Taylor made

JAMES TAYLOR talks about his classic songs to Paul Zollo

To get to his home, you drive down a winding country road in the heart of rural Massachusetts, under arches of ancient oaks and elms, over railroad tracks, and past a graveyard of tombstones so old they look like dominoes frozen in mid-fall. The road narrows more as the adjacent forests deepen and eventually you reach a gate that opens to the long road that leads to his barn. Past that is his big house, where he lives with his wife Kim and their twin six-year old boys, Rufus and Henry.

With a gentle smile, James Taylor strides through the kitchen in a cap and specs to greet me, and introduces me to Kim. Their living room is awash with sunlight, and appointed by a long carpeted stair which connects the first floor with the second, and on which Ray, the family cat, can swiftly ascend. Built by James with the same kind of economical ingenuity he brings to his songs, it’s sturdy, functional and elegant.

We sit on a porch and talk over lunch. He speaks with the vigorous blend of wisdom, awareness and curiosity that he brings to his songs – from rejoicing in the unshakable fidelity of Bostonians for the Red Sox to the characteristics of a hog-nosed snake. Many times during our talk Rufus and/or Henry runs in, seeking his attention, asking when he’ll be done to play. Never does he rush them away; he listens to their …

by Paul Zollo
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