Like so many other platinum acts from A&M Records’s pre-rock catalog, the Carpenters struck me even from a single-digit age as featherlight schlock, inescapably omnipresent (especially in the ‘70s) but instantly dismissed by Gen X’ers (I’m one) who had yet to grow out of ironic hipster attitudes toward everything straight-laced and square.
Some of you surely remember as fondly as I do how that outlook changed dramatically for the better via the 1994 compilation ‘If I Were a Carpenter.’ At the height of grunge, here was an earnestly sincere salute to all this sterling popcraft we’d never properly appreciated.
Sonic Youth’s suicidally stark redo of the heartbreak classic ‘Superstar’ (authors: Delaney & Bonnie/Leon Russell) stole the show, although not by much from the likes of American Music Club, Redd Kross, the Cranberries, Cracker, Grant Lee Buffalo. My second-most fave, foreshadowing a slew of covers to come, remains Matthew Sweet’s note-perfect rendition of ‘Let Me Be the One’ — co-written by Paul Williams, another A&M star we’ll encounter more intimately later.
Lame as it is to admit such myopia now, that tribute disc opened my eyes and ears to what I’d been refusing. Yes, the Carpenters are twee and cute and syrupy — and they’re absofuckinglutely brilliant at it, bolstered by sophisticated musicianship that makes most rock bands of their era seem just as simplistic as they always were.
There’s a meme going ‘round lately pointing out how Karen Carpenter bested John Bonham in a Playboy poll declaring her top drummer for ‘75, and look, they weren’t entirely mad: Karen, who considered herself foremost a drummer and could really show off her skills on stage, was as ideally suited to her milieu (with jazz licks to spare) as Bonzo was to rock.
Then there’s Richard, the gifted mastermind behind most everything else branded by their family name: those gentle yet exacting arrangements, subtle orchestrations that copycats made more bombastic, all those phenomenal ooh-wahhhh harmonies, in swooping precision like only siblings conjure.
Upon hearing their demo, somehow smuggled onto the A&M lot, Herb Alpert knew immediately the Carpenters were the sort of sound he wanted for a roster that already included Burt Bacharach, Sérgio Mendes and his own records. Jerry Moss too recognized just how many heights might be scaled by a young wholesome duo offering a calmer alternative to radio’s raucous revolution.
This pairing represents both the Carpenters’s inauspicious start and the skyrocketing success that quickly followed. ‘Ticket to Ride’ was originally titled ‘Offering’ when A&M first released it in Oct. ‘69 with a terrible cover that dresses teenage Karen like a nun. By Nov. ‘70, by which time sophomore effort ‘Close to You’ was a smash hit on its way toward peaking at No. 2 on the charts and racking up Grammy nominations, Herbie & Jerry wisely rereleased their debut, this time leading with a tune that was now getting noticed: their slower, re-gendered rendition of ‘Ticket to Ride.’
It’s hardly the only cute cover they tackled — there’s also distinctly Carpenters-y takes on the Youngbloods’s ‘Get Together’ and, best of all, Neil Young’s Buffalo Springfield ditty ‘Nowadays Clancy Can’t Even Sing,’ lead vocal by Richard.
But, of course, he and Karen — dear tragic Karen, whose story merits much more than this post — were all about presenting other people’s material; Richard had been doing as much when he first started rearranging Beatles tunes as a church organist. Those roots are most evident in his stately, almost Garth Hudson-esque approach to ‘Help!’ on ‘Close to You.’
You also can’t go wrong with Bacharach/David, especially when they give you a gem like that title track, an altogether too adorable song I sung to my son from the time he was in the womb, and which he still calls ‘Birds.’ I’m also quite fond of how Rick Moranis sings it in Ron Howard’s comedy ‘Parenthood.’
And then there’s much to be said about what these square pegs did for Paul Williams, a marvelously peculiar talent I like to think of as Harry Nilsson’s afterbirth. He ultimately co-wrote (usually with Roger Nichols) several hits for the duo, and if ‘Rainy Days and Mondays’ doesn’t pull your heartstrings at least a little, I’m not sure we should be friends. Out of such Carpenters classics the diminutive master built his own career as a recording artist (and actor, as all ‘Smokey and the Bandit’ fans will recall, although I prefer ‘Phantom of the Paradise’).
His rise to stardom starts here, with ‘We’ve Only Just Begun,’ an irrefutable paradigm of this mellow scene, as gorgeous as ‘70s soft-rock gets. No wonder these uncommon kids were entrusted with the easy-listening torch.