They're Playing Our Song

by Carole Bayer Sager

  In 1998, Carole and I wrote two film songs. One, written with David Foster, “My One True Friend,” was recorded by Bette Midler for the film One True Thing:

  For all the times you closed your eyes

  Allowing me to stumble or to be surprised

  By life, with all its twists and turns

  I made mistakes, you always knew that I would learn

  And when I left it’s you who stayed

  You always knew that I’d come home again

  In the end

  You are my one true friend

  It was quite beautiful and I loved the way Bette sang it.

  The second song, “Anyone at All,” was a little more daunting to write. It was for the movie You’ve Got Mail, and Nora Ephron was the director. She was very clear in her music choices, and it took our writing it twice to satisfy her. I’m not sure which version was really better but I did love when Carole King sang it in the film.

  You could have been anyone at all

  A stranger falling out of the blue

  I’m so glad it was you.

  We were on a roll. A few days later I said, “I think we should write for you, not for other people. I think you should be making another record.”

  “I had a feeling that’s what you’d think I should do, and I’m not ruling it out. But it requires so much of my time. I need to decide if I want to devote myself to making and promoting a record.”

  “Well, why don’t we just write as though you might make a record, and if you don’t, we can show the songs to other artists,” I offered.

  “Okay.”

  CAROLE AND I AGREED that I’d invite Kenny “Babyface” Edmonds to write a song with us. I had met Kenny at one of Clive Davis’s pre-Grammy parties. He was the “Face” half of LaFace Records. (The other half was L. A. Reid, a fine record producer as well.)

  LaFace had artists such as Bobby Brown and Toni Braxton (Kenny had written and produced her hit “Breathe Again”), and Kenny had his own hit as an artist with “When Can I See You Again.” He also produced my favorite Eric Clapton record, Change the World. Along with all of that, he was handsome and sexy in a cute way (thus, “Babyface”). He was smart, well dressed, and had a very smooth positive energy to him. His album was called For the Cool in You.

  Kenny came over, and the three of us wrote a song called “You Can Do Anything.” It was a really likeable song and the demo was great.

  Don’t you know that you can do anything

  You can take anything and make it your own

  Don’t you know that you can do anything

  And you don’t have to do it alone

  I think it may have been that song that convinced Carole to make her own record. We began spending time in the recording studio with engineer-producer Humberto Gatica at the helm. It didn’t take long for Carole to gain back her confidence as an artist. I set up a meeting for Carole to meet Phil Quartararo, then president of Warner Bros. Records.

  The first thing Phil asked her was what her tour plans were to promote the record. “Well, Phil, I can’t really see myself touring at this time.” Within the first two minutes she’d uttered the worst sentence any record company president could hear. And she wasn’t finished.

  “And you should know, Phil, that there are very few television appearances I’ll do. Maybe Good Morning America—but only with Diane Sawyer—and I’ll do one of the late-night shows.” I think my mouth might have been hanging open enough to catch a basketball, and yet I can’t say I was shocked. Carole acted as though Tapestry was a year ago and she was still twenty-nine. Was she actually expecting a record company to spend major money on an artist who had no interest in promoting her work and who had forty years behind her instead of ahead?

  When I told Bob about how uncompromising Carole was with her boundaries, he said, “It’s Carole King,” as in “She’s just being who she is.” Which is one of the things I admire about her—her inner sense of knowing and self-worth. Through the years, “It’s Carole King” has become a shorthand between us that means “Why should anyone surprise you once they show you who they are?”

  Ultimately, Carole decided to make her record independently, so there’d be no big record company telling her what to do. She went on to release Love Makes the World herself and Starbucks promoted it heavily. You could pick it up when you paid for your café latte. And as a bonus from our writing together, Bob, Carole, and I have become really good friends.

  Forty-Three

  MY MOM HAD A terrible flu for well over a week. She kept telling me she was getting better while she was sounding worse. Then came the shocking call. “I haven’t told you anything because I didn’t want you to worry.” She had been in a terrible mood on the two phone calls prior, but I attributed it to how you get when you have the flu and a cough and a fever.

  “I didn’t want to worry you . . . until I knew.”

  “Knew what?” I asked, knowing the answer was not going to be a good one.

  “Until I got the biopsy back.”

  “Biopsy? What biopsy?” I felt my heart begin to race.

  “I think you should maybe fly in and talk to my oncologist. I have stage-three lung cancer.”

  “Oh my God. Lung cancer.”

  “What, you’re surprised? I’m not surprised. I’ve smoked every day of my life since I was twelve.”

  She certainly had. She hadn’t even given it up after her quadruple bypass more than two decades earlier. I remember walking into her hospital room just at the moment she was moving her oxygen mask to the side and offering a nurse five dollars for a cigarette. If the nurse had complied, we could have all just blown up right there.

  “What are you going to do?” I asked. “What’s the plan?”

  “Well, the doctor wants to do lung surgery, but I don’t think I’m going to do that. I think it just spreads it. I think I’ll do the chemo. We’ll make a decision when you come in.”

  “Oh my God. Does Aunt Lucille know? Or Joan?”

  “No, I didn’t want people around me getting hysterical. You’re my first call.”

  That was amazing to me, that she could go ten days knowing she might have cancer and share it with no one. The other amazing thing was my reaction once I knew my mother had a life-threatening illness. I flipped from being the daughter who avoided her neediness to the daughter who’d do everything in her power, leaving no stone unturned, to make sure she didn’t die.

  Bob and I flew to New York. “Look,” she said to us as we sat in her bedroom on Central Park South, where she was resting. “What did I expect, smoking like a chimney for sixty-five years? Listen, I have very good doctors, and if I’m meant to get through this, I will, and if I’m not, your mother had a very fine seventy-seven years, thanks to you.”

  That was the thing about Anita. Part of her could be so angry and so crazy, and the other part could be so realistic and so brave. She was filled with contradictions, and where she was concerned, so was I.

  After consulting with the head of oncology at Sloan Kettering and my mother’s doctor at New York Hospital, I found them to be in complete agreement that the treatment she would be receiving—a combination of chemo followed by radiation—was the right one.

  I wished I could stay in the city indefinitely to be there for my mom, but my son was on the West Coast, and we both knew that I needed to go home. I would monitor her illness by phone.

  SIX MONTHS LATER, TO everyone’s surprise, my mom was in complete remission and came out for a visit. Still smoking on the sly, and still bigger than life, she arrived talking away as Johnny, our house man, carried her luggage up to her room.

  “You see my jacket?” she asked me. She was wearing a green and yellow Looney Tunes WB jacket with Bugs Bunny embossed on the back. “This jacket got me from coach to first class,” she said with her schoolgirl giggle. She was so enamored with herself and her ability to manipulate just about anyone.

  “When I got to the airport, my little friend Linda who works the count
er at American loved my jacket, so I told her my son-in-law would get her one, too, and just like that, your mother was seated in the lap of luxury, on a coach ticket!” She laughed again. “How about those apples! You gotta give me credit.”

  “I’m so glad you’re here, Mom.” I went over and hugged her.

  “How do I look?” she asked before she could even take in my hug. Her synthetic wig was a tiny bit crooked on her head, and she had tied one of the Hermès scarves I’d given her around her neck.

  “You look great, Mom. Really. I’m so happy you’re better.” Now I gave her a big hug.

  “Yes, thank you, my sweet daughter. I must say I liked everything about having cancer except the cancer. Everyone was so wonderful to me, including you and Bob. I got presents and calls from everyone. There was this lovely woman seated next to me in first class, who asked me how long I was staying in LA. And I said, ‘I’m staying till the first fight breaks out.’ ”

  Cris, who was back from school and was in his room, which was right across the hall from where Anita always stayed, heard her as she approached.

  “Cristopher, Grandma’s here,” she said loudly, not even knowing if he was home. “Is my grandson even here?”

  “I’m here, Grandma,” Cris said, not yet coming out of his room.

  “Is this any way to greet your grandmother who had cancer? I’m coming in for my kiss.” She barged into his room and gave him one of her wet kisses, squeezing his cheek till it hurt. “Look what Grandma brought you.” She reached in her bag and took out a Bugs Bunny watch that Bob had given me and I had given to her. “Here, sweetheart.”

  Cris took the watch, a little underwhelmed. Warner Bros. swag was not exactly hard to come by in the Daly household.

  “Thanks, Grandma.”

  She whispered in his ear, “Now do you have a cigarette for your grandmother?”

  “Grandma, I just turned thirteen. I don’t smoke.”

  “Come on, I’ll give you money, go find Grandma a cigarette. Ask one of the guards.”

  “No, Grandma. You shouldn’t smoke, either. You had lung cancer.”

  “All right,” she said, dismissing him. “Maybe Mindy will come visit soon. I’d love to see her. Don’t tell Bob I asked you,” she said as she went back to her room, continuing to talk, but now to herself.

  Five minutes later, she called out, “Cristopher, be a sweetheart and set up Grandma’s computer for her.”

  A few years earlier I’d bought my mother a laptop and spent hours teaching her how to use it. It took her a while, but once she mastered it, she had no patience for any of her contemporaries who hadn’t become “computer literate.” She saw it as a serious character flaw. Sometimes when I’d walk past her half-closed bedroom door, I could hear her raising her voice on the phone to her sister.

  “Lucille, what do you mean, you don’t do e-mail? Do me a favor. Don’t call me until you can send me an e-mail.”

  Pause.

  “Well, you’re an idiot. You could find someone to teach you, that’s how. Pay someone! We could be playing gin now on Yahoo.”

  Pause.

  “Lucille, you’re wasting my time. Get wired or get lost!” She hung up on her sister—no good-bye—and returned to playing gin with some stranger on Yahoo.

  My mother, who once installed closet systems to try to make a living after my father died, wanted her online name to be Closet Queen, but that name was, naturally, taken. She tried many variations and in frustration she settled on Closet Person Stuck, meaning she was stuck for a name and would have to settle for that one. That name got her into many fights with online gamers, most of them asking, “Why don’t you come out of the closet and be true to yourself?” To which Anita would shout to the screen, “I’m not in a closet, you moron,” and then, in anger, disconnect them from the game.

  Anita had acquired more enemies on Yahoo than most people ever could. Having a hefty record of unfinished games made her undesirable to play with, kind of like a kid who gets a D in Works and Plays Well with Others. Why would anyone want to start a game with someone who famously quits in the middle? But for Anita, if they played too slowly, she disconnected them. If they tried to engage in unwanted chatter, she would get annoyed and switch to another opponent.

  My mother had her routine in LA. She would see one or two members of our family—my father had a sizeable number of relatives living in LA who all got a kick out of their Aunt Anita—and a few times a week someone from our house would take her to and from Neiman Marcus. She would wait to be picked up on the bench outside the store, enjoying whatever small exchanges she would have with the folks of Beverly Hills.

  “People are so friendly in your town,” Anita said at the dinner table. “One man in front of Neiman’s told me what a flair I had for putting myself together.” Bob was shaking his head, more with amusement than exasperation.

  “And your woman on the second floor”—she tapped me on the arm—“the one who helps you buy all your expensive clothes”—if you knew how to listen, you could hear judgment sprinkled with jealousy—“I never shop on that floor. I go to three, where the prices are at least reasonable and you can find some bargains.” My mother was looking for bargains at Neiman Marcus. “Anyway, your woman always tells me how adorable I am. She loves me!”

  Bob had to interrupt her monologue. “She doesn’t love you, Anita, she likes you! All of those people you talk about like you. They don’t love you. They don’t even know you.”

  She laughed. “You know, I tell anyone who’ll listen that if you and Bob ever break up, I want him to have joint custody of me.” Even Bob laughed.

  She went on and on and on about nothing of importance and finally landed on her little friend Irene (whom I hardly knew and Bob never heard of) until, bored and exasperated, he interrupted. “You’re filling the air, Anita, you’re filling the air.”

  “What does he mean?” she asked me.

  “I mean,” Bob said, not without affection, “you just seem to need to fill the air. Not even you care what you’re saying.”

  She laughed. “What, we should all just sit here without talking? Very nice. We’ll have a séance.” Anita got up. “I’ll be right back. Don’t worry, I’m not leaving yet.” She walked out of the kitchen door to try and find someone to sneak her a cigarette.

  Forty-Four

  IN FEBRUARY 2000, MICHAEL JACKSON was starting to make a new record. He asked for my thoughts on possible collaborators. The first name that popped in my head was Rodney Jerkins. I told Michael how talented I thought Rodney was and how much I loved “Say My Name,” the record he wrote and produced for Destiny’s Child, the three-girl group led by Beyoncé Knowles. Michael asked me if I would introduce him to Rodney and if he could meet him at my home.

  Easily the hottest producer of the day, Rodney was beside himself with joy. Michael Jackson was his idol. He was “the one,” and for Rodney, the greatest opportunity of his life would be making a record with him.

  We met in my music room about a month later, after Rodney had time to work on some tracks for the King of Pop, who wanted me in the room with him because he didn’t know Rodney and was shy. I introduced them, and Michael asked Rodney to play him some song ideas. Rodney took out a CD and began to play it through my sound system. They were all tracks, ideas for songs not yet complete, still missing vocals and melodies.

  I thought they were great. They all sounded like Michael, but Michael in 2000, not 1987.

  I knew Michael loved what he was hearing, but now, without Quincy helming the project, Michael was insecure. He had waited too long between records. Instead of saying, “Great. Let’s finish these tracks and let’s record them,” he said to Rodney, “These are good, but now I want you to dig deeper! Go in the studio and try to go even deeper and come up with your very, very, very best work.” I thought that what Rodney had just played him was his best work, but Michael always wanted more.

  Poor Rodney had no idea what was in store for him. Even I didn’t. M
onth after month making track after track; Michael stopping by the studio, liking one or two tracks but still wanting him to go further. “Dig deeper, Rodney. Give me more,” he said in his famously breathy voice.

  As much as I was Michael’s friend, I started to feel guilty about what I saw happening to Rodney. He was giving all his time, all of his creativity to Michael, who probably left the best tracks months behind him, and Rodney was going to blow his time as the top R&B producer in America. I had seen it happen to other producers with Michael (Teddy Riley, Jimmy Jam, and Terry Lewis).

  Michael was exacting and elusive and mysterious in both his work and his life. He never told me anything straight out. Who else was working on the record? Who was he getting counsel from? He amassed so many more songs than he needed to complete this record—neither of the two songs I wrote with Rodney made it on—but at least Rodney had written many of the songs when the album finally came out.

  One night I got a call from John McClain, Michael’s manager at the time, saying they were missing one last key song and they wanted me to write it with Babyface. We only had three days to write and record it.

  And we did it. Our “three-day” song, “You Are My Life,” joined the same album with songs that had taken more than two years to complete (not to mention all of the unused partly finished tracks and vocals scattered in recording studios across the country). Michael named the record Invincible, and to my surprise he and Rodney wrote, on the first page of the booklet, this dedication: To Carole Bayer Sager: Without you this album could not have been possible. We truly love you from the bottom of our hearts.

  The record went to Number One, but in terms of his career, there was no comparison to the Quincy trilogy.

  AFTER YEARS OF FIGHTING an often losing battle with drug addiction, Whitney Houston was supposed to be making her comeback album. It was 2002, and the aftereffects of her cigarette and cocaine use left her voice not quite as brilliant as it once was.