A Lullaby Passed Down Through Generations, Affirming the Enduring Comfort of Family and Timeless Song.
There are certain songs that don’t merely exist in time; they are woven into the very fabric of it, becoming touchstones for every stage of life. “You Can Close Your Eyes” is one such masterpiece. While the original studio version by James Taylor—a jewel on his 1971 album, Mud Slide Slim and the Blue Horizon—has provided decades of solace, a specific, utterly unique performance from October 30, 2021, at the Honda Center in Anaheim, California, captures a profound, new layer of meaning. This moment was not just a concert highlight; it was a deeply personal, generational drama played out under the warm, communal lights of an arena stage, featuring James Taylor alongside his son, Henry Taylor.
Key information: The track, “You Can Close Your Eyes,” was originally released in 1971 on the album Mud Slide Slim and the Blue Horizon. It served as the B-side to James Taylor’s first and only Billboard Hot 100 No. 1 single, “You’ve Got a Friend,” and therefore holds no independent chart position as an A-side. The live performance by James Taylor & Henry Taylor at the Honda Center on 10/30/2021 was a late-set encore and was later released as a high-quality video for fans, but was not issued as a commercial single or album track and has no chart position. Its enduring significance is purely emotional and cultural.
The story of the original song is one of pure, youthful devotion. James Taylor penned the exquisite, gentle piece in 1970 for his then-girlfriend and future wife, Carole King, who would soon record her own definitive version. It was a raw, nakedly sincere gesture, a simple promise of constancy against the backdrop of an ever-spinning, chaotic world. “The sun is surely sinkin’ down / But the moon is slowly risin’ / So this old world must still be spinnin’ ’round / Yes, and I still love you,” he sang. It was a perfect piece of Laurel Canyon folk-rock alchemy, a musical comfort blanket for a generation weathering the cultural storms of the late sixties and early seventies.
But the performance in late 2021 layers an entirely new, deeply moving narrative onto this classic. The older, beloved troubadour, his voice worn smooth by time and experience, stands next to his son, Henry, whose youth and fresh, strong tenor echoes the timbre of his father’s younger self. The initial drama in the arena that night was one of recognition: a collective, nostalgic sigh from the audience, seeing a beautiful family moment unfold. But the true meaning of this live version transcends nostalgia.
As they sing together, trading verses with a tender, effortless harmony, the song becomes a literal representation of passing the torch. When the younger Henry Taylor sings the powerful lines, “I can sing this song / And you can sing this song / When I’m gone,” it transforms from a simple reassurance to a profound, public affirmation of legacy. The father, James, is not simply a folk icon; he is the source, and the son is the living, breathing promise that the gentle wisdom and comfort of this music will continue. It is the ultimate anti-tragedy: a promise that even as the sun sets on one era, the light of a new moon—a new generation—rises to carry the melody forward. For those of us who grew up with James Taylor as the soundtrack to our lives, this live duet is the sweet, final chapter we didn’t know we needed, a lullaby not just for rest, but for eternity.