The faces smile up at me.
Hands reach out.
The first note floats up in the air.
I sing.
I’m home.
It ended up being more than enough. The boys in the new band, Dale and Bob Strength, were very sweet, supportive and talented, thank goodness. We toured on a Greyhound bus with a bathroom that didn’t work. If you sat down on the seats too hard dust clouds would float up to the ceiling. But my band didn’t mind. They had a hippie spirit that made it so much fun to be on the road with them. I always remember them with fondness and gratitude because they helped me out on such short notice.
After the first tour was over, Lee and I were enjoying trying again and ended up living in Malibu together in a pretty little house on the beach. It truly was a California dream. One of my fondest memories was a day when we weren’t touring when Lee came home with an enormous four-year-old Great Dane who’d been found abandoned in an apartment. Poor baby! His owner had been killed in an accident and no one knew the dog was there alone and starving to death. It was love at first sight and I named him Zargon. Later, I’d name my music company Zargon Productions! He was my first rescue dog in America. I always rescued animals as a child in Australia, and now I had a home where I could do it again.
It wasn’t long before the house filled with even more love. Rona and her son Emerson, then four, moved to LA from London. When I wasn’t working, I puttered around the streets in my little VW. (My long-time Aussie girlfriend Coral still has that Bug and has painted it pink!) I’m a homebody type and it felt so good to set up a real base in America, filled with the people and animals I loved.
As for the culture shock, well, there was only one problem with my new life on the beach. I’ve always loved going to the movies and that same summer a terrifying classic-to-be named Jaws came out, and it had a profound effect on someone who lived next to the ocean. I vowed never to go swimming again! Even the Great Dane wasn’t allowed in the water!
It was a beautiful time in my life and I loved the tranquillity of living outside Los Angeles, away from all the traffic and hustle. I’ve never liked living in a big city. A country girl at heart, I relished walking my enormous dog along the beach, stopping and talking to other dog lovers and petting their animals. Zargon, who was now thriving and was the friendly type, was so sweet to everyone on two legs, but not so much those on four.
Once – luckily only once – he dragged another poor dog into the ocean and I had to jump into the water to break it up.
Jaws or not, I would do anything to protect all the dogs.
After a concert one night in Jackson, Mississippi, a fan came backstage and gave me the most wonderful present: a gorgeous Irish setter puppy. One nuzzle and I lost my heart.
‘This is one of the best gifts I’ve ever received,’ I told the overjoyed man. I just had one request: ‘I’m on the road. Could you please hold on to him for another month or so?’
Six weeks later, I was at LAX Airport waiting nervously. All of a sudden, here came a crate, and inside was this gorgeous auburn-haired pup who was so well behaved. My love affair with Irish setters was entering a new chapter! I had named him Jackson, after his home town.
My Jackson loved being on the road with me and would hang out backstage before each performance. As he curled up behind my legs, we would go over the set-list together. He even inspired a song called ‘Slow Down, Jackson’. A talented song-writing couple, Michael Brourman and Karen Gottlieb, wrote it knowing about my furry baby, and I loved it. I was so touched that I recorded it.
By 1973, my songs, including a cover of John Denver’s ‘Take Me Home, Country Roads’, were climbing the charts. Artie Mogull, vice president of artists and repertoire at MCA Records, shipped the single to country stations everywhere, and it received overwhelmingly positive airplay and was a regular listener request. Artie suggested a more country-orientated pop record as my follow-up, which became ‘Let Me Be There’, a big hit that debuted on the country charts and then crossed over onto the pop ones.
I had been playing pretty small gigs, but they were growing from 500-seat halls to ones that held over 1000 people. As my fan base expanded, one of my shows was at an enormous place, the Astrodome in Houston, where the annual rodeo was in full swing. It was so huge that I had to be driven by cart to a stage set up in the middle of the arena. An added benefit of performing here was that I could smell the horses and that reignited my childhood love of everything equine. There was only one disappointment that night. My boyfriend and manager Lee didn’t come to the show with me, and I was really angry at him since this was one of the biggest venues of my entire career.
I prepared to give him a little attitude afterwards backstage. Well, maybe more than a little . . .
‘What did you think of the show?’ I asked.
‘I didn’t see it,’ he said.
I was getting ready for a small quarrel when he grabbed my hand and said, ‘Come with me.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘You’ll see what I was doing,’ he replied. I wasn’t sure why he was leading me to a barn out the back where they kept the horses for the rodeo.
‘I bought him for you,’ he said, opening a stall door. The most beautiful palomino quarter horse named Judge stood looking at me with his wise dark-brown eyes. I couldn’t even speak. It was the best present I could ever receive, and Lee was instantly forgiven.
We shipped Judge to our home in Malibu and he was an amazing horse. Straight away he became my hobby and my passion, and my baby. If I wasn’t working or on the road, you could always find me with my horse or the dogs.
Judge and I would ride at sunset down the beach in Malibu, sand kicked into the gentle breeze and the smell of the sea all around us. I loved that my boy was such an affectionate horse and would often turn to nudge me lovingly with his nose.
Don’t get me wrong, I couldn’t wait to perform again, but those early evening rides in the hills down the beach defined pure joy.
One day in 1974, John Farrar and I were at my house going through a pile of songs sent to him as options for my next record. ‘We were sifting through boxes and boxes of tapes and cassettes sent to me. Remember, this was in the days before CDs,’ he says now. ‘We had a system, which was sitting there and basically playing them all.’ He put a record on the turntable and immediately the lyrics broke my heart. The song was written by the talented Jeff Barry, and a future legend, Australian composer Peter Allen, whose life would later be the fodder for the hit musical The Boy from Oz.
My heart stopped when I heard the lyrics: I love you . . . I honestly love you. It was so simple, with a meaning that was deeper than the ocean. Those words made me stop and think because they touched me. I could certainly relate, and I knew that everyone would be able to make those words fit their own personal story of love and perhaps even loss. Just putting the word ‘honestly’ into the mix made it even more poignant.
No lies.
No denying it.
I honestly love you.
‘I have to record that song,’ I told John, who was nodding furiously. He booked time at a little recording studio in London, a place where magic happened for me and many other artists.
A few days later on a cold January day, I walked up rickety wooden stairs and took a few steps into a room where there was only a small recording booth above and the studio below. I had to stand still (so they couldn’t hear the noise of my feet above them) and sing. It was no frills. Just some sound equipment and a great song.
I only did three takes of ‘I Honestly Love You’, with a brilliant pianist friend named Alan Hawkshaw who played that unforgettable introduction that most piano players still have a hard time getting right. It was one of those shimmering moments and we ended up using the first take.
I sang it from my heart. I’m not a power singer, but more of an interpretive one. Part of that song sounds like it’s almost a whisper, which seemed right because it was about the most tender and sensitive em
otions in life.
John Farrar said something to me that day that I’ll never forget. He told me he used to listen to music on his crystal set and that it was very intimate. ‘Imagine that you’re singing to that one young person, me as a boy, who is listening on their crystal set,’ he said.
It made singing very intimate to me.
Over the years, I was so proud to hear from fans how they loved this song and what it meant to their lives. I would hear about the love between people, parents and children, and people and animals. The song was timeless in its appeal and limitless in how it could spark the imagination or take you back in time to that one unrequited love. I would sing it years later to one of my true loves, my mother, when she was dying.
It was one of those songs where you just knew. If only you could bottle that kind of phenomenon, then every song would soar and become a classic.
Of course, not everyone agreed that we had a hit on our hands. The record company actually wanted to release a different song as my next single, but, with the help of my friend Artie Mogull, we insisted that ‘I Honestly Love You’ was the one.
What a great call!
We released the single first in Australia in early 1974 and it quickly became a worldwide pop hit. It was my first number-one single in the United States after launching there in late April that year.
I was very proud that the song was certified gold, and surprised it reached number six on the country charts since it’s not really a country song. Years later, I would re-record a new version of it, produced by David Foster on my album Back with a Heart, with Babyface on background vocals.
The 17th Annual Grammy Awards took place on 1 March 1975, at the Uris Theatre in New York City. Andy Williams was the host. The Award for Record of the Year was presented by none other than John Lennon and Paul Simon. John took the stage and said, ‘Hello, I’m John. I used to play with my partner Paul!’ Paul said, ‘Hello, I’m Paul. I used to play with my partner Art!’
The nominees were: Elton John for ‘Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on Me’; Roberta Flack for ‘Feel Like Making Love’; Joni Mitchell for ‘Help Me’; Maria Muldaur for ‘Midnight at the Oasis’ and me for ‘I Honestly Love You’.
These were all songs and artists I absolutely loved and adored. I couldn’t believe that I was in the same category as these incredible artists! What a privilege.
And the winner was . . . ‘I Honestly Love You’!
Art Garfunkel accepted the award for me because I was on tour. I also won the Grammy that year for Best Female Pop Vocal Performance, which was especially sweet. When I look at those Grammys now in my office at home, I still can’t believe it, and I wish I could have been there to accept them in person.
All of a sudden, the phone was ringing off the hook. Every magazine and TV show, it seemed, suddenly wanted to interview me.
My response? ‘Wait . . . They want to talk to me – the girl from Oz?’
By 1974 Pat and John had moved to Los Angeles and I was thrilled to have my dear friends so close. One day John called me to say he had written a song for me called ‘Have You Never Been Mellow?’ It was a gorgeous song, and it became the title of my new album released on MCA in the US in January of 1975.
Have you never been mellow?
Have you never tried to find a comfort from inside you?
Have you never been happy just to hear your song?
Have you never let someone else be strong?
‘Mellow’ shot to number one on the charts, becoming another single to be certified gold. The album also went gold and sold more than one million copies. The album would also include one of my favourites, the sweetly pleading, ‘Please Mr Please’, another John Rostill song.
The Country Music Association (CMA) named me Female Vocalist of the Year in 1974, and the honour sparked a bit of an uproar and controversy. I was a newcomer on the country scene and the old-timers wondered what I was doing winning the award. I didn’t really understand the separation of country and other music since I believe that music is music and just naturally crosses over. Some CMA members resented it so much, they split from the organisation in protest and formed their own chapter. I felt terrible about it, but not bad enough to return that award!
A few country artists, including the incredible Dolly Parton and Loretta Lynn, stood up for me. I’ve always been very grateful for their support. Later, I would record Dolly’s ‘Jolene’, and we had dinner. She’s such a delight and just gorgeous.
Life became a bit of a whirlwind at this point. I was juggling my time between studio and the road, and I was also given my own ABC TV special, an hour-long show that aired in November of 1976, featuring many of my hits.
Soon after I had to jump on a plane to the UK to star in Big Top Show at Windsor Castle. I worked with Elton John and he was a hoot, very funny, warm and kind – just delightful. I even invited him to be on my TV show, Hollywood Nights, in the US with Tina Turner, Andy Gibb, Cliff Richard, Toni Tennille and the late, great Karen Carpenter who became one of my dearest friends.
I still miss Karen a lot to this day. She and I became friends immediately. I was drawn to her terrific sense of humour and, of course, her extraordinary talent. She was quirky and fun, and we really enjoyed each other’s company.
Karen’s lush voice was truly astonishing and reached the depths of my heart. We talked about what she wanted for her life and what I wanted from mine. No topic was off limits.
She got married and it sadly ended fourteen months later. That’s when the anorexia really hit her hard. She became so thin it was frightening, but she still mustered the guts to divorce her husband, break out on her own and move to New York for treatment. I was so proud of strong and determined Karen.
I truly believed that she was on the road to recovery. She had the most gorgeous townhouse she was putting the finishing touches on. She adored anything Disney, so her house was full of all whimsical things, and beautifully done.
The last time I saw her, we were both staying at the Drake Hotel in New York and she looked so much better. She had gained some weight and was bouncing back, shopping, laughing and doing all the things she used to do. It was one of those moments where you sigh with relief, and I truly believed that the crisis had passed.
I was in Los Angeles, listening to my car radio on the way to a restaurant for a lunch meeting with Pat, when I heard that Karen had died. It was as if the sky fell to earth. My stomach hit the ground. This couldn’t be possible. I had a date to see her the very next day.
Devastated, I arrived at the restaurant and cried all the way through our lunch. Pat tried to comfort me, but I was inconsolable. Karen was so young and full of hope and promise.
Karen Carpenter’s death was a great loss, not only to her friends and family, but also to everyone graced with her gorgeous voice. We will never know what she could have done artistically, which was sad for everyone around the globe. She was bursting with talent and creativity, but that was only part of it. She was also a kind and authentic human being.
I’ve always wanted to respect Karen’s privacy and I know that her struggle was a hard one. Perhaps there can be a positive from such a terrible tragedy: her death marked the beginning of raising awareness about anorexia and body image. Little did I know that later in my life, I’d be confronted with this insidious illness with my own daughter.
Karen shined a bright light on anorexia, which allowed so many others to heal, including my own Chloe. Karen never got a chance to tell her story, but I’m so proud of my daughter who is working on telling her own.
We have Karen to thank for all the lives that have been saved after women and men found treatment and acceptance from their families and society.
One thing remains: I still miss my friend.
By the late seventies, I was facing my own stresses and needed to make a few important business changes. It was time to renegotiate my contract and this quickly escalated into a lawsuit that became a famous case of MCA versus – me. My long-time lawye
r, John Mason, sent them a letter saying that my contract was now terminated for several reasons, including their failure to adequately promote and advertise my music.
My contract had been for an initial two-year term with three one-year options to follow, equalling five years – and it was now seven years. MCA argued they could extend again past the five-year period, claiming I owed them additional albums. They even countersued and filed an injunction against me signing with another label.
It was my life, my career and my music at stake.
The influential and powerful Lew Wasserman was the head of the label at the time and he scheduled a meeting to speak with John Mason about these issues. When John told me about this, I said, ‘Is there any chance I could meet with Lew Wasserman before we are in litigation?’ My lawyer tried to convince me that this was not the way you handled disputes. The artist and COO don’t argue it out – that’s why we have attorneys. But it was important to me to have my own voice when it came to my career.
The fateful meeting was scheduled. ‘All Olivia’s idea,’ John Mason says now. ‘Making it even more interesting, Lew said that unless we agreed to his terms, he didn’t want to see Olivia face to face.’ We didn’t agree. For some reason, Lew decided to let that go and soon John and I were in an elevator heading to the top floor of MCA to face Lew, who had decades of experience dealing with artists and winning. My mood in one word? Terrified!
I was in my mid-twenties, suing this huge corporation and having to face a man who scared the hell out of me. Looking back now, I realise that it was a pretty gutsy move, especially as a woman. Most women were told to just let the men deal with the legal aspects of being in show business.
This Aussie wouldn’t hear of it.
Lew had home court advantage. His massive desk was placed higher than anything else in the room because it (and he) were set on an actual platform above the rest of us, so he would have the power and could gaze down at you. ‘It was like a king looking down from his throne,’ John Mason recalls. ‘What I remember most was this heavy and dark antique furniture making the room look even more formal.’
Don't Stop Believin' Page 6
