One of music’s greatest qualities is its ability to transport you back in time.
For me, hearing James Taylor instantly brings me back to my childhood.
In the early ‘70s, my older brothers listened to his records on repeat. Songs like “Sweet Baby James” (1970), “You’ve Got a Friend (1971), and “How Sweet It Is (To Be Loved By You)” (1975) were etched in me.
Five decades later, Taylor’s warm, introspective songs still carry me home to a simpler time.
That nostalgic magic was alive on May 10, when the legendary singer-songwriter and guitarist brought his All-Star Band to The Rady Shell at Jacobs Park for the first of two sold-out nights.
Taylor opened his 21-song, two-hour set with a string of road songs. Following “Wandering” and “(I’m a) Road Runner,” a woman who caught on to the theme shouted, “Walking Man!” The six-time GRAMMY Award winner picked up his oversized setlist, looking like a 4-foot-long chalkboard, and said, “Yep, that one’s next. Give that woman a prize.”
This wouldn’t be the only time people voiced song requests (two other times Taylor consulted his list and quipped, “Yep, we’ll get to that one”), and it certainly wouldn’t be the last time the affable artist charmed the capacity crowd of 7,400 with his quick-witted sense of humor.
For example, about four songs in, Taylor left his stool to take off his sport coat, prompting women to squeal. Returning to his mic, he deadpanned, “You people are starved for entertainment. You should get out more.”
But the night wasn’t all about laughs — it also contained its fair share of poignant moments. The quintessential storyteller shared a touching anecdote about his dad. Taylor said he was living in New York at the time and had a bad drug habit when his father called to see how he was doing. “Not too good,” he answered. Hours later, his dad was on his doorstep, “and he probably saved my life,” Taylor confessed.
Now 77, Taylor alternated between his stool for the slower numbers, like “My Traveling Star,” and standing or occasionally jumping up and down with his guitar when moved by the song, as during the Carole King-penned “Up on the Roof.”
Taylor’s vocals weren’t as supple as in his younger years, often sounding slight or crackly, particularly on the big ballads “Fire and Rain” (his breakthrough hit in 1970) and “You’ve Got a Friend” (his first No. 1; also written by King). But what his lived-in voice lacked in power was made up for in nuance, and his tapestry of classic songs was beautiful just the same.
Ever the gracious bandleader, Taylor didn’t just introduce the members of his accomplished 11-piece ensemble; he walked over to each and gave them a hug or handshake. His cadre of talent included saxophonist “Blue Lou” Marini (of The Blues Brothers and “Saturday Night Live” fame), longtime guitarist Michael Landau, bandleader and bassist Jimmy Johnson, Latin percussion virtuoso Luis Conte (who shined on the beckoning “Mexico”), and Taylor’s 24-year-old son, Henry, whose backing vocals recalled his father’s mellifluous voice at his age.
Many of the night’s selections appeared on Taylor’s 1976 Greatest Hits — one of the best-selling albums in history—and he was happy to share their backstories, from “Sweet Baby James” (for his newborn nephew, named after him) to “Carolina on My Mind” (written when the Boston-born/North Carolina-raised songwriter felt homesick while on the island of Ibiza).
The Rock and Roll Hall of Famer got the crowd on their feet and their voices in the air multiple times, memorably for the sing-along staple “Shower the People,” and set-closing “Your Smiling Face” — when cameras panned the audience to show all the happy JT fans on the big screens.
Returning for a three-song encore, Taylor launched into the playful blues romp “Steamroller” and jubilant “How Sweet It Is (To Be Loved By You).” The band took its final bow and exited, leaving just Taylor and his son onstage.
Sitting beside each other, guitars in hand, the duo performed the poignant “You Can Close Your Eyes,” from 1971’s Mud Slide Slim and the Blue Horizon. With father and son harmonizing on the moving lyrics — I don’t know no love songs / And I can’t sing the blues anymore / But I can sing this song / And you can sing this song when I’m gone — the moment felt like Taylor was passing the torch to his son, so he could one day share these enduring songs, and the memories they carry, with generations to come.
Donovan Roche is a longtime music writer and frequent contributor to Times of San Diego.
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