On three hours of sleep, we inched toward Vegas. I slept most of the way thanks to Kenny’s drawing the short straw before we left The Fairfield Inn. The sunset in the desert was bright—an orange peach against a purple bowl of a valley. The mountains, dark in the distance, made the skyline look torn from a kindergartener’s pad of construction paper.
Delucchi (3rd row down) makes VIP at The Fairfield Inn thanks to all our bookings
100 miles out from the gig, Delucchi realized we were going to be late, relieved Kenny behind the wheel, and put pedal to metal. I changed into my pink top with big black boots the back seat while doing vocal warm-up exercises but I shouldn’t have wasted my voice. Legends was a tiny club inside (yet another) strip mall. We were less than thrilled as we unloaded and waited in a cold, back alleyway, where we had been told to “stay put” (like dogs) until the first band got their stuff off the stage. There was no sound check, no guarantee* and no audience to speak of. We were the second of three acts opening for a band we’d never heard of called “Honey Child.” Above the bar, directly in front of me, a TV showed a KKK march, people getting blown up in some far-off country, JonBenét Ramsey, and money stolen from innocent people—it all made me sick and sad.
Kenny’s, brother-in-law, ‘Stretch’ (a proud member of The Rough Riders gang), and his buddy ‘Pretty Good,’ took Kenny to a strip club after the show where, according to Kenny, they all got kicked out. Somehow, they’d managed to anger one of the strippers, who, as a result, threw a bottle of beer at them. ‘Reeree,’ Stretch’s wife, retaliated by throwing a bottle of beer right back at her, and they all got bounced out onto the street. Kenny laughed as he told us the story in the van in the morning and I got a second-degree burn snarfing so loudly that boiling coffee came out of my nose.
The continental divide, the last thing separating us from our beds, came into view about ten hours into our trip. October is when Colorado’s landscape begins to cloak itself in gray, breathless clouds in preparation for winter’s hibernation. There is a grave reverence in the stillness of the air as the aspen leaves glow golden and contemplate their departure from the branch.
At the last rest stop, I realized there would be no more last rest stops until we finished recording our next album. For the next 30 miles, I wondered about it like a pregnant mother, about an impending child. What will the album be called? I ask myself. What will it look like? And who will we be when it grows up?
*Guarantee: A financial sum a venue commits to paying a band regardless of attendance at their show.
The heat of Arizona should not be underestimated. I found myself desperate for a bathroom on a two-person line outside a gas station in Buckeye. But, five minutes into the wait, I abandoned my effort fearing I’d either burn up or die of heat stroke.
“Arizona is an oven!” I said climbing back into the the van, requesting the empty lemonade bottle from Kenny, and asking the boys to turn around. The guys laughed at me but this sun in the desert is no joke. “I could feel my organs baking,” I said, screwing back on the lid and re-fastening my overalls. “Let’s not go back out there,” I suggested.
Delucchi went to school at ASU in Scottsdale. As we pulled up to Martini Ranch, he casually mentioned it was the venue he learned to mix sound in. Leave it to Delucchi to wait ‘til we’re in a place to let us know it’s his backyard. Immediately he started running into old friends. His Pantene shampoo shoulder-length curls bounced higher than usual as he led us down Scottsdale’s broiling main street, high-fiving strangers like he were the mayor.
Delucchi, the unofficial mayor of Scottsdale, AZ
Martini Ranch was a small college bar. The stage was high and oddly angled away from it’s audience. We were escorted to a dressing room by a chain-smoking barmaid with the mouth of a sailor. A water cooler groaned beneath a blinking halogen light, which seemed to be making the room somehow darker. We sat on a pair of beige velour couches with broken springs while we waited for our sound check to begin. We were opening for a very popular local pop cover band called ‘The Chadwicks.’
Sal at Martini Ranch sound check on Brian’s drum riser
I’d never opened for a cover band and found it almost impossible to get their audience’s attention. Though the venue was small, there was a huge screen next to the stage that projected our show. Every once in a while, a hissing snake-like sound scared the bejesus out of us and we’d find ourselves enveloped in clouds of dry ice. “That can’t be good for you,” I said turning to Soucy after the 3rd song. Chris responded by inhaling and promptly coughing out the dirty-smelling white smoke. Eventually, the crowd warmed up to us, stopped their chatter, and danced.
The Chadwicks were charismatic, talented musicians who, as it turned out, wrote their own material but performed only covers due to collegiate Arizonain’s apparent distaste for anything not played on top 40 radio. I joined their band to sing backups on “Brown-Eyed Girl” when they invited me on stage.
After the show, the boys wanted to go back to the hotel and get a good night’s sleep before starting our route home tomorrow. That’s when I told them to dig deep and gave them my pep talk.
“My boys. These are the last days!” I geared up, “The last days of the tour, the last days of the year, of the century for god sake. These are the times we use up the last drop of shampoo from the tiny bottles we’ve rationed all tour. The times we don’t have to feel so disgusting about putting on our unwashed jeans for the 20th time. The times we get to stare out the window with extra abandon dreaming about our real beds with real wives, boyfriends, and lovers. These are the times we are absolutely OBLIGATED to stay up all night. We owe it to the gods of the road to take tonight and burn the candle at both ends. Let’s celebrate.”
Needless to say, the five of us hit the ground running and danced our booties off at a spot called “Club Insomnia” till 4 a.m. Cheers to the road!
We loaded out into a cold windless late night through sprinklers that sprayed cold misty water at our shins and soaked my dress to dripping. Exhausted, I shoved the last of the instruments in the back and slammed the cargo door. after drying my ankles, I climbed past a spiderweb of seatbelts into the bowels of the van to lie down.
As we pulled out onto the road, I heard the boys see something moving across the highway. “BUNNY!” They all shouted with glee as the small rabbit dashed safely across the street. But, just when they were sure it was gonna stay put, it dashed under the right car wheel and crushed itself. It was a horrible sound. “UUUUHHHHGGGGGG!!!” They all shouted. I told Delucchi (who definitely was not to blame for its death) that he had to drink the skunky Bud this tour. We all fell silent, mourning the little bunny’s tragic end. But why, I wondered, do we care more about this bunny’s death than about the 100s of moths that splat against the windshield? Or about a dog than a 1000-year-old tree? These were the thoughts I chewed on as our bodies were thrust at 95 miles per hour down the highway smashing up against our own destinies.
The Road The Road We’re out here on the road In the middle of nothing, we’re headed nowhere In this space that glitters gold Conversing with angels who try to convince us that we are not alone And the devils that sit on the dueling shoulder Who’d try to send us home.
As sleep reeled me in, I thought back to the concert we’d just given. Overall, I thought it was a success. It began with a painless 45-minute drive down the coast with Kipp, putting us into San Juan Capistrano by early evening.
The rest of the band was late. Kipp sat down outside on a curb and talked too loudly on his cell phone. I laughed, watching him trying to score a ray of sunshine between glacial, iceberg-like cumulus clouds. I left him outside to investigate the venue. Contrasted against the 95-degree day outside, the Coach House was a cave—dark and cool. it took a moment to adjust my eyes but as my sight calibrated, the room appeared. It spread out in a red array of chairs and balconies. The walls were plastered with black and white autographed 8X10s, not unusual for a venue save that EVERY SINGLE ONE of the faces was someone extremely famous. You name them, they were on the wall.
Jay, the stage manager appeared out of nowhere and nearly scared the socks off me. He had dark gray, shoulder-length hair that staggered, like drunk stick figures, from under his hat. He spoke in a coke-induced, tight-lipped voice that sounded compressed, like something you’d expect to hear from AM radio.
“Where’s the rest of yer band?” he asked, then, without a beat continued, “Not here yet….(he he)” he chuckled, “Yup…(he he)…ain’t that just like a band?” He offered his hand the way a dog that’s ordered ‘shake’ does. I shook it. “I’m the stage manager, Jay, but I specialize in lighting. What kind of lights you like?” “Well, I’m not too picky….. maybe just—” “I’ll just play it by the music then, right? Yeah, that’s what I’ll do… he he,” he laughed, turning his back to strut with purpose toward the bar. “‘Lot ‘a famous faces you got up here on the wall,” I said in sincere reverence. “Who’s your favorite?” He yelled over his shoulder still beelining it for the bar. “Wow, I’ve got to pick ONE?” I joked “WE GET ‘UM ON THEIR WAY UP AND ON THEIR WAY DOWN.” He shouted with a glass in hand. “YOU’RE ON YOUR WAY UP.” He raised a one sided toast.
A sudden impending doom swept through my chest. The expressions of the faces in the 8X10s abruptly changed from ones I’d read as hopeful exuberance to ones of mortal peril. All of a sudden, I saw the headshots as stuffed deer busts—trophies on the wall—portraying something once beautiful and vibrant, shot dead by a camera and mounted. Fame, what a strange and dangerous beast to ride, I thought.
The green room took the entirety of the upstairs. It was a maze of low ceilings, semi-air-conditioned enclosures, stickered walls, and guitar cases lined up and latched with braced teeth. Rick Fagan from Taylor Guitars came by early with a friend, Zack, and together with Gary Folgner (The Coach House’s founder) we sat around a glass-topped coffee table complaining about the current state of the music industry.
Gary was especially knowledgeable and fed up with how the industry treats its artists. He wanted to know my take. “I see the conglomerates of the industry—radio, major labels, MTV, etc., as one huge glutenous monster,” I told him. “Exactly,” said Gary, “They have all the power and money because they’re all in bed with each other. All they do is create careers and smash them. They don’t care about you; they don’t care about me; they don’t care about what people want to hear or love or desire. They shove manufactured junk in our faces and say “This is what you get. If you don’t like it, well, fuck you.”
There was something bonding about venting to the choir about my indignation and, invigorated, the four of us traded stories about bands that’d been screwed by “The Man” until the band showed up and wanted to sound check.
I pray, as we enter this next millennium, people will seek out what they want to hear! That we won’t just continue to settle for the fast food music of MTV and Radio— that we’ll demand something better, something soul quenching and nutritious—something that doesn’t come in an easy-peel, pretty little, microwaveable pink dress with disposable lyrics. I want to live in a world where artists make art for art’s sake, not just because it gets them laid or because they want retribution against some kid in 5th grade who picked on them. I want to be surrounded by artists who want to support, help, and nurture each other—not just compete to play the role of GOD.
I want to start reevaluating what success means, to me.
Letter from Kenny on the road. Proof we all need a mini-break from time to time on the road
After the show in Santa Barbara (where I’d narrowly missed being assaulted in an alleyway), a two-day break was exactly what the doctor ordered. The whole band was itching for some R&R and after a late night loading out under a yellow flickering street lamp, we each went our separate ways for a mini-break. Kipp and I fluttered back down the coast to LA for a romantic getaway on our film producer friend Geyer Kosinski’s couch. Geyer always puts us up when we’re in LaLa Land claiming he doesn’t mind stepping over my guitar case to get into his kitchen. Despite the lack of privacy, it was blissful to swim in Kipps beefy arms and sleep for hours against the cool leather of Geyer’s couch.
On a hot and sticky Wednesday night, Santa Monica Boulevard snaked Kipp’s silver rental towards West Hollywood. I couldn’t tame the butterflies dancing in my stomach. Even after a shot of tequila at the bar and a sandwich Brian and Kenny made me eat in the dressing room, I was still a wreck. My mom and dad have banked so much history in The Troubadour’s dark electric walls, it’s impossible not to feel I have something to prove. To make matters worse, this time, we were headlining.
By nine the house was packed— a noteworthy feat for a Wednesday night in October which I attributed to Kipp and Geyer’s shameless promotion. Our opening act was a trio out of Vancouver who, unable to secure a US work permit before the gig, were forced to leave Canada with nothing but the clothes on their backs and rent some cheap musical equipment when they landed in LA. The lead singer, Kristy Thirsk, was a pretty little thing with red manic-dyed streaks in her hair. She wore a tiny vintage lace dress with platform combat boots. Fifteen minutes before she took the stage, Kristy dashed into our dressing room with a panicked expression and some caked-on eyelash glue drowning her left lashes.
Kenny & Brian making sandwiches in the Troubadour’s heavily graffitied greenroom
“I can’t get this one on!” She panicked in my direction. I thought she might cry.
“Let me see,” I said inspecting the gluey webbing mess on her eye. With a motherly touch, I led her down the hall to a heavily graffitied bathroom.
“Want me to fix it?” I asked. She shook her head yes and closed her eyes. I plucked the metallic pink lash from her dainty white fingers and pushed it into the cobweb of ropey glue all the while reassuring her, “Don’t worry, I used to be in a disco band.”
“Thanks,” she said leaning into the frosted mirror, staring at her reflection between a multitude of penises etched into the glass. She sighed, covered her lids with glitter, and like a pro, grabbed her ax and took the stage. She rocked! Emily and Carols, the second act, were great as usual. We’d played with them our first time at The Troubadour — the time my mom and brother surprised me on stage—you know, the best night of my life.
Mom surprising me on stage at The Troubadour
Although nothing will ever top that first gig, last night was outstanding. I’ve always dismissed LA and NY as jaded, where people seem disinclined to see live music unless there’s something in it for them. But last night I changed my mind. People listened to the music. They watched intently. They weren’t scanning the crowd for famous faces or industry leaders who might elevate their careers. They were there to have fun and enjoy some live music. Needless to say, this made me very happy.
After the show, Emily and Carols insisted we go to a dive bar around the corner for tequila shots. The boys (who would have followed Emily to hell and back) went out, but Kipp and I were tired, and Geyer’s couch was calling.
Outside, on a grimy, early-morning curb, littered with cigarette butts, Brian and I walked east on Santa Monica Boulevard (he to the bar, me to Kipp’s car). Looking down the row of lights lining the avenue he asked “How much further does this street go?”
“To New York,” I said slipping my capo into my front pocket, throwing my guitar case into the back seat, and hopping into the passenger side of Kipp’s car. Blowing Brian a kiss out the window, I pulled into the empty early morning street. The strands of lights in the distance turned into a dazzling necklace. I was asleep before the last star removed its pinprick from the sky.
It was one of those perfect days for a drive up the Pacific Coast Highway, the kind where the ocean sparkles like a thousand paparazzi at a red-carpet event. Kipp picked me up at our hotel in Venice with his trademark grin and a “bitchin'” silver Chevy rental. The plan was to meet up with the band at the venue for a 5 pm sound check. Delucchi drilled it into my head not to be late as Kipp and I peeled away from the group to make our way up the coast solo.
When we arrived at the gig, the place looked more than a little deserted—boarded-up windows, a front door plastered with old newspapers, and an entranceway littered with empty green beer bottles. As I stood on the foot of the stairs, squinting at the venue’s sign, I called Brian on his cell phone. No answer. I left a message, “Hey Bri, it’s Sally. I’m outside the club, and it’s totally dead here. Are we playing somewhere else? I hope?!?! Where are you guys?”
Just then, I noticed a guy walking towards me. He had the overly confident, frat-boy swagger and the stench of testosterone coming off him was almost palpable. My pulse raced. I hung up and started walking with what I hoped looked like an equally confident stride, towards the alley where Kipp had parked. His back was to me in the driver’s seat but I could see he was still there, fiddling with something on the dashboard. The frat guy followed me, his footsteps growing louder and faster. “Hey, where you going?” he grunted. I ignored him, picking up my pace. “Hey, where you going?! I think you need to bring those legs over here!”
He was almost on me when Kipp opened the door and stepped out of the car. His innocent smile turned serious as he took in the situation. The guy took one look at Kipp (who looks like the Mr. Clean mascot caricature from the detergent label) and bolted, leaping over a fence at the end of the alleyway. My heart was pounding a drum solo. Kipp wrapped his arms around me, and I shivered but didn’t cry. I felt angry. It’s exhausting on the road, to be on guard all the time from potential danger. I believe that people are mostly good, but it only takes one asshole and you never know who they’ll be of where they might show up. While trust serves me well most of the time, I know it’s an expensive quality to own as a woman. I allow myself the luxury of it because of an event in the summer of ’97.
I was alone in my house on Matha’s Vineyard late at night and drifting off to sleep when I heard my bedroom door creak open. I slept with the windows open and assumed it was the wind, but when I looked up, there was a man silhouetted in my doorway not three feet from my bed.
Surprising to both of us, I jumped to my feet and shouted “WHO IS THAT?!?!” The confidence in my voice scared him and he turned on his heels. I ran after him through my living room. Every move we made felt like it was in slow motion. I chased the intruder out the door, onto my porch, and halfway down the stairway as he flew down the steps into the night.
Having lost him, I ran back in my house and locked the door behind me. Then, worried he might not have been alone, I called the cops and they stayed on the phone with me until someone arrived. There was no one else in the house luckily. The cops took fingerprints and called a few days later to assure me they’d caught the culprit. He’d been found sneaking into one of my neighbor’s beds where she’d been asleep with her daughter. He’d tried to rape her. The man was in custody and wouldn’t be bothering me anymore they said.
What I learned about myself that night is that when a man shows up at my door intending to rape me in the middle of the night, I’m someone who instinctually jumps out of bed and runs them out of her house. Believing that I have effective instincts that might save me in times of danger is the valuable commodity that affords me to have trust in humanity. What I learned that night in Martha’s Vineyard is that as a woman, I’m a target. Staying vigilant is imperative for me. But I also learned I can trust my instincts in a crisis and that is invaluable.
I’m happy to report Kipp and I were at the wrong venue and that when we arrived at “Rocks,” it was a stunning venue/restaurant. Life on the road is a wild ride—full of strange, hilarious, and sometimes scary moments. But it’s all part of the adventure.
Once you get south of San Francisco, California truly transforms into a desert. The land no longer flows or sways; instead, it crumbles and stammers into the sea which devours it with smashing, white, ravenous teeth. We drive down the falling coastline, singing along to Bob Marley. We belt the words we know, and the rest turns into joyful gargles:
“One love, one heart, let’s get together and feel alright… Lehmenpassalltheredirty remarks, One Love…”
It’s another sunny day spent inside the van. I feel like a mouse stuck in its hole. It’s broiling hot, so the AC goes on. Then it’s glacially cold, so the AC goes off. With hardly any traffic, we make it to Santa Monica well ahead of time. Brian grabs his rollerblades, Kenny heads out for sushi, and the Chrises and I take a stroll down the infamous Santa Monica pier.
We weave through crowds of tourists — in and out of pockets of bubbles, and busker’s music. They strum barely recognizable covers of Jimmy Buffett and Tom Petty on old rusty strings and litter their yawning cases with spare change to entice similar company. We stop to watch an impressive balancing act—a small, muscular Asian man doing a handstand on his equally muscular girlfriend’s shoulders. They’ve got an old-school ghetto blaster that’s playing 80’s jazzercise music. They end each pose with a theatrical flourish and avian flapping. Toward the end of the pier, young men are fishing. Their pants sit low to reveal the tops of their underwear and their flat-brimmed baseball hats perch well above their brows as if floating by some magic.
Tonight, I’m opening solo for Venice. Kevin Nealon, the actor/comedian, is here and reminds me he was at my first solo gig in Telluride for the ’96 Bluegrass Festival. I recall that night, how I’d sat on a wobbly stool and played my little half-baked tunes with a voice that came from the most frightened part of my body. Kevin remembered it as great, which I tell him is kind of him to say.
Tonight when I take the stage, I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and open my mouth. What comes out is a voice that is wiser, bigger, and taller than the one I had back in 1996’s Telluride. It’s the first time I’ve recognized how much the road has grown me. It has broken me, built me back up, and made me stronger than I thought I ever could be.
I am grateful I am willing to do hard things. I am grateful for the road.
Ah, the lushness of the wine country. The sky is a skirt, that teases the ground with its lacey, foggy hem. Logging trucks thunder by on switchbacks, bouncing their open cargo. I can’t help but see the trunks as bodies and ruminate with outrage and guilt about the tragedy of human greed.
Mill Valley was sunny and warm when we arrived midway through a Friday, midway through October, on the cusp of a new West Coast tour. The entire population of Mill Valley (both men and women) are unreasonably handsome. I watched them out the back of Moby strolling in white shorts and stiffened collars. I saw them pretend to window shop as an excuse to check themselves out in storefront reflections. It made me laugh out loud and recall walking New York City streets with my dad in my adolescence. Whenever he’d catch either my brother or me checking ourselves out in a window, he’d whisper cheekily, “How’d you look?” and, busted, we’d all get a good chuckle.
Let me just say, for the record—no one treats artists as well as Sweetwater does! Tom, Sweetwater’s owner, greeted us at the door with open, heart-quenching hugs and insisted on feeding us mountains of gourmet food. Backstage, the boys watched a game on TV in one curtained-off half of the green room, while I sank into the vastness of a red velvet couch in the other half and worked on a new tune about my time on the Colorado River.
When our opener, Matt Nathanson managed to get the audience to do a sing-along to Bon Jovi (of all things) we knew we’d have a great gig. We were not wrong. The house was packed. There was no room to stand and no place to sit either. We lit up that stage like a bonfire. Sometimes, I’ll admit, that when performing, I try to cut songs from the set mid-show. I get feeling bad for the audience that they have to stay out so late and listen to my music and clap for each song and I get thinking to myself, “These people probably wish they were at home, in bed. You’re torturing them, Sally. They don’t want to be here; you’re holding them hostage with your music. Get off stage as fast as you can and give these people a break!” But last night, those thoughts burned up in the stage light. We were one with the audience and no one wanted to go home, especially not me. It was a magical fall night.
Thank you, Sweetwater. Thank you, Tom. Thank you, October. Thank you, black cow in the golden field. Thank you leaves for your selfless, colorful sacrifice. Thank you all so very much for a great first gig of the Roadrunner Tour.
The drive to Portland took longer than expected on account of a full roster of interviews we’d lined up. I set a reminder 15 minutes prior to each call and tapped Delucchi when an alarm would sound, leaving it up to him to find a rest area equipped with a pay phone. Occasionally, it was easy — a payphone just materialized out of thin air. More often, it was a wild dash to the nearest exit, sometimes as much as 40 miles away, and beggars couldn’t be choosers. Some of the places I did my interviews from were borderline dangerous.
I did a radio interview inside a bar called “The Point of Rocks” in Wyoming, where two men (one with no teeth) stared hungrily at me the whole time, a fly buzzed, motorcycles pulled up and pulled away, a red sign read “SANDWICHES: HAMBURGER,” an overweight, freckled waitress laughed so hard she splashed whisky all over her swollen hand, a dog panted its way through old age and I hung on to the phone, to the voice at the other end as though I might need to ask it to hang up and call 911 on my behalf at any point.
The folks at St. John’s were sweet and slightly overly enthusiastic to have us there. We ate cobb salad, drank October ale and picked at a hummus platter before sound check. The venue was once a church. It was appropriately infused with candlelight, tear-drop chandeliers and warm tapestries. But somewhat out of place were the Halloween-inspired spider webs (creatively recycled, they told us, from last year’s discarded Santa beards) and the audience of lifeless dear heads mounted on walls. I could have sworn that some of them sang along with the songs and bopped their heads to the beat of Brian’s thud. But every time I looked up at them, they played dead.
Some nights, like last night, I can feel the spirits of my songs possess my soul. They enter and move me to execute their will, the way a character might haunt an actor playing a role. I feel them like a saltwater tickle in my chest. They fill my facial expressions and use my gestures to deliver their message. When a song ends they drift away like distracted children. I like to think they watch the rest of the show from shadows beneath people’s chairs and stealthily move into places where the audience has let the lights go down in their hearts. I imagine the ghosts of my songs working behind the scenes to open windows and doors and new avenues into people’s minds — allowing fresh possibilities into their souls. That’s what songs do best.
Fuzzy showed up at 9:30 on his portable car phone. It’s rare to see him without it, except when the signal drops on a bend or a bridge. During those times, he lets out a frustrated “dambdamb damnit!” He runs his entire taxi operation from his car he apologetically explains, “I’m the driver, dispatcher, and accountant for this whole taxi enterprise. But that also means I can do anything I want!” he said “I even pick up hitchhikers from time to time.” He parked under the shoe tree where, he insisted, the reception was best. Plugging one ear and closing his eyes, Fuzzy booked his next client before driving us into town.
Eureka Springs is certainly unique. Almost every store offers weddings—The Tattoo Parlor doubles as a marriage parlor, and The Cigar Shop wants to marry you and gift your new husband a free stogie. We walked by an “Old Time Photo” studio that, unsurprisingly, also functioned as a wedding parlor. Their window was full of framed photos —newlyweds dressed in 19th-century hooker and gangster garb sporting new rings and casual attitudes toward marriage. It seemed, in Eureka Springs, people were getting hitched just for the fun of it, or for the perks like a free sepia picture or cigar. Walking by the Tattoo/Marriage Parlor, I couldn’t help but point out the irony of permanent inkings juxtaposed against loosely tied knotings of matrimony. Ravenous, we looked around for a place to eat that wouldn’t unintentionally turn into a wedding ceremony.
A woman passing by stopped us. “My husband and I loved your show last night,” she said, beaming through thick glasses and a Southern accent. Suddenly, we were celebrities. People were coming up to us, complimenting our performance. “I heard your show last night was great,” said a man poking his head out from his barbershop. “I love your voice,” said a teenage girl walking by with her friends. And it struck Soucy and I at the same time —a thousand people in attendance at our gig the night before meant we’d played in front of more than ½ the population of Eureka Springs.
Just as we were about to give up on lunch, a small-hipped, wide-eyed brunett woman ushered us into her café, “Mud Street,” for a bite assuring us she wouldn’t marry us and insisting she feed us a free meal, She’d loved our show. Everyone stared and whispered as we walked in. Lisa sat us down and poured out two piping hot cups of coffee. The steam curled up in cat tail-like rings around our chins. Exaggeratedly, I widened my eyes at Chris so as not to be overheard and said, “Remind me to move to Eureka Springs for a week if I ever need to feel famous.”
Drunk on town people’s love, we wandered up the street after our free meal, to the arts fair. Face painters glued glitter on children’s bright eyes and cheeks, drum makers showcased their instruments, and dancers in mirrored Indian skirts spun to the drone of a a sea of didgeridoos. Bubbles floated through the crowds, dodging feet and children’s eager hands. Chefs in stained aprons flipped steaming meat which sizzled and hissed and surrounded us in plumes of sweet-smelling sausage and bell pepper. Astrologers offered tarro readings, and half the people who passed grabbed our arms to say, “We loved the show last night.” Eureka Springs felt like the backdrop of a fairytale. I could have swam in that velvety joyous environment all day but Chris and I had a show to prepare for.
We showed up punctually, guitars in hand at The Old Ballroom. But the sceen was chaotic. The stage manager hadn’t showed up, and the sound man, arriving late, admitted when he got there, “I’ve never worked with this sort of board before.” When we took the stage, he proceeded to send blood-curdling shrieks of feedback through the room and people clutched their ears and stared around at each other uncomfortably. After the third shriek, I pushed the mic stand away, unplugged my guitar, and addressed the obvious. “OK,” I said, “I came to sing for you, not to have equipment scream at you so If you don’t mind, let’s all bring our chairs up close to the stage. I’m gonna do this one acoustic.” From then on the night turned around. The sound man got drunk, and the audience, no longer in danger of being deafened, appreciated the rest of the show.
Back at the Land-O-Nod, Chris and I opted out of returning to town to see “Rice and Beans,” a band led by a pretty Asian keyboardist. Instead, we put on green mud masks, opened a bag of chips, a gourd of salsa, and a bottle of red wine. I unwrapped two plastic cups from the bathroom sink, and Soucy poured generous servings. We switched on Wild Discovery—something about tornadoes—and settled into our “honeymooner’s suite,” king-sized bed. Before long, the room was a mess. I kept dropping dollops of salsa on the colorful comforter, and Chris spilled a full cup of wine on the carpet. In a panic, he stripped down to his underwear and socks and danced around in circles doing a make shift chacha atop a wet towel in an attempt to remove the stain. I laughed until I choked because he looked so ridiculous in his cracking green clay mask, undies, and pulled-up black socks. He laughed too.
The next morning, Fuzzy brought us to the airport. He carried our luggage all the way to our gate, and hooked us up with free massages right there at the terminal (courtesy of a therapist who happened to be one of his drivers). But, though he was no doubt the best taxi driver we’d ever had, he refused to take our money. “I don’t need it,” he said, strutting away like a cowboy. He turned one last time on the descending escalator to wave and smile goodbye. See you next time, Fuzzy. See you next time, good buddy.
Wrapped in a green flannel Patagonia jacket, I futilely clenched my abdominal muscles against the cold. My front porch was quiet in the dark, chilly morning. To distract myself from the chattering of my teeth, I played a game, counting down how many seconds it would take Delucchi and Soucy to turn onto my street. Each of my prediction was wrong. I left my guitar on the porch and went inside to top off my coffee. Chris Soucy and I were booked to fly east alone to play the Ozark Folk Festival. No rhythm section, no Delucchi, and no clear idea of what to expect from Arkansas, aside from southern heat and fields of blond wheat. Our 6 a.m. flight out of Denver meant a 4 a.m. wake-up call. By the grace of God, Delucchi, the angel he is, volunteered to drive us to the airport Just as I was sure Delucchi had overslept and was dialing his number, I heard his voice call from outside, “Sally Taylor, Paging Sally Taylor, Please come to the white courtesy van.”
When we arrived in Arkansas, a skinny cat with a cardboard sign and a dirty chauffeur’s cap was waiting for us. He said his name was Fuzzy and he’d be our driver this week. Fuzzy was aptly named. His hair bunched and bucked like a rearing bronco trying to separate itself from his scalp. He wore blue jeans and a blue shirt and walked with bowed legs that looked like parentheses attached by a belt. I liked him immediately.
American Airlines had given me a hard time about carrying on my guitar and, as I’d feared, sent my poor instrument on a wild ride. The brown leather case was stripped like it had a run-in with a bear and the “fragile” sticker they assured me would protect my precious cargo, was mangled like something someone tried, unsuccessfully, to remove from the bottom of their shoe. Luckily, upon examination, the instrument itself was unharmed. Sarcastically, I peeled the fragile sticker off my guitar case and pasted it on my chest with a frown before jumping into Fuzzy’s rusty van.
We were booked at the Land-o-nod Inn and scheduled for a sound check at five but first, Fuzzy wanted to give us a tour of his town. Our first stop was The Shoe Tree on Highway 187. “Once a woman threw her husband out of the house and in a fit of anger he threw one of his shoes in the air and got it caught up in that tree.” Fuzzy had no doubt told the story a hundred times and gave it to us as though it was his first, “As time went on, more and more shoes showed up in the tree until it became a thing of pride for the town of Eureka Springs. Now, local kids take their old sneakers, draw their initials on them, tie the laces together, and try to heave them onto the highest branch for posterity.” But as often as shoes fall up, they fall down. “People, fallen on hard times, come to The Shoe Tree for their sneakers. They fall like ripe fruit from the branches and I do mean ripe!” He laughed.
The Shoe Tree
He drove us through winding mountainous green roads into sunny Eureka Springs. The town was a color explosion. Rainbow murals met every view. Artists in tie-dyed shirts worked on tie-dyed easels off Main Street. “This town used to hold 20,000 people in the late 1800s. Now there’s only 1,900 folks living here,” he said, waving out the window to one of the 1,900. “People moved here around the turn of the century because the water was said to have magical healing properties, and there were all sorts of miraculous recoveries documented by those who bathed here. Turns out, the water they were soaking in was radioactive; still is today. But people with cancer and some other diseases were benefiting from the radiation,” he laughed. “After a fire burned the town down, most people left. Now it’s mostly a tourist town. A hippie tourist town,” he added, pointing and waving to the mayor, a man in his 40s ‘Beau,’ with a long mane of black hair tied back in an elastic who’d later insist on getting us stoned after the show.
I had no idea we were one of only three headlining acts for the festival until I was backstage checking out the merch. I was looking at the back of a shirt, squinting at the artists’ names in the fine print. “I guess we didn’t make the schwag,” I announced to Soucy, who in turn said, “What are you talking about? You’re the third name down there in huge bold print underneath Leon Russell and John McEuen from the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band.” “What?!?!?!” I felt honored and humbled.
That night we opened for Leon, who put on a great and soulful show. He looked like a miniature snow-capped mountain. I must admit I felt a little nervous about playing by myself before the sold-out audience. But, as they say, “What doesn’t kill you”… and actually, once I got out there, the butterflies tucked themselves into cocoons and went to sleep. Soucy and I had a blast. The night was wet but it didn’t rain. Mist flies bounced off tin awnings and into the oncoming car headlights. After getting stoned with the town mayor, Fuzzy drove us back to the Land-o-nod.
