B005S8O7YE EBOK (42 page)

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.

I
n 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 what 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.

After the show my group and I made our way to the hotel where the McCartneys were staying. One of their assistants met Joe in the lobby and escorted all twelve of us up to the area where a lot of other people were waiting to see Paul and Linda. The McCartneys’ entourage on the road included some of their children, teachers, the band, band family, the crew, some crew family, and a multiplicity of personnel essential to run the intricate machinery of a behemoth concert tour. I would have bet money that the traveling population on that tour exceeded that of many American towns.

The McCartneys’ very specific culinary requirements had increased the size of their entourage by the number of people it took to shop for food and cook for the entire assemblage. I’ve never encountered a more impressive buffet on tour. Notwithstanding Linda’s criteria that no food could be served that had ever had a face, the vegetarian menu was varied, organic, and delicious. I’m probably not the best judge of how it was for nonvegetarians because my own taste in food mostly coincided with Linda’s, except that I sometimes ate fish. My band and crew were usually seen at mealtimes tearing into mounds of bacon and eggs or double helpings of fried chicken and mashed potatoes, but even they raved about the excellence of the vegetarian cuisine.

Considering the show he’d just put on, I couldn’t believe how much energy Paul still had. Watching him and Linda move through the room I was struck by the way they seemed to move as one, much as they seemed to move through life. It was impossible to imagine Paul without Linda or Linda without Paul. Linda might not have been movie-star beautiful, but she had a natural beauty that emanated from her blue eyes and radiant smile. I could see
how she might have impressed the rock stars who had allowed her to take their pictures.

When Paul and Linda reached my group they spent more than a polite amount of time with us. Up close, I could see that Linda had removed her show makeup. Her freckles and natural blush on a face framed by her straight blonde hair gave her an earthy, girl-next-door appearance. When Paul spoke, of course everyone’s eyes were on him. When his attention was momentarily diverted, Linda kept the conversation going. When at last Paul was pulled away to greet other visitors, my group dispersed and I found myself standing with Linda, face to face, just the two of us. She began to talk about the challenges and joys of motherhood. I listened and commiserated. Then I told her how grateful I was to have spent so much time living in relative privacy with my Larkey children in a simple, natural environment. Linda said that she probably would enjoy something like that, but Paul’s fans would never allow him to get that far away. Just then Paul called her name. She squeezed my hand and then went to join him, leaving me with a more personal appreciation of her devotion to Paul and their children. I thought, If Linda can inspire this kind of feeling in people, no wonder Paul is happy.

My friends and I were gathering to leave as a group when Paul and Linda walked over to where we were. That’s when Paul showed yet another side of his talent for entertaining. He described a recent appearance on
Late Night with David Letterman
with a gift for mimicry that was startling in its accuracy. Playing the respective roles of David Letterman and Paul Shaffer, McCartney completely captured the essence of both men. When Paul McCartney quoted Paul Shaffer, he
became
Paul Shaffer. Replying as Letterman, his facial expressions and voice morphed into those of Letterman, right down to Dave’s Hoosier accent.

Finally it was time to say goodbye. I hugged Paul, then, taking
Linda’s hands in both of mine, I told her how much I had enjoyed visiting with her, and how very much I had enjoyed her performance that night. When I specifically complimented her solid rhythm on the keyboard and her tight vocal blend with Paul and the others, Linda’s eyes became moist. She thanked me and embraced me. Then she stepped back.

Eight years later, on April 17, 1998, Linda McCartney succumbed to breast cancer. She left a legacy of love, family, respect for all living things, and her remarkable photographs. She was fifty-six.

I
was able to tour and travel in 1989 and 1990 in part because Charlie willingly absorbed the day-to-day responsibilities for our two teenagers, and in part because two young friends from New York and L.A. moved to Idaho to help take care of my ranch. Elissa Kline and Erik Gillberg signed on for a year and stayed for seventeen, leaving only when the son they had raised at the ranch through early childhood began asking if he could live closer than four miles away from his nearest friends. While they were still at the ranch, when I was on tour, I was comforted to hear about Erik’s and Elissa’s discovery of their individual creativity as they and Ian explored the inner worlds that so often make themselves known when one lives at nature’s pace. They
get
it, I thought with mixed emotions, wishing I, too, could be there. I might have composed a song about how much I longed to be in a quiet place had I not already written one in 1973.