Introduction

A HOLIDAY CAROLE (2011)
1) My Favorite Things; 2) Carol Of The Bells; 3) Sleigh Ride; 4) Christmas Paradise; 5) Everyday Will Be Like A Holiday; 6) Chanukah Prayer; 7) Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas; 8) I Got My Love To Keep Me Warm; 9) Christmas In The Air; 10) Do You Hear What I Hear; 11) This Christmas; 12) New Year's Day.
Come to think of it, it is weird that Carole had to wait until she was nearly seventy years old to release a Christmas album — with her cozy domestic attitudes and pure love for sentimental sim­plicity with a touch of the patriarchal (matriarchal?) spirit, this should have happened several decades earlier; then again, the «Christmas album virus» does tend to typically infect people only after their immune system has been severely ravaged by multiple bouts of writer's block, and now that the lady has little, if anything, left to lose, it's exactly the same question of «why not?» as it is for, say, Jethro Tull or Aretha Franklin.
So we've got some bad news and some good news for you here. Starting off with the good: in terms of instruments and arrangements, this is Carole's best-sounding record in almost, let's see... thirty years, I guess — the last time her songs sounded that natural and unsuffocated by studio gloss was on 1982's One To One (not that it was a masterpiece or anything, but the basic sound stayed true to the genuine C. King spirit). Other than the piano sound (why do they really have to use these electronic keyboards in the studio when they could easily go for a nice Steinway?), we have a real band backing the artist, acoustic drums, guitars, winds, strings, real live harmonies, and practically no traces of the «new R&B sound» that made her last two attempts at a come­back so painfully contaminated with something that was so much not Carole King. Christmas or no Christmas, I felt really at ease while listening to this.
The bad news now: alas, it is that time when the lady should be taking a break from singing. The aging has finally taken place, and if Love Makes The World still sounded (vocal-wise) much like the same old Carole, the next ten years finally took their merciless toll. She has lost a part of her higher range (occasionally making it real painful for the ears when she tries to hit a high note, e. g. on ʽI Got My Love To Keep Me Warmʼ), and the rest of it has developed a crackle — not stereotypically senile (in all honesty, you still wouldn't be able to precisely tell the age of the singer), but just a grating crackle that makes the whole «saved-by-charisma» thing of the past... well, more or less a thing of the past.
With the bad and the good news outcanceling each other, A Holiday Carole would be complete­ly and utterly useless if not for the fact that the record was largely a product of Carole's daughter, Louise, who co-produced it, sang some harmonies (I think), co-wrote several of the new songs, and seems to have even been the author of the idea. And she does offer a curious touch every now and then, like the slow jazz arrangement of ʽChanukah Prayerʼ where she joins her mother in said prayer along with her own son — three generations of Kleins remembering their roots in a non-totally-boring-predictable manner. She's not that good a songwriter, though: ʽChristmas Paradiseʼ is an admirable, but not very exciting attempt at diversifying the proceedings with some Latin rhythms; ʽChristmas In The Airʼ is family-oriented funk-pop with no interesting twists; and ʽNew Year's Dayʼ is a well-meant try to write a piano ballad in her mother's trademark style, but about as memorable as mother's latter day out-of-steam writings — apparently, just one more case of the parent's talent not being transmitted to the child; I cannot blame Louise Goffin for lack of taste in production or poorly chosen direction, but a genius like her mother she sure is not.
Still, like most of these projects, the purpose of A Holiday Carole is not to make a brand new artistic statement, but more personal — to remind the world that the artist is still alive, and, I guess, to prove to herself that she is still capable of something. And she is — vocal crackle aside, she is still a warm and kind human being who can hardly generate negative emotions even when operating within a fairly banal framework. And, after all, it is at least nice to see her, on what is probably the last serious studio project of her life, to reject trendiness and just go for some good old eternal values, no matter how old-fashioned, conservative, retrograde, or generic they might seem to anybody under 50 at the moment. (For that matter, why is it so that the UK / European release of this record came out under the title A Christmas Carole, and the US album was titled A Holiday Carole? Is this a solitary case of the American market displaying more political cor­rectness than the British one?..)
ADDENDA
THE CARNEGIE HALL CONCERT (1971; 1996)
1) I Feel The Earth Move; 2) Home Again; 3) After All This Time; 4) Child Of Mine; 5) Carry Your Load; 6) No Easy Way Down; 7) Song Of Long Ago; 8) Snow Queen; 9) Smackwater Jack; 10) So Far Away; 11) It's Too Late; 12) Eventually; 13) Way Over Yonder; 14) Beautiful; 15) You've Got A Friend; 16) Will You Still Love Me Tomor­row / Some Kind Of Wonderful / Up On The Roof; 17) (You Make Me Feel Like) A Natural Woman.
It was probably deemed excessive to release this show officially in its own time, what with Tapestry already riding high on the charts and Music almost in the can by the time the show was played (June 18, 1971), but it is still a shame that the world at large had to wait 25 years before the tape was finally restored, remastered, and put out in CD format, because this is not just a very special concert, historically, but it is fairly unique on a personal level as well — the Carnegie Hall Concert was literally Carole King's first serious live appearance ever, and it is not every day that you get to witness a musical genius opening him/herself up to an admiring, but demanding public for the first time in his/her life.
Carole did not yet have a firmly put together backing band at the time, although I am not sure if the first part of the concert was completely solo out of necessity or because it was an intentional decision on her part — «if I'm really gonna do it, I should go all the way!» Eventually, she is joined on the stage by some musicians — first by Larkey on bass, then by Danny Kortchmar on guitar, then even by a small string section — but essentially this is just Lady Writer challenged to step into the shoes of Lady Performer, because whoever heard of a number one pop star without a con­cert agenda? This is not 1966 and you are no John Lennon, so show yourself.
This is precisely what makes this archival release so very special — with Carole's In Concert record that came out two years before this one, you get her as a seasoned professional, but here you get her as a nervous, evidently insecure, but still deeply enthusiastic «beginner» whose only chance of winning over the audience is being as natural as possible. You might find yourself rooting for her, intensely, as you sense the nervous tremble of the voice on the early songs (par­ticularly the drawn-out ballads — ʽChild Of Mineʼ is just barely held together), but then, after a few tunes, there comes a realization that everything is going along smoothly, and we can finally relax a bit. Predictably, there's quite a bit of stage banter, too — little details and not particularly funny jokes that help break up some barriers and alleviate some of that tension — but Carole is such a lovable person in general that whatever she does for a giggle is fine by me.
Naturally, the setlist (as any Carole King setlist ever played) is stuffed with Tapestry songs (10 out of 12), plus four songs off Writer and three previews of songs from Music, so there will be few surprises here. The biggest «surprise», explicitly announced by Carole as "Surprise!", is the appearance of James Taylor, who duets with her on ʽYou've Got A Friendʼ and the ensuing three-song medley — well, what do you want, it's James Taylor, and in situations like these you can treat him as just another piece of reliable furniture that Carole needs to step upon in order to achieve the desired effect. (I wish there were a less crude metaphor to express just how ordinary and bland I find the guy's singing, but I refuse to strain my brain over James Taylor). At least he has the decency to disappear while Carole sings ʽNatural Womanʼ for the encore, because that would make us think that it is James Taylor who makes her feel like a natural woman, and that would be strange, because I'd say the only thing that James Taylor is able to make one feel like would be a 2-year old.
Anyway, this is not about James Taylor, this is about some great, great songs that are well worth hearing in these stripped-down arrangements — she can still make ʽI Feel The Earth Moveʼ rock quite a bit with just the voice and the piano, and ʽSmackwater Jackʼ, propelled only by Larkey's bass and the audience's enthralled handclapping, ends up almost as fun as it was on the original record. On ʽIt's Too Lateʼ, after Kortchmar has joined the group for lead guitar support, Carole makes some meyowing noises, mimicking his guitar tone and bringing some levity to the mourn­ful atmosphere of the song; and on songs like ʽNo Easy Way Downʼ, she serves as her own backing vocalist, preserving the soaring-and-descending modulation of the vocal melody as best as possible — this is not rigid professionalism, but it's a well-meaning attempt to keep things exciting and interesting through the whole show. By the time she's done, you'll want to pin a medal on her, for a first job well done; and although I wouldn't have expected it from myself, I do find myself occasionally revisiting the album instead of Tapestry — particularly when I'm in the mood for a bit less production slickness and a bit more of that elusive «raw edge».
I will not say that this is the only Carole King live album you will ever need: 1994's In Concert and the Living Room Tour both had their own charm as well, not to mention a more diversified setlist and an angst-free, self-assured vocal performance. But this here stuff goes so hand in hand with Tapestry that I do believe that at some future point they might want to delete it from the catalog as an independent album and just stick it together with Tapestry, as a bonus disc, for all eternity. It's just one of those «well, we've just finished polishing some of the best songs ever, now all we have to do is make them come alive without any makeup on» moments that you have to experience, sooner or later, even at the expense of a flesh-and-blood James Taylor completing the picture. Totally a thumbs up here.
THE CITY: NOW THAT EVERYTHING'S BEEN SAID (1968)
1) Snow Queen; 2) I Wasn't Born To Follow; 3) Now That Everything's Been Said; 4) Paradise Alley; 5) A Man Without A Dream; 6) Victim Of Circumstance; 7) Why Are You Leaving; 8) Lady; 9) My Sweet Home; 10) I Don't Believe It; 11) Hi-De-Ho; 12) All My Time.
To round things out with Carole King, it is more than appropriate to include a mention of this record in her section — because it is only a pure technical formality, actually, that prevents one from including this, the first and last ever album of «The City», as the first entry in her regular discography. Indeed, before she went completely solo with Writer, there was this rather curious attempt, perhaps driven on by humility and shyness, to pass as just a piano-playing and singing member of a rock trio, with future husband Charles Larkey on bass and Danny Kortchmar on guitar. (Incidentally, the guest drummer here is Jim Gordon, of future Derek & The Dominos fame, though he hardly gets to swing and shine as efficiently here as he would there).
Actually, the only significant difference between Now That Everything's Been Said and Writer is that Danny gets to sing a couple of the songs — other than that, the sound is pretty much iden­tical, and all the songwriting comes from Carole and her lyrical co-writers: mostly Goffin, but also Toni Stern and David Palmer, all of whom would contribute words for Carole's music in the future as well. Importantly, this is where you will find Carole's first recorded versions of ʽSnow Queenʼ, ʽWasn't Born To Followʼ (already done by The Byrds), and ʽHi-De-Hoʼ (soon to be appropriated by Blood, Sweat & Tears); but even more importantly, this is the only place where you will find a small bunch of quite exquisite King originals that cannot be found anywhere else, and each of which is worth far more than any complete post-1982 Carole King album.
One is ʽParadise Alleyʼ, a simple-innocent pop rocker with an intricate arrangement of vocal overdubs in the chorus — from a time when heart-tugging moves came to the lady's imagination more naturally than earthquakes come to the Ring of Fire. Another is ʽWhy Are You Leavingʼ, with equally poignant vocal work on the chorus (the task is to sing the line "why are you lea­ving?" in as many different ways as possible, and it is accomplished). And still another great vocal move is found on the closing ʽAll My Timeʼ, where she plays around with her own echo: few people can just take a single line like "all my time, all my time belongs to you" and make it sound like an inspiring religious mantra, but this is exactly what is happening here, with a little help from that echo, of course.
That said, none of these songs is great from top to bottom: mostly we are dealing with a beautiful idea enclosed in a merely-okay setting. Although the record was already produced by Lou Adler, which means that the overall sound is tasteful and pleasant, Carole does act fairly shy, and there are no tracks where she and her piano would be in primary focus — most of the time, the «ca­mera» tries to put her in the context of her musician friends, yet the musician friends, too, try to keep it humble in order to give the piano lady her due, and so in the end it all comes down to a set of «after you, sir»'s and «after you, Ma'm»'s that is not highly satisfactory. In addition, what with Carole's writing style being so personal, it simply made no sense in the first place to not behave as a full-fledged solo artist, and I guess the public must have sensed that, too — «The City» never really managed to get decent publicity or to sell a significant amount of records. Heck, it even took more than thirty years to get it released on CD, and good luck trying to find a physical copy these days: if it weren't for the digital era, Now That's Everything Been Said would simply be forgotten. As it is, hopefully we will still remember it as a timid, but important first step in King's self-realization, and treasure it lightly for its share of proverbially heart-warming, oh-so-Carole King moments, so a thumbs up all the same.

CARPENTERS

OFFERING (1969)
1) Invocation; 2) Your Wonderful Parade; 3) Someday; 4) Get Together; 5) All Of My Life; 6) Turn Away; 7) Ticket To Ride; 8) Don't Be Afraid; 9) What's The Use; 10) All I Can Do; 11) Eve; 12) Nowadays Clancy Can't Even Sing; 13) Benediction.
The main problem with the Carpenters' generally forgotten debut album is simple, as long as you subscribe to the world view that has been gradually consolidating around the duo's post-mortem reputation — namely, that «Carpenters» (as a concept) were shite, while Karen Carpenter was anything but. Admittedly, it is a flawed and incomplete view, but, unfortunately, I cannot help drifting towards it myself, and nowhere is it more evident than on Offering (what a posh title!), the duo's first big, er, offering to the A&M label. Today, it is better known as Ticket To Ride, after its only minor hit single, but I am keeping the original title for honesty's sake, especially since «honesty» is generally a big concern for bands like these.
Technically, the album was a transitional affair, recorded very soon after the breakup of Richard and Karen's band Spectrum and still containing traces of a «band» rather than «duo» (or, even better, «solo») approach to business. More than half of the songs were actually written by Richard, with lyrics by former bandmate John Bettis — even though Richard never was and never would be a talented songwriter; and about half of the songs are sung by Richard, even though I always end up feeling like a three-year old every time I hear a Richard vocal. The syrupy-upbeat atmo­sphere ends up infecting Karen's performances as well (ʽDon't Be Afraidʼ, etc.), and the result is not so much «soft rock» as it is «Sesame Street rock», a subgenre that the Carpenters would never fully relinquish voluntarily, but Offering is really their only album to have been recorded almost completely in that genre.
There are exceptions, of course — two or three of these, pointing the way to future moments of triumph, and, as anybody can guess, it is first and foremost the songs that put Karen's rich, dark lower range overtones in proper focus, with an aura of near-tragic melancholy that hinted at a very troubled soul (not to mention physiology) even back when Karen Carpenter was, formal­ly, still a lively, fun-loving, drum-toting tomboy. A particular highlight, long forgotten in favor of future hit songs in the same style, is Richard's ʽEveʼ, a lush Euroballad that is, unfortunately, spoiled by too many overdubbed harmonies and strings in the chorus, but sounds near-perfect when it's just Karen and the piano (or, in later verses, a bit of overdubbed harpsichord on top): here, already, she is able to woo the listener with merely the opening "Eve, I can't believe that you would mean what you just said..." — few singers are able to combine special vocal technique with fully believable realism of the delivery, and here we witness the combination of a capable singer, a perfect actor, and a captivating human being.
Compared to ʽEveʼ, the far better known title track is not nearly as impressive. The idea to put the "sad" back into "I think I'm gonna be sad" is brilliant per se — whatever you could say about the original ʽTicket To Rideʼ, you could never truly suspect the song of disseminating an atmosphere of genuine sadness (the irony was, of course, best captured in the Help! movie where it was per­formed to footage of all four Beatles enjoying themselves like ecstatic kids while skiing in the Alps — so who's got a ticket to ride, once again?). Problem is, they lay it on a bit too thick, slowing the song down to an almost ridiculous crawl, and the theatricality here actually over­shadows the realism — much as I'd love imagining the song as a far more hard-hitting retort by somebody like Cynthia Lennon ("the boy that's driving me mad is going away... he's got a ticket to ride, and he don't care" — sound familiar?). Still, the purpose is a noble one, as is their other tasteful choice of a cover: Buffalo Springfield's mournful ʽNowadays Clancy Can't Even Singʼ, another broken down lady tale that they smother in strings and woodwinds, but without sacrifi­cing its tragic-humanistic spirit. Too many Richard vocals, though!
As for the rest... well, stuff like ʽYour Wonderful Paradeʼ is the kind of stuff I would rather be dead than caught listening to by even the closest friends and relatives (fortunately, I always have a «reviewing purpose only» excuse for anything, and you don't!), even if it is a somewhat catchy pop song, with appropriately cartoonish tin soldier drumming from Karen who, at this point, still considered herself strictly a «singing drummer»; but the atmosphere of cutesy-whimsy is unbea­rable — if you're gonna do it, just go all the way and get an ʽAll Together Nowʼ or a ʽYellow Sub­marineʼ out of your system, rather than this middle-of-the-road crap that is too boring as a kiddie tune and too corny as an adult one. The same applies to most of the other songs written by Richard, ʽEveʼ excepted — but when he wants to write a sentimental ballad, he often falls flat, too, as on ʽSomedayʼ, a mushy Broadway tune whose spineless nature cannot even be redeemed by Karen singing it without outside help.
Concerning the overall «coating» of the record, it is clear that it was at least as much influenced by The Beach Boys as it was by show tunes and Bacharach, but the latter influences still prevail, and despite frequent praise for Richard's talents as an arranger, the pretty effects that he got with multiple overdubs of his and Karen's vocals are consistently offset by Mantovani-type strings and the overall silky softness of pretty much every instrument played (yes, even Karen's drums — despite all the quirkiness and even sexiness of her «singing drummer» image, she was no Keith Moon when it came to hitting... uh, caressing that drumkit). Jazz influences are also obvious (the siblings' first work together was actually within a jazz setting), as on the brief jazz-pop experi­ment ʽAll I Can Doʼ, but... well, you know.
In the end, Offering clearly seems to deserve its reputation — a failed first attempt that misuses the duo's talents and is more often boring and/or embarrassing than illuminating; it is much to the siblings' credit that they were able to understand which elements had to be cut down and which ones had to be emphasized in such a record short time. But, like almost any first failure by a future great artist, it does have its flashes of occasional brilliance — and it is at least an intriguing failure, sounding so notably different from whatever would follow. So, one of those cases where a formal thumbs down might still warrant interest for those who find up-and-down curves more fascinating than all-the-way-up-the-hill trajectories.
CLOSE TO YOU (1970)
1) We've Only Just Begun; 2) Love Is Surrender; 3) Maybe It's You; 4) Reason To Believe; 5) Help!; 6) (They Long To Be) Close To You; 7) Baby It's You; 8) I'll Never Fall In Love Again; 9) Crescent Noon; 10) Mr. Guder; 11) I Kept On Loving You; 12) Another Song.
It should hardly come off as a big surprise that the first song to break Carpenters big was a Burt Bacharach number. What does come off as a surprise is that the song in question, first recorded by Richard Chamberlain in 1963 and then re-done by Dionne Warwick and Burt himself, actually sounds good in this arrangement — Richard (Carpenter) gave it more of a beat, bringing it closer to a lively music hall number, and Karen sang it like only Karen could: with a pinch of dark de­spair, implying that being "close to you" is more of an unattainable dream than a reality. I could very well live without the last minute and a half of dreamy la-las and wah-wahs that try to dis­solve memories of Karen's dark-golden voice in regular syrup, but the first three minutes prove decisively that even a Burt Bacharach song can be turned to first-rate pop art if it is done properly. (Ironically, the second Bacharach song on here, ʽBaby It's Youʼ, is done in a slower, soapier, and far more generically melodramatic manner — definitely not the right way to cook this goose, so do right unto yourself and check the Beatles' version instead).
The second big hit that confirmed and solidified their pop star status was ʽWe've Only Just Begunʼ, a song that had just skyrocketed the career of... Crocker National Bank! (having been used, alongside wedding imagery, in a TV commercial) — and yet again, Karen was able to make something bigger out of this than just a sappy wedding ditty. The key to this version is that, by her very nature, she was almost incapable of sounding perfectly happy: there are no false sugary notes in this voice as she sings about "white lace and promises" — instead, there is a note of pensive introspection, an implicit understanding that some out of the "so many roads to choose" may not necessarily be the right ones. Even the flute riff somehow manages to combine tender­ness with a warning intonation, and this mix of happiness and worry is precisely what separates the Carpenters' version from just about any other cover of this song that you might encounter. In short, this performance has psychological depth, even if none of this was an intentional decision on the part of either the brother or the sister. (For that matter, just how many people, I wonder, upon hearing the song and seeing the album sleeve back in 1970 thought of Richard and Karen Carpenter as husband and wife rather than siblings?).
In between these two classics (yes they are), Richard and Karen insert all sorts of randomized material that suffers either from being too lightweight and flimsy (Offering-style), or too boring, or both. The idea to repeat the formula of ʽTicket To Rideʼ with another Beatles song falls flat: not only is their slowing down of ʽHelp!ʼ sort of plagiarizing Deep Purple, but, unlike ʽTicket To Rideʼ, ʽHelp!ʼ was actually a showcase for desperation from the very beginning, and there are no new dimensions to be opened here (plus, Karen is mixed way too low for her magic to work pro­perly this time). Pop fluff like ʽLove Is Surrenderʼ and ʽI'll Never Fall In Love Againʼ (Bacharach again!) passes by quickly and inconspicuously, and Richard-led pop fluff like ʽI Kept On Loving Youʼ passes by slowly and painfully. Tim Hardin's oft-covered ʽReason To Believeʼ is quite nice and gives a good hint at how Carpenters could have sounded with a country-western career (not too country-westernish, I'd say), but the definitive version of the song still belongs to Rod Stewart: this one is just way too fragile.
Curiously, the most interesting two songs past the big hits actually belong to Richard, although ʽCrescent Noonʼ would not have been anything other than a midnight piano ballad without Karen: this is her technically strongest and, perhaps, most nuanced performance on the entire album, not to mention the most depressing — it would have been a stroke of genius to place it at the very end, so that the record could go from "we've only just begun to live..." to "all our green Septem­bers burn away, slowly we'll fade into a sea of midnight blue", but I imagine that such grim con­ceptuality would have been banned by the industry people; after all, this is family entertainment here, not an airbrushed take on Jim Morrison. So the song is buried deep in the middle of Side B, immediately followed with ʽMr. Guderʼ, an amusing personal attack on a Disneyland boss who had the nerve to fire Richard once — and, by extension, a general attack on all kinds of corpo­rate behavior, ever so ironic because it does not seem to me that Richard was particularly averse to shining shoes, neat haircuts, coats and ties, either. Still, it is always fun to hear a soft-pop artist go soft-poppily vicious on The System, more so than just have another love ballad from them.
To conclude: Close To You is where the duo truly arrives, especially considering that Karen is handling most of the lead vocals now, and while they would have slightly more consistent albums in the future, on the whole, this is really as good as it gets — for all their career, they had exactly one great asset at their disposition (some people also like to gush about Richard's skill in arrange­ments, but complex and perfectly organized fluff is still fluff), and they did not always use it with wisdom. When they did, though, I can pardon them everything else for it.