, gives you confidence.

But James Taylor was a phenomenon. And expectations were high for his 1971 album “Mud Slide Slim and the Blue Horizon.”

You can’t compete with your own legend. Neil Young knew this fifty years ago. It wasn’t worth it to try and top “Harvest,” so he didn’t. He went on the road with an electric band and recorded “Time Fades Away.” Alienating the recent converts and leaving only the core, who wanted to actively go on Neil’s’ hejira with him. As a result, Neil was not boxed in by his legacy, and the audience was ready when he delivered again in 1979, with “Rust Never Sleeps” and “My My, Hey Hey (Out of the Blue).”

Now in retrospect, the highs on “Mud Slide Slim” are superior to those on “Sweet Baby James,” or at least their equal. “Mud Slide Slim” has “Riding on a Railroad,” “You Can Close Your Eyes” and “Machine Gun Kelly,” comparable, and in my mind superseding, “Sweet Baby James,” “Country Road” and “Fire and Rain.” But “Mud Slide Slim” was six minutes longer than its predecessor. And its opening track, “Love Has Brought Me Around,” although very good, was not a one listen smash. Nor was the opening cut on the second side, the hyped in the media “Hey Mister, That’s Me up on the Jukebox.” “Mud Slide Slim” was long and spotty whereas “Sweet Baby James” was short and compact, complete, easily digestible. And as a result, the buzz on the LP was superseded by “Tapestry.”

2

I never liked James Taylor’s version of “You’ve Got a Friend.” It was sweet and sappy, in a way James had never been before. But once you heard the original…

That was the buzz. That “You’ve Got a Friend” was written by Carole King, which seemed kind of strange, since Taylor was known for his songwriting, but there it was, in the credits.

Then again, just as “Mud Slide Slim” was released, King released a two-sided single better than almost anything in the marketplace, “It’s Too Late”/”I Feel the Earth Move.”

But this was the heyday of albums, and if you heard something you liked, you usually bought the album, not the single, and when you dropped the needle on “Tapestry”…

I ultimately heard “It’s Too Late” too many times, I still can’t listen to it. That was the song that broke the dam, that made everybody aware of Carole King, it was vastly overplayed. But the first song on the LP, the B-side of that single…

While James Taylor was going softer, Carole King exhibited an edge, she was playing like she meant it, the opening chords of “I Feel the Earth Move” heralded a rocker, not a wimpy AM bombshell. That’s how it is when you hear the right record, the earth moves, and you’ve got to get up and move with it.

And it wasn’t only the piano playing. Carole was nearly shouting the lyrics. She sang like she meant it, AND SHE’D WRITTEN IT!

“I Feel the Earth Move” was funky, in a way James Taylor never was.

And the conclusion was as good as the inception, King slowed down, tumbling down…”I Feel the Earth Move” was a TOUR DE FORCE!

And back in the days before not only streaming, but CD players, when you started one side of a vinyl LP you usually let it play on, and in this case then you discovered “So Far Away.”

“So Far Away” was the album’s sleeper. A track every boomer knows, that mimicked their own coming of age. The truth is no one stayed in one place anymore. They graduated and scattered, took to the road, not the sky, and those highways led them to places where they were essentially disconnected, long distance phone calls were expensive, if you even had anybody’s number.

And then came the single, “It’s Too Late.” Which was a song of empowerment. King was anything but a victim.

And then “Home Again” was personal and unproduced when James Taylor was going in the opposite direction, with more money adding more elements. And with so many miles on her personal highway Carole played the piano confidently, she seemed to channel her brain right into her fingers, to the keys and the strings.

“Snow is cold, rain is wet

Chills my soul right to the marrow”

These lyrics go through my brain when it rains, when it’s quiet and I feel alone. “Home Again” is a minor masterpiece. Carole knew what made a hit song. It had to have changes, hooks. And “Home Again” did.

And side one continued its run with “Beautiful” and “Way Over Yonder.” There were no clunkers, you could drop the needle and let your mind go on a journey, detached from the world, back when you could still do this.

And the second side, back when there still was one, opened with her take on “You’ve Got a Friend.” It was tougher, edgier, and somehow more personal than James’s version. Only the writer could sing this way, these were her words, this is how she felt. And as a result we felt it.

And “Where You Lead” was bouncy, the complete opposite of “You’ve Got a Friend.”

As was “Smackwater Jack.”

Then there were the two covers of her earlier work, made hits by others. “Will You Love Me Tomorrow?” was slower, more intimate than the hit Shirelles’ version. Same changes, yet almost a different song.

No one could compete with Aretha’s version of “(You Make Me Feel Like) a Natural Woman,” so King did not. She excised any penumbra, it was just her at the piano, singing directly from her heart to his. In Carole’s version the lyrics superseded the music, which was always stellar, but here it’s just the bed, Carole’s rendition of “(You Make Me Feel Like) a Natural Woman,” was less of a performance and more of a personal statement.

And that was it… WHEW!

3

This was 1971. Before everybody had an FM receiver in the car. When if you wanted to be big, you still needed to cross over to AM radio. Then again, this was back when FM was still somewhat experimental, when it was a big tent, when it could play so much it ultimately could not.

Today they say everybody listens to a smorgasbord of music. And although in some cases that is true, as years have gone by in the digital age there have become taller and more rigid silos, that many don’t venture out of. But in 1971, you could like Led Zeppelin and Carole King. They all came from the same roots, they were part of the same firmament, it was a continuum, from the Delta blues to now, people found their own tributaries and explored them, and listeners did with the music. And if you struck gold, the vein was very deep, because people owned very little music, and what they possessed they played over and over and knew by heart. And you couldn’t put out an album with one hit single and filler and expect to be a success, if you couldn’t make a statement on two long playing sides, you were not credible, you did not deserve attention, you were fluff.

So, the audience embraced Carole King. She arrived on James Taylor’s coattails, but her sound was distinct and different. He was a crooner, she was an energetic fireball with emotions, she’d lived life, she knew what she had to say and she was not pulling any punches, she was laying it all on the line, and women had someone to look up to and men had someone to idolize.

And it wasn’t about Carole’s looks, although she was and is attractive, the source of all the adulation was the music. She’d captured lightning in a bottle. You listened to the music to get closer to it, and to her. She was just a little more wise, a little more experienced, she had words of wisdom, which you devoured.

Not that we thought we’d be talking about a fifty year anniversary of “Tapestry.” Let’s not forget, “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida” was a phenomenon two years before, becoming the best selling album ever on Atlantic Records, even though Ahmet Ertegun didn’t even want to release it. We expected the hits to keep on coming, we expected to consistently be wowed and amazed. And we were, but no one could ever repeat Carole King’s formula, not even Carole herself.

Like James Taylor, Carole couldn’t equal her breakthrough. “Music” and “Rhymes & Reasons” were good, just not as good as what came before.

James Taylor’s commerciality was falling off. “One Man Dog” was magical, with its second side “Abbey Road”-like suite, but FM radio was becoming harder, and he was no longer new. “Walking Man” did even worse commercially. And then came “Gorilla.” But first came “Wrap Around Joy.”

When nothing works, you’ve got to get out of the rut, stop repeating the formula, which is exactly what Carole did, with “Wrap Around Joy” and “Jazzman.”

“Lift me, won’t you lift me above the old routine”

Carole stopped singing about herself and put the focus on someone else, there was an exuberance and a joy not contained in what had come before. “Jazzman” burst out of radio speakers, and made Tom Scott a household name, at least amongst music fans, he was the special sauce that put the whole number over the top, he can credit almost his entire career to this breakthrough.

James Taylor did the same thing the following spring, he threw off the production, went simple, and rekindled the love of fans with “Mexico,” and the masses with his remake of “How Sweet It Is (To Be Loved By You).” Thus reinvigorated, James Taylor followed up with the same team on “In the Pocket” and then switched labels to Columbia and with something to prove released “JT,” which was a worldwide smash.

But this did not happen with Carole King. Carole kept making records, but she did not seem to need the success, and then she seemed to stop trying, but she was no one hit wonder, she had a string of hits longer than most of the men. And that one gigantic album.

4

In retrospect it was the right place at the right time. We were looking inward after Kent State and Vietnam, we were licking our wounds. Feminism was breaking out. And like the sixties, anything still went, you could let your freak flag fly, people were still pushing the envelope and surprising us.

And the world at large had no idea how much money these artists and record labels were making. Beyond what the film studios and TV networks were. Music defined the culture. If you wanted to know what was really going on, you listened to music. Sure, the seventies were a heyday of film, but music was always more personal, and made for repeat listening, it wasn’t something you experienced once, but again and again and again, it became part of your life.

So at this point Carole King is seen as an old pro. But unlike so many of her contemporaries, she didn’t O.D., she soldiered on. Long enough to have a victory lap on Broadway, “Beautiful” was a jukebox musical that didn’t want for songs.

Then again, it was always the songs Carole King was interested in. She was bitten by the music, not the business. She wanted to be involved in the sound, not the branding, not the merchandise. She knew the power of a song. And it turned out she could ride with the times, she never lost her power, she could always surprise you.

But now it’s 2021. Back in 1971 we weren’t talking about the hit music of 1921. But the music of fifty years ago was the culture’s defining statement. TV had “All in the Family,” but not much more. It was slim pickings. But music had a cornucopia of offerings, all different, all worth paying attention to. It was a golden era.

Mostly of men.

But Carole King stood right there with them. And ultimately Joni Mitchell too. They were just as good as the men, if not better. And their music was enough, it was all in the grooves, their looks and personal lives didn’t hurt them, but that is not what sold their music, which lasts until today.

I remember the first time I heard “Tapestry.” It was in Hepburn Hall at Middlebury College, my freshman residence. Someone else played it. And then I had to have it. Just had to have it.

And I’m not the only one.

Which is why people always ask what albums you’d take to a desert isle. They don’t ask what movies or TV shows, it’s music that’s repeatable, that continues to pay dividends.

Our lives have been a tapestry of rich and royal hue. They didn’t turn out how we planned. But looking back we see the signposts that informed us in our decisions, gave us our directions. We followed the music. We weren’t sure where we were going. But one thing is for sure, where it led, we followed.

We followed Carole King.

https://bit.ly/3qldffJ

I don’t like cakey cookies.

Lisa waxes rhapsodic about black and whites. I’ve got no interest, if I’m eating a cookie I want chocolate, I want richness, I want to be titillated, I want to smile with satisfaction, I want to be reminded of a continuum of cookies all the way from the past into the future!

The first cookies I remember eating were Fudgetowns.

I marvel at the fact that I grew up in a house with a full fridge and full cupboards. How do you keep all that food in stock? In the junk drawer was a giant Hershey’s candy bar, which my mother used to break off a part of every other day or so. But once we kids discovered it, it wasn’t long for the kitchen.

But we had plenty of cookies. Mostly Pepperidge Farm, seconds. On the Post Road in Westport, they had a Pepperidge Farm outlet store. My father used to bring home packages of cookies and I remember us having the first goldfish in our neighborhood. This was back when Pepperidge Farm was exotic, when the whole concept of luxury snack goods was barely a thing. Haagen-Dazs? That didn’t break until the mid-seventies.

And I’m not talking about those giant Pepperidge Farm cookies of today, the Nantuckets and the Chesapeakes. The cookies were smaller, although larger than the usual store bought cookies. And the packages had three tiers, with three or four cookies in each paper cup. Resulting in a grand total of twelve or fifteen cookies in the whole package. This did not make any sense to me, god, you could eat the whole bag in one sitting. I don’t want to hold back when I’m eating, that’s no fun, the key is to eat until you’re satiated, if not oversatiated, stuffed. Come on, when you’re hungry and you sit down with a bag of cookies or a bag of potato chips…MMMM!

And I’ll never forget, I think I’ve told you before, about the last day of second grade. Taught by Miss Kamph. I looked her up a couple of months back. She taught until retirement, in her sixties, and she never got married. This was rare back then…all the young female teachers were there for a couple of years and then they were gone forever, sometimes they came back for a year or so with a new name and then they left when they started a family. I know, I know, this sounds sexist. But don’t criticize me for telling the truth.

Anyway, the last day was kind of a party day. This was when school ended towards the end of June, when we never went back until after Labor Day, when August was still a vacation month. And it seems to me I wore my clam diggers. That was a thing back then, for both boys and girls. And we had to bring a snack. And my mother gave me two packages of Pepperidge Farm chocolate cookies. I winced, I complained, there were so few, not even enough for each member of my class to have one. But my mother made me take them and then nobody ate them, they were too sophisticated for young, middle class suburban palates.

Yes, there were Pepperidge Farm chocolate cookies, kind of bland. And my father brought home Brussels and Genevas and…none of them were to my liking, and then of course there were the Milanos. Those have sustained. But it took me a few years to cotton to them, to learn to love them.

But at first we started with grocery store cookies, like the aforementioned Fudgetowns. Which didn’t come loose in a box, but in two wax paper sleeves. You knew once you broke the seal freshness was evaporating, nearly instantly, so that would be a constant mental debate, after you finished one sleeve…did you crack the second? That was my idea of a good time, downstairs in the playroom of our split level, watching cartoons on the black and white TV, eating Fudgetowns.

The next time I remember eating cookies was in college, you could buy these Freihofer chocolate chips. Scrumptious. They came loose in a rectangular container with a plastic window. They weren’t huge, but they weren’t small. And you’d buy a box and devour the whole thing in one setting. They were kind of like Entenmann’s, but better. Not that Entenmann’s are not great. Freihofers were doughy, almost not cooked enough, but somehow perfect.

And in college my sister Wendy made me a member of the Keebler cookie club. Gotta love those little elves. But chocolate chip cookies remain my favorite. There’s no cookie too rich for me. As a matter of fact, my favorite cookie ever was David’s. This was back when the chocolate chip cookie mania truly took hold, the eighties and nineties. It started with Famous Amos, which were small and overrated. As for Mrs. Fields? Before she became greedy and expanded and diversified, when you went to the store, they were pretty damn good. But David’s were soft and gooey and could have a complete layer of chocolate in them. What’s not to like? Especially when they were warm.

As for those yellow cookies representing bland dough, UGH! My cookie had to be sweet, and preferably chocolate. As for oatmeal? Come on, I never ate it for breakfast and I don’t want it in my cookies. I didn’t want a hint of flavor, I wanted a BLAST! Especially as you grow older, if you’re gonna eat a damn cookie go all the way. Like the people who buy de-caloried faux ice cream for their freezer. If you’re gonna partake, go big! Start with Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey. Phish Food is amazing, Cherry Garcia overrated. But I’ve yet to find a B&J flavor that does not deliver.

Those cookies in the deli case… Who are they making them for? Barely sweet, maybe with a splash of chocolate icing. Hell, if I want chocolate icing I’ll go to Dairy Queen. I want a hit of the real thing!

But now I might be changing my tune, because of the damn hamantashen.

Felice bought a Zabars’ goodie box for Valentine’s. Now that’s a present I can get down with. And yesterday I had bagels and lox… You can’t get this kind of lox in Los Angeles, actually Zabars calls it “Novie.” It’s oily, it reminds me of the smoked salmon of yore, that my father used to bring home from the deli on Sunday mornings. Sunday brunch, that was a big thing. I’d like that every week as an adult!

And of course Felice got a babka, come on!

But she also ordered hamantashen.

HUH?

I’ve yet to find a non-Jew who craves hamantashen. It’s a three-cornered cookie for Purim, a holiday most non-Jews would have trouble knowing, never mind eating the food. Where did she get this craving? Previously she was married to a Jew, but I don’t remember him being very observant. And she’ll go to seders with me, but I don’t remember ever celebrating Purim, never mind eating hamantashen. And by time Felice came into the picture my nephews were out of school, there was no carnival to go to, no dressing up as Ester or Haman.

The hamantashen came in a box. There were four different flavors. You know, apricot inside, strawberry… And that’s one of the big problems with hamantashen, there’s just not enough juice, just not enough nougat, just not enough of the good stuff inside! The ratio of jelly/sweet to cookie is WAY off. The cookie should be de minimis, the stuffing should dominate.

But not with a hamantashen.

Which come in different sizes. You can find a mini-hamantashen and a giant hamantashen. Usually, the minis are better, because of the ratio referenced above, you get more of the gooey inside. All that cookie in the giant ones…UGH! It’s almost torture to finish one. Oh, that’s one thing about cookies, you touch it, you own it. You start it, you finish it. No tasting is permitted. And if you want to switch to another offering, you’ve got to finish what you started with first. The thought of one of those dry hamantashen in my mouth while I’m eying something better…those are painful memories.

But that box, I could not resist it. Felice ate one, I decided to dip in, reluctantly, but I wanted to taste the apricot inside.

Wow, this is different. There’s something about the cookie. It’s satisfying in its own right. I didn’t believe it! I had to ask Felice, “Exactly what do you like about hamantashen?” She started going on about the cookie, when I thought she’d mention the inside stuffing, and that’s when I thought she was on to something. Well, that’s when I thought there was something special about these hamantashen.

And I don’t want to waste my carbs on hamantashen, I’d rather toast and eat another bagel, smother it with cream cheese. But today I remembered the hamantashen of yesterday and I decided to jump back in, obviously yesterday’s festival of taste was an anomaly, right?

WRONG! So I pick up another hamantashen and I decide to partake of it slowly, which is not my style, I’m not a nibbler. And that damn cookie, the yellow part, the part I’ve always hated, is DELECTABLE! I can’t really describe it properly. There’s a slightly sweet taste, and it crumbles in your mouth, but it doesn’t reek of flour and I can’t believe I’ve eaten hamantashen my entire life and have never experienced the holy grail, this!

That’s how life is, you wallow in mediocrity and then you experience greatness and you can’t believe what you’ve missed.

The BMWs of yore. When they all had relatively stiff suspensions, with that tight steering. You drove it once, you had to own it.

People complain about the price of things. Good enough is good enough. ONLY IT ISN’T!

It’s one thing if you can’t afford great. Not everybody can own a BMW, not even an iPhone. But when it comes to cookies? EVERYBODY CAN LIVE LIKE A KING! Why buy the low rent grocery store cookies when for just a bit more you can have the experience of a lifetime.

That’s exactly what I thought eating this hamantashen just now. Thoughts of Covid vacated my brain. As did thoughts of career. My age? My physical infirmities, my health issues? GONE! All I could do was revel in the moment. I was at one with the hamantashen. This was a peak experience, as good as it gets.

I just had to tell you.