The real Karen Carpenter: An energetic woman, a pioneer, not a victim | music | entertainment

Their lush soundtracks helped Richard and Karen Carpenter become one of the biggest acts of the ’70s, selling over 100 million albums as a soft rock duo with hits like Close To You, Saturday Once More and Please Mr Postman. However, since Karen’s untimely death in 1983, following complications from anorexia, the singer and drummer has often been portrayed as a victim—the fragile pawn of her brother and the imperceptible record industry.

Indeed, as I point out in my new autobiography, this portrayal could not be further from the truth and deeply hurt.

She was never just a consummate decorator. From the beginning, she approached life with full energy, becoming a groundbreaking musician and singer who struggled to forge her own identity in the face of industry sexism.

Even as a child growing up in New Haven, Connecticut, Karen was a tomboy who loved baseball and would fight to protect her sensitive older brother Richard from bullies. He recalled: “It was different, iconoclasts.”

At 15, when most girls her age would swoon over pictures of pop stars on their bedroom walls, Karen’s idols were middle-aged jazz musicians.

She played in the school’s marching band, took drum lessons and spent hours rehearsing alongside Joe Morello or Buddy Guy records. “I’ve never been one to like being told what to do. I’m kind of a die-hard…so I find other ways,” she once said.

As a gifted pianist, Richard was seen as the most musically gifted member of the Carpenter family, and when they moved to Los Angeles in 1963, six years before The Carpenters were born as an act, it was to further his career.

But by the time the sister duo signed to A&M Records and scored their first hit in 1970 with Burt Bacharach’s “They Long To Be” Near You, they had become the unquestioned driving force behind the band.

“I was always part of the gang,” she said. “On the tour I pack my own drums and help pack the trunk. Then I go to the dressing room and do my hair.”

Personal and competitive, she did most of the talking in standard company meetings, made quick decisions and wasn’t afraid of confrontation.

So why has Karen’s memory become so neutral? Why has the notion of her being a pioneering woman so completely airbrushed over the four decades since her untimely death? As always, the primary reason is money.

By 1971, the Carpenters had become a money-making machine, bearing their logo and merchandise. Karen was pressured by management and A&M to quit drums and focus on being the lead singer.

“Singing and playing the drums was the most relaxing thing,” she later said. “Finally I had to get up. Petrified. You have no idea. Fear! There was nothing to hold on to.” The spotlight made her feel completely exposed, so she became aware of her weight and started a strict diet.

Reviewers often relegate Karen to the “chick-singer” role, attributing the success of The Carpenters to Richard’s arrangements and production. But she was a producer or co-producer on many of their albums and musicians attest that she was in the studio 24/7.

Although quick to recognize her brother’s talent, Karen is touched by the fact that their domineering mother Agnes is devoted to Richard, always pushing his interests to the fore.

“He was leading her to believe Richard was better than her and she was full of self-doubt,” says Nikki Chen, one of Karen’s ex-girlfriends, and the songwriter/producer behind glam rock acts like Sweet and Susie Quatro. Chen has suffered from bipolar disorder since he was 16, so he recognizes something similar in Karen.

“You listened closely and you could hear the pain. Not only did Karen sing a song, she understood every word and brought her emotions into it because she was a girl in pain.”

Karen can be very wary of her emotions, but she trusts Chen.

“She opened up about it, saying Richard was the favorite, and that was always hard for her,” he continues.

“He was the center of attention. If you grew up with your favorite sibling and were told you were no good, if you had a tendency to get sick, you would.” By 1975, Karen’s constant dieting had developed into complete anorexia. That summer, weighing just under 91 pounds, she checked into Cedars-Sinai Medical Center, the first of many.

Over the next eight years, her weight vanished while she battled an eating disorder in a private hell.

In the 1970s, there was a lack of openness about mental health and eating disorders, which led to a culture of silence.

“The words ‘anorexia’ and ‘bulimia’, and even the term ‘eating disorder’ were not a common part of people’s vocabulary,” says her friend Sherry Boone O’Neill, who also suffered from anorexia.

“It was not part of the public discourse at all.”

Karen’s boyfriend at the time was songwriter and producer Tom Bahler. Despite his concerns about her vulnerability, she refused to discuss her anorexia.

One night when Bahler implored her to finish her food, she felt trapped and became aggressive, whistling, “You can’t make me.” As for many victims of eating disorders, it’s important to feel in control.

Meanwhile, her brother Richard had problems of his own – an addiction to painkillers led in 1979 to a stint in rehab.

While he was there, Karen decided to record her own solo album, seeking recognition among her peers as a solo performer. She noticed the turnaround in her good friend Olivia Newton-John, who the previous year had enjoyed astronomical success with the title role in the musical Grease. Newton-John has made a dramatic transformation from a middle-of-the-road singer into a visionary in skin-tight spandex and leather.

This sparked Karen’s sense of competition – maybe she could explore a new direction? Initially supported by A&M, Karen went to New York to record her album with Billy Joel producer Phil Ramone.

He chose Joel’s backing band for Karen’s solo work, because he liked their gritty enthusiasm.

She came from a sheltered background, but was willing to experiment.

Guitarist Russell Gevors recalled the band as “kind of rowdy. We weren’t the studio presence that Karen grew up in. Let her be one of the guys, she’s never done that,” Phil said. “And I think she enjoyed being in that environment.”

When the recording finished, Karen and Phil Ramone were happy, but the album was met with indifference by the record company, with co-founder Jerry Moss claiming it contained no hit song.

Although the A&M sales team was ready, the artwork was prepared and Karen invested $400,000 of her own money in the project, A&M decided to scrap the album.

“I have to get my money back. Go in and get my money back,” a panicked Karen told her lawyer.

She made a female soul album, her first compelling statement as a solo artist, but A&M executives couldn’t see The Carpenters’ success and refused to risk upsetting fans. Doing so may cost them money. The soulful voice that Karen explored was part of a scene that featured singers as diverse as Donna Summer, Linda Ronstadt, and Diana Ross.

With the benefit of hindsight, it’s clear that the album’s release would have boosted Karen’s career and given The Carpenters a whole new audience.

After the rejection, Karen seemed to flounder. She and Richard recorded Made in America, which proved to be The Carpenters’ last album.

A short-lived marriage to real estate developer Tom Burris ended, and then, during the last year of her life, Karen spent nine months in therapy with New York psychiatrist Dr. Stephen Levenekron, trying to overcome her anorexia.

“She had this way of speaking — ‘I’m going to lick this thing, and I know I can do it,'” O’Neal recalled. “Karen had this public persona of being girly and vulnerable, but she could talk like a truck driver.

That was a surprise. She was very determined and optimistic.”

Karen’s illness was so chronic, however, that treatment came too late.

In September 1982, she was admitted to Lenox Hill Intensive Care Hospital, weighing only 77 pounds.

After six weeks she felt stronger, announced that she was cured and returned home to Los Angeles.

“She was in the difficult position of being the hub of the big wheel that was The Carpenters,” says O’Neill. “She had a lot of people relying on her to be functional and present.”

Then, on the morning of February 4, 1983, her mother, Agnes, found Karen lying unconscious on the floor of her wardrobe in her bedroom. She was admitted to Downey Community Hospital after going into complete cardiac arrest and at 9.51am she was pronounced dead. She was only 32 years old.

As reports of Karen’s death spread through the music industry and the wider public, there was collective shock and disbelief.

But in the years since, there has been a steady growth of awareness about eating disorders and the pressures placed on Karen.

Singer and friend Petula Clark says, “She didn’t fit into this cool Hollywood thing and I think that had something to do with her anorexia. Mixing with beautiful people, she didn’t realize how special she was.”

Karen’s solitary battle with anorexia and tragic death has overshadowed her legacy, and we come to see her as a victim.

But it was also a young woman with a unique sense of agency and musical talent, which is where she found her identity.

Her self-titled solo record was released posthumously in 1996 to critical acclaim, and many friends now consider Karen’s achievement, despite her tremendous struggles, to reveal her as a groundbreaking artist at the top of her game.

“Hopefully, we don’t just look back on Karen’s life with sadness,” says Rebecca Segal, former tour director for the Carpenters.

She left an exceptional musical legacy. She has one of the most beautiful and unique voices ever. You make a record and have no doubts about who it is – which is rare. More and more people will discover it. Some burn brighter because they may not burn for long.”

• The Principal Sister: The Karen Carpenter Story (nine books, £20) published on Thursday. For free P&P in the UK, visit Expressbookshop.com Or call 020 3176 3832