From the enormously successful 1971 album Tapestry, the sublime "So Far Away" is representative of the LP in general: A thoughtful, unhurried pace and a lilting melody carry an uncomplicated lyric that feels at once heartfelt, personal, and universal. Over a wistful jazz-pop chord progression on her piano, King's vocal melody aches with her narrator's pining: "Long ago I reached for you and there you stood/Holding you again could only do me good/How I wish I could, but you're so far away." The deceptively simple lyric operates on more than one level, beginning with the geographic dislocation of her friend/lover. King's narrator is audibly frustrated in her rhetorical question "doesn't anybody stay in one place anymore?" But the guileless lyric searches deeper than mere physical separation; the narrator bears witness to an overall fragmentation to interpersonal relationships and an increasingly transient '70s (and beyond) society in general. "One more song about moving along the highway," sings King, acknowledging the clichéd straits into which she has ventured. "Can't say much of anything that's new/If I could only work this life out my way/I'd rather spend it being close to you." There is an innocence that seems even more charming now -- as more artists seem to need to have to convey some form of postmodern ironic detachment or cynicism -- and that is a tragedy; why should a graceful expression of a basic human need have to feel nostalgically quaint and outdated? Yet this still would have been the context in 1971, and clearly this sentiment resonated for many record-buyers -- 13 million and counting, in fact. The weary narrator seems conscious of this jaded context. She should know better, she seems to say, and the song feels like one big sigh. The narrator is not an exception or without blame, though, as she sings in the song's second B-section, "Traveling around sure gets me down and lonely/Nothing else to do but close my mind/I sure hope the road don't come to own me/Yet so many dreams I've yet to find." King is supported by friends and session musicians on this intimate recording -- mostly personnel from James Taylor's records. Taylor himself is here on the track, providing sparse acoustic guitar arpeggios. Charles Larkey (her second husband) adds distinctive harmonic counterpoints on electric bass, as does Curtis Amy on flute. Russ Kunkel plays it mellow on the drums. The legendary Lou Adler produces. The end result sounds like a template for the '70s singer/songwriter genre.