A Tapestry, and Double-Dose of Magic (on Carole King and James Taylor, Troubadour and Breaking Addiction)
My plan for today was to write on evidence-based medicine. But that can wait, at least until the morning comes.
I came upon the most wonderful recording of a concert by Carole King and James Taylor played in November, 2007 at LA’s Troubadour Club, a place I’ve never been. PBS aired the video, about an hour long in its fuller form, for its June fund-raising drive. I have tickets to see the pair at Madison Square Garden in a few weeks, and had seen yesterday morning a heartening review of the old friends’ joint concert tour.
Even within the limits of our old TV and nothing approaching a Dolby sound system in our living room, the images – the sounds and smiles generated by Taylor and King, fixtures of my childhood – made me tremble with joy. It was lovely beyond verbal expression and I felt, among other things, glad.
Here’s the medical lesson – a surprise for me was Taylor’s astonishingly well appearance, in a born-in-1948-and-still-strumming sort of way. I’m speaking as a doctor now, as someone who’s used to eying people for signs of ill health. He looked fit, comfortable and happy in jeans and a button-down blue collared shirt. He grinned broadly while he sang, surely taking none of this for granted.
I couldn’t help but reflect on his past. He seems to have made it out of the woods. And how dark those were – to a teenager listening and watching him from afar, circa 1973, it seemed like he might not pull through. For purposes of this post, I’ll stick with the parts of Taylor’s health history that fell into the public domain long before the Internet entered our homes and minds.
Taylor, the son of a Harvard-trained physician, struggled with depression and serious drug use, including heroin addiction, for years. In 1969 a motorcycle accident broke his hands and feet. In the same decade as he offered fabulous ballads – anthems like “Fire and Rain” and King’s “You’ve Got a Friend,” familiar even to my parents’ generation – he ravaged his body and then his marriage.
King’s personal story is less known to me, but the lyrics to Tapestry are deeply ingrained. I know them as I know the red carpet, flowered wallpaper and stodgy furniture of my old bedroom. She looks beautiful now. Older and gray, for sure, but natural, lovely, lively and playing strong.
The two together, even on TV, deliver a double-dose like magic. They’d performed together, in 1970, at the Troubadour and now were doing it once again, with grace. The genuineness of the friendship between them, manifest in King’s glances over the piano toward Taylor and what might have been a few tears, and his beaming toward her, could not have been staged. They’ve had some difficult times, for sure, but this was beautiful.
I’m afraid I’m gushing romantic, but as a doctor I’ve seen so many patients who’ve suffered through hard times alone, physical and mental illnesses without anyone to turn to. You have to wonder, to what extent did Taylor’s support system – his dad, who reportedly drove to retrieve him from some tough spots – and his enduring friendships and his family, old and new, help him to recover.
Not all drug abuse stories end like this one. Our government reports, based on a large 2003 survey (which may underestimate use of an illegal substance), that nearly 120,000 Americans said they used heroin in the month before the survey and 314,000 took it the year prior. From 1995 through 2002, there were approximately 150,000 new heroin uses per year in the U.S. Most were over 18, male and addicted. As for depression, the numbers are huge and deaths, very real.
What I’m thinking is this – how lucky Taylor is to have had the friends, family, financial resources and courage to get the help he needed. The message he conveys is that it is possible, at least for some, to get through it, to get better and to move on.
And for me, how lucky I am to have those tickets. I can’t wait to see them in concert later this month, in person, live.