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"Some people see the things I do as a lot like what they're going through," he acknowledges. "It may provide them company in the loneliness of being human." At the same time, intense fame scares him: "It can't be true and it can't be sustained," he says. Over the years, Taylor has acquired a reputation for moral integrity, and as a result, he is flooded with benefit requests from politicians and causes. He remains proudly political, "a lefty like my pop," a genteel North Carolina physician who was an Adlai Stevenson Democrat and a strong advocate for socialized medicine. The doctor's son is appalled to think of the market as the answer to America's problems. It leads, he says, to "an armed-camp mentality."
The market forces of the record business have changed dramatically since Taylor began his career. His breakthrough album, Sweet Baby James, was made for a mere $8,000 in 1970. Hourglass, which was recorded in a rented house on the Vineyard, cost $400,000. One thing that has not changed is the often bumpy transition as an artist moves from oblivion to stardom. It can be a scary ride, and it almost killed Taylor. "I was just swept away," he recalls about his bouts with heroin and alcohol. He has been clean and sober for 13 years, and is convinced that 12-step programs are the only answer to substance abuse.
There is now a new woman in Taylor's life. He plans to build a house, improve his French and learn to play the cello. But the same angst that led him into drugs is still there. "I'm an entertainer, so I'm very sensitive to what other people's judgment of me is," he confesses. "When I engage someone else, I care very much what their opinion of me is, perhaps more than I might at this age." For Taylor, it seems, there is no escaping the loneliness of being human.