Handsome. Husband. Father. Gifted. Natural. Songwriter. Star. Pleasant. Sensitive. Cape Cod.

But also. Divorcee. Absentee. Aloof. Addict. Misanthrope. Lightweight. Bitter. Sad. Lonely.

So, which one? Is he the genteel, humanist who simultaneously invented Adult Contemporary Rock music and presaged Jimmy Buffett fifty years ago? Or is he the overly-sensitive, overrated open mic singer who succeeded, in spite of his many deficiencies, by virtue of good looks and birthright? Hell if I know — despite growing up on his music, James Taylor seems way more opaque to me than Prince, Bob Dylan and Thom Yorke — combined. But, one thing is for certain — Sweet Baby James has been middle-aged as fuck for a long, long time. 

If Taylor’s sway-along rock of the 70s presaged Buffett, it more was the land of Chablis and Valium than Margaritaville. His records are more professional than Buffett’s. Taylor is a more technically skilled musician. But his product is edgeless and frictionless — devoid of Buffet’s weirdness. Even Taylor’s biggest hits are memorable, in a sense, for their complete lack of tone. Or rather for the mildest of tones. His is music that you can multi-task to. 

For half a decade, though — from 1970-1975 — James Taylor was a very big deal. He was the first American artist signed to The Beatles’ Apple Records — ushered in as a younger, gentler Dylan. He was sensitive, handsome and in evident pain, like Jesus in J. Crew transported into 1970. He could write songs and sing and really play guitar. He sold millions upon millions of records, scored hits and won awards — all while at the bottom of a bottle and addicted to opioids.

To his credit, JT spent most of the next decade picking up the pieces of his life, making inoffensive records and desperately avoiding further carnage. As a father, serial husband, and millionaire in recovery, he had a lot to protect. And so, those lightweight — some might say boring — Eighties affairs made commercial sense. At the same time, his play-it-safe avoidance made for tepid product — art that betrayed the depth of the artist.

1988s “Never Die Young” was Taylor’s twelfth studio album. He was divorced from Carly Simon, recently remarried, and still very much in the throes of nascent sobriety. Though he was only forty at the time, he’d already lived all around the world. He’d lived in hospitals; lived with family; lived with derelicts; lived alone. He had two children and was a decade removed from superstardom, but amazingly, much of his considerable fanbase remained intact. It was a miracle he was alive, much less a viable recording artist. And so, given everything he’d been through, if ever there was a time to for JT to take risks, it was not in 1988.

Despite the howling wolf on the album’s cover, “Never Die Young” does the not-feral thing — it plays things very, very safe. Taylor wrote all of the songs himself — best to avoid the unknown. He gave up his habit of remaking Fifties and Sixties songs for mellower Adult Contemporary fare — best not to murder any more classics. Basically, he made an album that no man, woman or child could be offended by. That is, unless the sound of acoustic Muzak for children, mixed with white wine and Al Jarreau offends you (author’s note: it kind of offends me).

On “Never Die Young,” Taylor’s voice rests precisely to the middle. Its tone is innocuous. Whereas, say, Karen Carpenter’s voice is innocuous but wistful, Taylor’s is innocuous in the way bottled water is — pleasant, but without flavor. The title track, for instance, is lovely when you put in the background and forget about it. You hear the acoustic guitar, the plump bass and JT’s soft pipes and you exhale: “Ahh...James Taylor.” And then you don’t really need to listen after that brief greeting for a few more songs.

Eventually, though, we get some substance. “Go Home Another Way” is an objectively pretty and sturdy song written for actual grown ups in actual relationships. It puts the “Adult” in Adult Contemporary. But also, it refuses to challenge either the mind or the ears — which might be for the best, because elsewhere, when we stop, listen and consider what’s really happening on “Never Die Young,” things get weird. On “Sun On the Moon” between soulless horns and light gospel, JT sings:

“Bow wow wow wow, honk your horn, honk your horn

Bow wow wow wow, honk your horn

Bow wow wow wow, honk your horn, honk your horn

Bow wow wow wow, honk your horn

In line, in line

It's all in line

My ducks are all in a row

They do not change

They do not move

They have nowhere to go

Sometimes I'm hungry, I don't know what to do

What do I do?

You can take a taco to Katama, too”

On “Sweet Potato Pie,” he practically dares us to take note of the actual words:

“I'm the fellow that she loves the most

The main reason why she left the coast

She's my little girlziña

That much hotter that a jalapeño”

Yes — he rhymes “girlziña” with “jalapeño.” Fortunately, that’s the bottom. By “First Day of May” he’s back in safe harbor — the summer folks at Tanglewood, in the Berkshires, swaying lovingly, slightly offbeat, awkwardly clapping. I can picture it. I can hear it. When I was there a teenager, I considered James Taylors’ music middle-aged in the way a successful, young retiree is middle-aged. I perceived wisdom and insight, but also an ease and confidence. As a middle-aged man, “Never Die Young” sounds much more like a nightmare to me. It’s music made to be heard but not listened to. It has the pretense of age but lacks character and grit. I know that this is both ungenerous and partially untrue. But I also know what it feels like to have a lot to lose. And, by 1988, James Taylor had so much to lose (again).

by Matty Wishnow