Here’s a little experiment: Think about a singer or band who has had a lasting impact on you, particularly one you listened to as a kid. What’s it feel like today, as an adult, to hear them singing songs that once seemed to be written only for you? Do they still stir your heart? Do they continue to inspire you? Then, consider this: What if that singer you once idolized is now referred to as “only moderately talented” or “unworthy of legendary status”? Who’s right? You or the critics?
I’ve been pondering those questions after recent listenings to Carpenters: A 25th Anniversary Celebration. I bought the album because I’ve enjoyed Karen Carpenter’s singing ever since she and her brother Richard broke into pop music in 1970. Well-dressed and well-mannered, they were easy to like. It helped that they made good music.
Richard was the duo’s music arranger, keyboardist, occasional songwriter and background singer, but it was Karen’s way with a song’s lyrics that made the Carpenters special. Those of us with our ears glued to the radio back then could hear something in her voice that made their music satisfying beyond typical Top 40 standards. But right from the start, music critics were…well…critical.
They called Karen’s singing sugery sweet, too lightweight to adequately interpret a song’s message; some called her singing childlike. It didn’t matter that, while critics complained, her voice gave us memorable song after memorable song: 16 hits in a little over five years. It didn’t matter that some of those songs came to define milestones in our life. Weddings had “We’ve Only Just Begun.” Parents could offer their children “Sing,” from Sesame Street. Those lucky in love were on the “Top of the World” and those falling out of it were comforted by “Rainy Days and Mondays.” Today their songs still sound good, but back at the start of the 1970s, the Carpenters didn’t sound like anyone else in pop music.
Unlike the 1960s’ electrified guitars and thunderous vocals, Karen and Richard specialized in what was known as Easy Listening music, and, according to critics, those pleasing-to-the-ear songs were at the bottom of the heap in terms of respect. I enjoy reading books about music and when I started researching this blog I looked up the Carpenters in the dozen or so music-related books on my shelf. Only two mention them. In Fire and Rain, author David Browne covers a pivotal year in pop music, 1970, and called the Carpenters “a brother-sister duo from Southern California who looked like student council candidates and made polite music to match.”
The other reference to the Carpenters’ music is found in The Rolling Stone Album Guide, considered the ultimate critique of recorded music released since the beginning of the rock & roll era. The expansive book covers thousands of artists and deems their recordings with a five star rating. The Carpenters rarely earned more than two. I think the reviewer was trying to be kind when he wrote, “Richard Carpenter’s clean-cut arrangements and good-humored ditties were beautifully complemented by his sister Karen’s voice.”
At least that reviewer acknowledged Karen’s vocal abilities, because that’s what I focused on as I prepared to write this blog. After spending time with the Carpenters’ music, I began to see—or, better yet, hear—why I believe there is an enduring quality to their songs. It was something in Karen’s voice, something that went deeper than words.
It was big news when Karen died, in 1983, from complications of anorexia. No one talked about such a disease back then, which made her death something more than a show business tragedy; it became a topic to be reckoned with. Probably the best reporting of Karen’s struggles with the disease can be found in the book, Little Girl Blue, by Randy Schmidt. I’ll leave the discussion on the causes and lack of cure for Karen’s anorexia to others; what I want to share are the forewarnings of her illness that can be heard in her voice.
Karen normally sang as a contralto, but she had the rare ability to transition from that more typical female register to a much lower range—something she called her “basement.” Thanks to Richard’s songwriting and song selection, her basement voice was used masterfully on music that tended toward the melancholy, the “rainy days and Mondays always get me down” type of song.
Richard then carefully chose an instrument to underscore the loneliness in his sister’s voice: the solitary harmonica on “Rainy Days,” a pensive harp in “Superstar,” and the saxophone or piano on several songs. Added to Karen’s voice—always a little mysterious and distant—their songs were perfect for those times when we’re feeling alone or misguided or unlucky in love. Listen to what Karen and a piano created with the opening verse of Solitaire. There are moments like that on just about every song the Carpenters recorded.
Thanks to the Carpenter’s clean-cut image, none of us imagined what Karen’s life was like behind her remarkable voice. When she smiled for the cameras, nobody saw anything troubling. But I can hear it today, which, in my book, makes Karen Carpenter among the best blues singers who ever lived. Like others who specialized in singing about hard times, she didn’t talk about her pain; she expressed it. In doing so, Karen Carpenter somehow made my own troubles a little better.