We’ve Only Just Begun (1970)Ī song with a curiously circular life: originally commissioned for a US bank ad and sung by Smokey Roberds, then opportunistically covered by the Carpenters, it’s currently on … a UK bank ad, albeit rendered in the usual latterday sad-acoustic-indie-ad soundtrack style – one that pales next to the Carpenters’ alternately joyous and tender version. For All We Know (1971)Ī song that took a more tentative view of blossoming romance than its predecessor We’ve Only Just Begun – there’s an odd shrug of the shoulders about the chorus line “love may grow, for all we know” – this is both beautiful and beautifully arranged, a cor anglais weaving around the vocal. Today, it sounds weirdly – and completely unintentionally – like a hushed eulogy for the 60s to rank alongside Let It Be or Bridge Over Troubled Water, a song that ushered in that decade’s period of thrilling musical innovation transformed into wistful melancholy. The Carpenters slowed the tempo of Ticket to Ride, changing its mood from breezy bitterness to languid sorrow. It is richly melodic and completely ridiculous: Karen’s voice also makes it weirdly moving. Perhaps the Carpenters covering an eight-minute song about an alien invasion – by forgotten Canadian Beatles impersonators Klaatu – seemed less WTF? in 1977 than it does now: it was the year of Star Wars fever and Close Encounters. Calling Occupants of Interplanetary Craft (The Recognized Anthem of World Contact Day) (1977) It’s easy to overlook Richard’s skill as an arranger – audibly influenced by the soundscapes of Pet Sounds-era Brian Wilson, he was nevertheless always going to be in the shadow of his sister’s singing – but (They Long To Be) Close to You is fantastically done: a gentle epic of swelling harmonies and cinematic strings 9. The Carpenters were seldom mediocre: 1973’s Now and Then was either unspeakable (the gruesome children’s choir-assisted Sing a cover of Hank Williams’ Jambalaya, a song about as appropriate for the Carpenters as the Dead Kennedys’ Holiday in Cambodia) or exquisite, as on this gorgeous, drowsy-but-dark version of Leon Russell’s song about a failing relationship. But sometimes they were so beguiling they were hard to resist: There’s a Kind of Hush has rounded edges, but it’s really charming. Karen protested the duo’s image “would be impossible for Mickey Mouse to maintain”: if they were seen as cutesy, it was down to their up-tempo songs, which seldom had the emotional heft of their ballads. Photograph: Everett Collection Inc/Alamy 12. View image in fullscreen Karen and Richard Carpenter in the TV series Make Your Own Kind of Music, 1971. Incredibly, it sounds remarkably like late-90s Stereolab. You can hear the Carpenters’ jazz roots on All I Can Do, a song unlike anything else they recorded: layers of Swingle Singers-ish harmonies and an electric piano solo over a 5/4 rhythm, powered by Karen’s hyperactive drumming. Paul Williams – later to write Evergreen, score Bugsy Malone and work on Daft Punk’s Random Access Memories – was the Carpenters’ great songwriting discovery, co-authoring a string of great songs for them after they covered his ad soundtrack We’ve Only Just Begun, the superb, bittersweet I Won’t Last A Day Without You among them. The fragile loveliness of Aurora and Eventide – two versions of the same song that bookended 1975’s Horizon – is a perfect case in point. Aurora/Eventide (1975)īy the mid-70s, the Carpenters’ albums had begun to sound formulaic and stuffed with filler, but they still occasionally pulled out something great in between the hits. Photograph: Koh Hasebe/Shinko Music/Getty Images 15. View image in fullscreen The Carpenters perform in Japan, 1974. It’s Going to Take Some Time (1972)Ĭo-written by Carole King – at the time a noticeably hipper songwriter than the Carpenters usually worked with – It’s Going to Take Some Time offers the delightful, if seldom-heard sound of Karen picking herself up and dusting herself down after a failed romance, rather than describing its agonies in heartrending detail. Made in America (1981) was a cautious return after a hiatus provoked by Richard Carpenter’s drug addiction and the anorexia that would eventually kill his sister, but the single Touch Me When We’re Dancing was great, very gently beckoning a hint of disco into the Carpenter’s luxurious sound world. When its contents were unveiled on posthumous Carpenters’ albums, their decision appeared baffling, as evidenced by I Had You: her patent brand of melancholy given a smooth, shiny funk makeover. The day before she died, in February 1983, Karen Carpenter rang producer Phil Ramone to discuss “our fucking record” – the 1980 solo album her label refused to release. If I Had You (recorded 1980, released 1989)
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