Sally Taylor – Sally Taylor

Nashville TN – “The End Of The Road” – The Sutler Saloon – August 15, 2002

The rain in Nashville started yesterday. It came in torrents, accompanied by clapping thunder and stuttering lightning. The band ducked their heads beneath their skinny arms and yesterday’s news and raced my flip-flopping heels to a candy-striped pink and white awning. Waiting for an attendant to admit us, I felt the hot rain bounce off the Nashville sidewalk and stick to my bare legs.

Inside the bridal salon, it was warm and dry. Belinda met us at the door — a manicured woman with an army of body-shaping undergarments doing their best to battle the bulge. She had a beehive updo and white plush towels straight from the dryer. We unhitched our shoulders from our ears and wiped the storm residue from memory.

Belinda toured us through her wedding inventory—the whites and the creams, the sequined and the silks, the taffeta and tiaras. The boys ogled the garments, seemingly as excited as I was. When I suggested they each pick their favorite gown for me to try on, I was delighted by their enthusiasm — especially coming off the heels of a particularly hard conversation before a particularly hard gig the night before.

The guys seem to have come to terms with the uncertainty of our future as a band and, instead of rebelling against the ceremony that might destroy us once and for all, seemed to be relishing in its pomp and production. Kenny picked out a sexy sequined number. Dino entreated me to try on a traditional lacey thing with long sleeves and a turtleneck and Soucy and Delucchi both selected modest, simple dresses with responsible price tags.

It wasn’t lost on me, the love went into their choices. Back in the dressing room, standing before the four gowns they’d picked, it hit me—each reflected a different facet of my personality as seen from the spotlight. Together they knit a composite of who I am from stage right (Soucy), left (Kenny), back (Dino) and center (Delucchi). As Belinda zipped, buttoned, and cinched me into each gown’s tight embrace, I was reminded that my band has always had my back, sides, and every angle in between.

The boys made themselves comfortable on the chez lounges, indulging in clementines and pastel macaroons laid out for the occasion. The four of them enthusiastically applauded whenever I appeared from behind the velvety curtain wearing some display of white, fluffy brilliance.

They were never critical but held up fingers to indicate the strength of their preferences for each dress on a sliding 1-5 scale. At the end of the day, our favorites came down to two: Kenny’s pick, a beaded-fitted Reem Acra gown (whose price tag made me gasp and question whether I’d look just as good in a white sheet), and Soucy’s choice, an Angel Sanchez dress that’s probably more fitting for the wedding venue (my dad’s property on Martha’s Vineyard). We left with swatches of fabric and order forms for both gowns in consideration.

On our way out of town, I was grateful to have anything other than the regretful events of the night before to talk about.

The Sutler Saloon, the site of our last gig of the tour, had been lackluster to say the least. When we arrived at dinner time, a band was already on stage performing. seeing as we wouldn’t get a sound check, Dino, Soucy, and I left Delucchi to suss out the venue’s sound situation, and ventured to a nearby pool hall. 1,000 years of smoking had stained the walls sepia and etched a scent into the carpet so strong, it became hard to think above the stench. We played “Cut Throat.” Soucy won.

When we returned to the club, Delucchi was manning the door. He was livid. Over the din of the opening act, he yelled:
“Did Jonathan [our booking agent] talk to you about this?”
“No.” I yelled back “What’s up?”

“This is F____ed up. The deal is, WE’VE got to collect the money at the door. Then, at the end of the night, we owe the club $50 bucks for the use of their sound system!” My mouth was agape. He continued, “And on top of that, we have to give this opening act 30% of our take.” I looked around at the twenty or some-odd patrons in the roadhouse saloon and my heart collapsed into my deflated chest.

For half an hour, I sat beside Delucchi helping him collect our cover charge. Drifters stumbled in like seaweed on high tide only to retreat at the cash request. Some people even tried to bargain down the ten-dollar ticket price. “Not negotiable,” said Delucchi, who shook with silent rage. The ball game was on over the bar: Astro’s vs. Cubs, and just as many people watched the game as the opening act. I ordered a glass of Chardonnay, which came out in a mug and tasted like sweet‘n low flavored grape juice.

Leaving the door to man itself, I pulled Delucchi into the musty green room to join the rest of the band. A single flickering bulb hung in the middle of the olive-green room like a failing sun between us. We stared at one another—planets across a solar system, wondering how we’d stay together if and when the sun went out.

“Guys, this is not working,” I said. The gravity of the moment was intense. They’d known this was coming. “I’m so…tired.” I said.

“We’re all tired. Honestly, this has been an exhausting run” Soucy consoled, “Things’ll pick up again when we go out next.”

“I don’t think so Soucy,” I lamented “Things aren’t getting better. Look at where we are.” A beer maid appeared and quickly left again, dropping an empty keg rattling at our feet.

“We were never in this for the cash and prizes Sal. This is about the love of music, getting to play every night, together,” said Kenny, “It’ll be OK.”

My career flashed before my eyes, the good the bad and the ugly—a montage of backlit bars, sticky floors, packing and repacking the van, backbreaking load-ins and outs, contagious laughter, creaky motel beds, 3.5% gas station beer, and all-night drives. I thought of my house back in Boulder, the one with my cats in it, my soft toed moccasin slippers, and my sleeping, soon-to-be husband. I thought about the home-cooked breakfasts Dean makes with dill and cheddar that I was missing, the garden I wanted to plant before I left, and the simple pleasure of waking up and going back to sleep in the same bed every night next to the same man.

This life, on the road — kissing strangers, single-serving hotel rooms, gas station candy corn breakfasts, living out of suitcases, zero privacy, and playing for peanuts—these things used to symbolize freedom. Now, they signify avoidance, immaturity and not wanting to grow up. Never sleeping in the same bed once meant never having to make a bed, now it means itchy pillowcases and lonely sheets. Feeling the wind in my face used to mean owning my future now, it means not having a history.

I want something different than when I started out. Just making a difference to musicians who might be inspired to try an alternative route to musical success isn’t enough any more (even if I thought I was making a difference and I don’t think I am). I want clothes in drawers and roots in the ground and someone to grow old with and yes, I want these things even if it means having to take responsibility for my dirty dishes, the monotony of day-to-day living, and the failure of a dream.

“I don’t think I can do it anymore.” I said, bowing my head. The flickering light seemed to die on cue and we took to the stage. Whether the guys knew I meant what I said or whether they were sure I’d change my mind between sets, I don’t know.

I didn’t bother dressing for the show. I wore my overalls and called home to Dean from the stage to tell him I was coming home—I was choosing love.

The show went as predicted. Half the crowd was there to watch The Astros battle The Cubs and the other half was there to watch us battle the sports fans. I almost didn’t bother hauling out merch at the end of the night, but Kenny silently took my hand, put a sharpie in it, and led me to a wobbly table next to the exit. He sat me down next to a cardboard brick of CDs, rubbed my shoulders like a coach prepping a fighter for a final round in the ring and left me to a small but tight line that formed around the bar. I was delighted to sell more CDs than expected. Folks waited patiently while I stripped plastic wrap, extracted album inserts and signed my loping signature for them. I catered to photo requests and obliged customized messages. Before I knew it, the tailend of the line was before me.

Framed in neon lights and beer fermented, smoky spiderwebs stood a family: a mother, a father, a girl of ten and her baby brother, asleep in his father’s arms. The girl’s face lit up under my attention, her eyes grew wide and she stammered, “You’re my favorite singer.” I laughed in delight as her mother rubbed her head and elaborated, “This is Esme’s second concert. Her first was at 3^rd and Lindsley the last time you played Nashville.”

“Well, I’m honored.” I said, looking into Esme’s electrified face and extracting a CD from her hand. Hovering over it with Sharpie, I asked, “Can I sign this to you Esme?”

“Can she mom?”

“Of course,” her mama said and then to me, “Can you sign it ‘To Esme, Keep singing?”
“I’d be so happy to,” I said. As I signed my name with a heart, I asked, “Do you want to be a singer when you grow up?” and she responded with stars in her eyes,

“I want to be just like you.”

My heart skipped a beat. I clutched my chest and retrieved my last custom Sally Taylor guitar pick from my overalls. Kneeling beside her, I put the pick into her small hand as if I was handing off a baton in a relay race. “This is for you,” I said, “Always follow your heart.”

With a wave of my hand and a nod of my head, I picked up my blue guitar case and thanked the family for literally saving the tour for me.

Maybe I’ll inspire artists to follow their hearts after all; I thought as I joined the band in our trusty steed Moby.

We’re exhausted. It’s time to go home— West into the sunset.

This

the

end

the

road.

Stay tuned for a final wrap-up and interview with each member of the band…

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Block Island, RI – “Heros” – Captain Nick’s – August 11, 2002

It’s 2:30 am. I’m with four 21-year-old guys with shaved heads trying to break into my third-floor hotel room with a knife and an expired credit card. One of the boys is kneeling on the floor with a dinner knife wedged into the door jam. Another is pushing with all his might while the third and the fourth are balanced precariously on adjacent windowsills banging on a small rectangular window over-the-door. The four of them are arguing over who gets to break into James Taylor’s daughter’s room.

Though I’m not in any danger (these guys are employees of another hotel on the island) I’m, never the less glad Dean made me pack that bottle of pepper spray for the road. How on earth did I end up in this situation?

The day started tamely enough. I woke up on Martha’s Vineyard in my childhood bedroom, surrounded by dolls on shelves and James Dean posters on walls. I’d flown in the night before, leaving the band and Moby back in Quincy, MA. When I left, they were busy indulging in the accidental discovery of a new “culinary masterpiece”: pretzels dunked in flat beer (don’t ask).

I was scheduled to record a rendition of “Anticipation” for a Heinz Ketchup commercial with my mom, brother, and cousin and but hadn’t quite sorted how I’d make it to Block Island for that evening’s show.

Enter my hero, Uncle Liv. Liv, licensed pilot extraordinaire, offered me a ride to my gig in his two-seat single-prop airplane. He took the long way, flying along shores lit up in the fading pinks and ruset golds of sunset. I tell you, there’s no better feeling than owning the skies—or, in my case, having an uncle who does.

The band greeted us at the airstrip. They’d walked over from sound checking the club, Captain Nick’s, which was only a spitting distance away.

Liv, the ultimate showman, grinned at the group and asked, “Want to watch me take off?”

“Sure, Uncle Liv!” they hollered like a bunch of excited kids.

Liv wadded himself into something resembling a discarded memo and wedged himself back into his seat. Leaning out the window, he shouted some music business advice, inaudible over the puttering of the engine. We waved as he took off to the West, into the sunset, as all heroes do.

I picked up my blue guitar case and slipped off my shoes. Together, we walked straight from the tarmac onto the stage and, with sandy toes and all, launched into our first set. The vibe of the club was electric. Though we’d never played Block Island, Captain Nick’s was packed and people knew our songs and sang along with them — a surreal and heartwarming experience.

After the set, I lingered at the club while the rest of the band headed out with some locals to a bar. While not intentional, it’s fair to say I’ve been avoiding the guys since I made my peace about turning. How do I tell them I’m quitting my own band? What if they ask what that means for them and I don’t have an answer. I’d warnet a guess that I haven’t made direct eye contact with any of them since the gig at The Iron Horse. I sense, in my back molars, that they know the fat lady has sung and I secretly hope they’d rather not talk about it yet, either.

Around 1 a.m. at the club, it hit me—I had no idea where we were staying. No key. No cell phone. No band. But I was just tipsy enough to believe I might stumble upon the right place eventually if I cased enough parking lots looking for Moby. Outside, on an empty Ocean Ave, I stared up at the silver full moon. It looked like a porthole in a giant black ship. It shone as if someone shot a hole in the skin of the universe and tomorrow was draining into the night from the wound.

I wandered dimly lit paths from one potential hotel to another, softly calling, “Soucy? Delucchi?” in increasingly desperate tones. Suddenly a young hotel attendant with matching stubble on his head and upper lip appeared, possibly summoned by my lunacy.

“I’m sorry,” I said as he approached “I’m a little lost –”
“Oh, hey, Sally Taylor,” he said, ““I saw your show tonight—you were great.” (Ah, the benefits of playing on a small island).

“Thanks,” I replied. “I’ve, uh… lost my band and don’t have a key to my room.”

“And what room are you all in?”

“Well, I don’t exactly know.” I admitted, “We might not even be in this hotel.” Even tipsy, I realized how ridiculous I sounded.

He raised an eyebrow and invited me to the staff barracks, where a full-blown employee party was underway. The floors were a sticky mix of sand and spilled beer, faces glowed green under harsh halogen lights, and everyone, having attended the show, treated me like family. That’s how, at 1:30 a.m., I found myself at the mercy of four slightly stoned, collegiate, superheroes attempting to break me into a locked room at a hotel I was rumored to be staying.

“If I only had a rope,” murmured the guy holding the knife to the door. “I could swing around the outside to the window.”

“Where’s Spiderman when you need him?” I laughed.

Then someone else chimed in, “Wait, I know a guy with a ladder. We could put it on the awning.”

Though clearly a bad idea, the-ladder-on-the-slender-awning plan seemed like a winning solution and we trotted down to the parking lot. There, just pulling in, sparkling like my knight shining armor, was Moby. She navigated the lot in seeming slow motion—an eternal second anchoring time to a moment. My band of heroes stepped out of Moby’s big white belly. They readjusted their belts, stretched their backs and casually waved upon seeing me with a sea of boys as though it were just another day at the office. Delucchi presented me with a roomkey along with a bouquet of flowers someone left for me at the club. My band couldn’t have known what a sight for sore eyes they were. They couldn’t have known I’d been through a legendary odyssey.

The world is full of unsung heros. Folks like my uncle Liv, the Block Island bellboys, the audience that sang along to my songs and of course, my band of musical brothers. I wish I had time to write each of you a song to memorialize your heroics but this road tale will have to do. My time as a traveling minstrel grows short and besides, I’m much too tired to stay awake for another second.

Thank you to all you heroes who’ve saved this damsel in distress tonight and for the last five years along the road. Only some of you know who you are.

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New York City – BB King’s – “Whisky, Gin, Vodka” – August 7, 2002

My publicist and NYC host, Ariel Hyatt was supposed to help me shop for a wedding dress today but had to bail at the last minute. I was left to fend for myself in the urban jungle of Barney’s Department Store. Buying time before my bridal appointment, I wandered downstairs into the cosmetics department, a sparkling maze where women sampled lipsticks between sips of Chambord. I spotted an OPI nail polish called “Cajun Shrimp” and decided it was coming home with me.

Unfortunately, buying it felt harder than flagging down a cab in Midtown. Armed with a wad of cash, I waved it frantically to catch the attention of the beauty counter “bartender,” all while navigating the crush of shoppers. Just as I was making some progress, my cell phone rang. Suddenly I was grabbing for my purse and accidentally bumped into a brunette behind me. In the brattiest NYC accent, she said, “Watch the hands Blondie.”

The call was from a reporter with the Trentonian Times in New Jersey and I abandoned my hopes of polished toes to plug one ear and search for better reception on the first floor. I absentmindedly browsed overpriced leather bags and ridiculously soft cashmere socks, grazing their textures with my free hand as I answered his questions,

“I’m shopping for a wedding gown today…Yes, I’m getting married…Oh, how did we meet? 10 years ago on a nude beach. He was the lifeguard, I was, well, naked…. No, he wasn’t naked too… Plans for the future? ‘I’m quitting after this tour (he doesn’t believe me)… My parents? They’re fine… Growing up? Fine too.” But then the battery on my cell started to beep that low, dead-battery sound. The reporter assured me he thought he had enough for his article and let me go.

My wedding gown appointment was a disappointment and I was late by the time I met up with the band at BB King’s for sound check. A Jewish singer-songwriter’s magazine reporter was waiting when I came off stage. With all these promotional interviews, it’s clear Ariel doesn’t know I’ve made my mind up to stop touring after this run.

I joined the reporter at her table off stage left. She looked at me skeptically as I sat down. I didn’t know I’d been pitched as a Jewish songstress so when the interviewer asked what my favorite holiday was, I answered “Christmas” and we both laughed. I had to explain I’m only Jew-ish — that while my grandfather (yes, of Simon & Schuster fame) was Jewish, my mother’s mother was Afro-Cuban. The admission didn’t end the interview per se, but the reporter did put her pen and paper away and our conversation took on a more casual tone.

I’m delighted to report the show went off without a hitch—that it was, in fact fierce and powerful and I sang my guts out to a packed house. I needed a rewarding night (I didn’t realize how much) something to refuel my spirit and get me through one more week of tour. My brother’s drummer, Larry and Ben’s best friend, John Forte, met us back stage. It was bittersweet to see him — one of his last nights before he reports to prison to serve fourteen years for a mandatory drug-related sentence. I wrapped my arms around his strong back and promised we’d visit him and that we wouldn’t have any fun until he was back. I couldn’t imagine how he must be feeling.

Right to left: John Forte taking a picture of me taking a picture, Larry Ciancia and John’s brother.

The whole band trekked downtown, late night, to a club called Siberia. True to its name, the joint was in the middle of nowhere and freezing cold. There was a mega fan blowing beneath a subzero air conditioner, which had to “remain on at all times” insisted the bartender — something about smoking and ventilation codes. You’d never suspect there was a bar in this neighborhood from the street, save for a dullish pink light glowing above the black and graffitied door. I guess that’s what makes a bar appealing in the new Millennium — anonymity. In the 90’s it was long lines and hot chicks that made a joint appealing, wasn’t it?

“What can I do you for?” asked the bartender with pockmarked skin and rotted teeth.

“I’ll take a Chardonnay.”

“Whisky, gin, vodka, or you’re out of luck girlie.” He must‘ve enjoyed saying this to me, seeing as I was out of place in my peppermint pink striped pants, hair in pigtails and still probably wearing too much stage make-up. I managed to sip into a vodka tonic made with gasoline and play multiple games of pinball with my band.

When we got back to Ariel’s West Side apartment, my publicist set up a makeshift bed for me on her sofa. Somehow she’d managed to score a promotional copy of my dad’s (still unreleased) album October Road, and I couldn’t wait to hear it. She lent me her discman, a pair of headphones, and I fell asleep to Baby Buffalo (one of the songs I sang harmonies on). I felt so proud to be on such a wonderful album. It made me feel so loved and honored and well… accomplished.

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Northampton, MA – “The Beginning of The End” – The Iron Horse – August 5, 2002

Dean has been on the road all weekend and today marks the sorrowful date of his departure. “Honey,” he whispers from the pillow, “how’d you get to the other end of the bed?” In my half-conscious state I answer what seems obvious:

“Walking… with… the prehistoric beasts.”

Before we fell asleep, we’d been watching a program called Prehistoric Beasts on the Discovery channel. Now, in my groggy state, I wonder to myself, how they gained entrance to my dreams and provoked me to do a full 180° in the sheets.

2 AM

Springfield Marriott

Room #1430

Here I am, at the foot of a single bed, lying beside my beloved who is a little concerned, but mostly impressed, by my night time gymnastics. I suppose my positioning must be less surprising to me than to Dean, who’s been snuggling my ankles and calves for the last hour. Dean laughs and hugs me to him as I giggle girlishly and realign my body with his.

“Get a room…” hollers Soucy from the adjacent bed and we giggle harder and snuggle up closer. Soucy slips easily back to dreaming but Dean and I don’t bother. We cling to the slippery moments passing between now and his flight in a couple hours. I miss him already. From each other’s arms, we watch the ceiling grow bright from headlights on passing cars below. When I think of anything besides how to kidnap him and make him stay, I think about the show last night and how wretched it was. The Iron Horse was one big fail.

We’d spent the previous night at my pop’s after playing Club Helsinki in Great Barrington. The band, dad, Dean and I had stayed up late, like teenagers, eating potato chips, chocolate chip cookies and drinking hot kava tea. We discussed wedding plans and tried to keep our laughter down to a minimum so as not to wake his babies or pooches.

The next morning, my pop made an extra effort to spend time with me and rode with us in our crowded van to the Iron Horse. Even though we’d advanced the gig a month ago, when we got to Northampton, the marquee read Tonight! Dan Hicks and His Hot Licks. Unbeknownst to us, we’d been demoted to their opening act and would be paid accordingly. There’d be no room for the band on stage, so it would just be Soucy and me. To add insult to injury, because The Hot Licks had forgotten pieces of their drum kit, they asked Dino if they could borrow his and requested he set it up for them.

I felt embarrassed in front of my pop. He took me for a coffee up the street. I explained how this tour has been death by a thousand cuts.

“This’ll happen at every level along the way, my Sal,” he told me. “Occasional humiliation is just part of the business,” he explained. At the café, two cappuccinos teetered in saucers against our uneven-legged table. I stared up at him with glistening eyes, as he listed off some examples of particularly bitter humble pie he’d eaten recently. I was grateful for his sympathy and camaraderie and relieved he didn’t think being demoted to opening act was a reflection of my value as a musician.

His eyes sparkled as he repeated what he said when I first told him I was considering a career in music, “I wouldn’t wish this career on my worst enemy, but if you want a career in music, you’re talent is worthy of having it. You’ve really got what it takes my girl.”

Boulder, CO – Mom & Dad React to my Demo – April 5, 1998

My heart melted under his empathy and generous reassurance. I thanked him as some tears escaped my lids.

“I was really bowled over when I asked you to record those harmonies on Traveling Star and Baby Buffalo. You were a total pro in the studio, Sal. You picked up those parts immediately and knew just how to sing’um on mic to blend with my vocals. You’ve really become a great musician, my gal. You’ve paid your dues and earned your stripes. What impresses me most is that you’ve learned how to do all this by yourself, without your mom’s or my help. You’ve made 3 albums all on your own, put a band together and toured probably more than I have over the past 5 years and you did it on your own terms—without a record company behind you. I’m so proud, my Sal.” His adulation made me tear up and I made a little puddle on the table in front of me, leaning over my hands so as not to embarrass him in front of customers who’d already recognized him and were straining to overhear our conversation.

Dad wrote out the parts he wanted me to sing

“I really wanted to make a difference, dad. I wanted to inspire new musicians to know they can make it on their own — that they don’t need a label — that they can learn the ropes as they go and build a career and own their own terms. They can find success and shape—”

“—You have done that Sal. You don’t know how many young artists might have already seen your shows, read your road journals, heard your music on the radio or will hear your music in the future and think to themselves — I can do that too! You don’t get to know who you have touched or will inspire with your music and message. You just have to know that you inspire me. Your integrity and fire and ingenuity inspire me and I know I’m not alone in that feeling.” I felt so held and loved and seen. My heart swelled. I drew a constellation of stars with my tear drops on the table, knitting them into an abstract child’s game of Connect the Dots on the smooth black surface. Could I admit this out loud? I wondered.

“I’m just not sure I want it anymore, dad,” my admission was tiny when it finally escaped my lips. “It’s really hard to have a relationship from out here,” I said.

“Tell me about it,” he laughed.

“I don’t want to fuck things up with Dean. If I’m getting married, I want it to be forever. I want to be in 100% and I just don’t think I can do that if I’m going on the road all the time.” Dad nodded and took a deep breath. He pressed his lips together into a thin, straight line and exhaled through it. He knew exactly what I meant. “But my band—”

“—They’re your family,” he finished my sentence, “I know.” He pet my hand lovingly.

“I can’t imagine letting them go.”

“They’ll be ok Sal,” he reassured me. “You just take your time and figure out what you want. Your band’ll support you no matter what and so will Dean if you decide to stay on this musical path. Dean knew who he was marrying when he asked you.” He nodded his head toward the door. It was show time. The sounds of the coffee house returned, like I’d been in the depth of an ocean and was just returning to the surface.

Dad walked me back to the club like he was taking me to my first day of kindergarten. Dean was waiting for me under the marquee with a hug. He took my hand, the one with the ring on it, and led me straight to the stage. I brushed the tears from my face with the back of my hand and with the strength and vulnerability a career in music demeans, I stepped into the spotlight. I picked up my guitar and started into Tomboy Bride. How is it that I am lonely, surrounded by these faces? I thought. I felt the guitar purr on my belly like a cat and the cool metal of the mic pressed up against my lips. I felt the eyes of the audience and wondered if maybe there was a young musician out there, somewhere in the crowd, who I was inspiring to chart their own musical journey. I felt my song fill me to spilling, and when I came to the chorus, I looked out and saw my band, my fiance and my Dad, all in separate parts of the audience, singing along. When the song was done. So was I. This is it, I thought, it’s the beginning of the end of the road.

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Burlington, VT – “Free Show” – The Metronome – August 3, 2002

“You got any more of that zit cream Sal?”

“Sure do Soucy,” I say handing over a tube of Clearasil. Mount Ve’Soucy’ous (the nickname he’s given his prodigious nose pimple) is nearly gone today. Still, the humidity and air travel have left us both covered in all sorts of unseemly spots and blemishes. We take turns dabbing coin-sized dots on our faces with the white tingling medicine.

Post pimple tending, we brush our teeth. The lights are halogen turquoise in the bathroom of room #212. In the mirror, our eyes look shallow, outlined in dark permanent dark circles that make us appear villainous.

“Funny, I don’t feel as bad as I look,” I say as Soucy spits a mouthful of frothy paste into the sink. He chuckles and comments on his Kermit-y tinted skin. No matter how hard we brush our teeth, they remain stained in this mirror.

When our bedtime ablutions are complete, Soucy disappears down the hall for a moment of male bonding in room #314 before succumbing to my essential oil infused feminine world for the night. When he returns, I’m in the middle of changing and shouting, “Wait a minute!!!” and he’s ducking his eyes behind a free hand apologizing. This happens a lot, as you might expect. Never has there been so much accidental viewing of nudity between two people who want to see each other naked less.

We watch CNN and argue like an old married couple, about the volume. After a childhood spent in front of stage monitors, I’m about as deaf as they come. Also, frankly, I’m keen on watching TV with earplugs in so if I fall asleep, I won’t be awoken by neighboring rooms with noisy couples, late check-ins, or maids in the morning. But Soucy is sensitive to loud noises (excluding guitar amps of course and drums and bass amps for that matter) and likes his TV at night at a “gentile” volume— a volume, which to me, feels like watching TV from across the street at the next-door neighbor’s house. Eventually I compromise, and take out my earplugs.

Tonight we played The Metronom. It was a much better show than last time we were through Vermont when only 11 people showed up (including us). Tonight we were advertised as a free show, which might explain our beefed up attendance but also the casualness with which people circulated through the venue.

Burlington, Vermont, a quintessential college town, brought out a melange of people. Students from the nearby campus arrived in clusters. Locals who looked more like usual Metronome patrons mingled with the college crowd, adding a crustier, crunchier balance to the youthful buzz. People weren’t afraid to come and go throughout the show, especially with the free entry. Instead of it being disheartening, it added a strangely cool element, as if we were the soundtrack to their night out on Church Street. Some folks waded close to the stage, swaying, nodding, occasionally shouting out a random request or cheering after a solo. Others hung closer to the bar in small groups, chatting.

While the gig wasn’t anything to write home about, there was one moment of particular delight. During “For Kim,” an enthusiastic young guy took advantage of a mostly empty dance floor to haul out some impressive breakdancing moves. I was especially shocked by the height he got on his Worm.

It felt refreshing to play for a crowd with such an organic, come-as-you-are spirit. Whether they were there to catch the whole show or just stumbled in from the warm Vermont night for a few songs, it reminded me of why I love what we do.

With CNN at a “reasonable” volume, Soucy and I fall asleep to the lullaby-like (note my sarcasm here) news of our country’s proposed invasion of Iraq. G’Night.

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Boston, MA – “Ben’s First Show” – August 2, 2002

There are blue cotton panties on my front lawn. I don’t know how they got there or how long they’ve been there just that I don’t want to touch them to throw them away and apparently neither does Dean or anyone else for that matter because day after day, they’re there.

This morning when I’ve showered and packed, I look out the window to see the band is there; Soucy, Castro, and Dino all huddled around the panties in my yard and they’re all crinkle-faced and wondering aloud who’s panties are they? Where did they come from? Where are they going? And why? It’s disturbing to them when I tell them I don’t know and so we all just hover over them with our suitcases by our sides until Amanda, my assistant, comes to pick us up for our flight. But on the ride to the airport, they’re all anyone can talk about and the blue panties on my yellow lawn set the tone for the day.

At the airport, the woman behind the counter insists she doesn’t have us on any flight to Boston via St Louis despite the confirmation letter I show her from hotwire.com saying we’re all set to go. However, she does find us on a plane to Chicago that’s going onto Boston and we take what we can get.

In Chicago, I get a strawberry banana smoothie and shop around in a bookstore deciding on “Choke,” a title by Chuck Palahniuk the author of “Fight Club.” It’s dark and cynical and apocalyptic and I like it ‘cause I’m really none of those things.

I love mulling about in bookstores—surgically opening covers, staring into spines and marrow because, who knows what you’ll find? Love, pain, sex, tears, a different time, a different space, a different version of yourself, a different set of problems from which to escape your own.

Soucy at the famous *Make Way For Ducklings* statue in the Boston Gardens

When we arrive in Boston we immediately set off to find my brother. Tonight is his first live show (with his band) and I am thrilled I get to be here for it. The venue is called TT the Bears. We’re not exactly sure where it is but Soucy’s thinks he’s been there (albeit in 1983) and remembers it being in close proximity to Harvard in Cambridge. So with luggage in hand, we turn ourselves over to The T, Boston’s subway system. The Blue Line connects to the Orange Line which links us up with the Red Line heading outbound by which time Soucy admits to not remembering if it really is out this way at all and we all sigh and I call Kipp on Soucy’s phone.

Kipp, as you may recall from my early days on the road, was once my boyfriend, now, my brother’s manager. While there is still only love between us, I haven’t seen or spoken to him since I got engaged. I expect it may be a bit awkward when he answers, but he sounds genuinely excited to see me and directs us to get off the Red Line at “Central.”

But at “Central,” we’re lost again. We drop our bags outside a used record shop playing Hoagie Carmichael loudly through a scratchy olive megaphone and Soucy goes down into the store to ask directions. We look like we’re running a yard sale with our luggage splayed out — computers, guitar cases and shedded clothing on the sidewalk. A drunk man waddles by mumbling nothings. Girls point at store windows talking loudly about shoes they covet. A cigarettes smokes, abandoned on a curb.

When we finally arrive at the club Ben lifts me up to give me a hug and slings me around in the air. He looks great, lean and handsome underneath his baggy cloths and hat. There’s a great turnout at the venue and plays his heart out for all the pretty girls who’ve already dedicated their hearts to him after the first song. He’s GREAT. He’s confident and his band is tight and full of unstoppable talent.

After his set, I help him sell his new CD, “Famous Amongst the Barns,” and I brag about singing harmonies on some of the songs. It’s the first night they’re available and they’re going like hotcakes. I buy one too.

We stick around the club for a while listening to the next band but we’re not all that jazzed about them and when Delucchi shows up, fresh in from LA off the Femmi Kuti tour, we rejoice in our band being whole again. I don’t think I can convey how important Delucchi is to our band. Having Brian for a substitute soundman one the first leg has only amplified my appreciation for Delucchi — his work ethic, positivity, patience, organization, not to mention his willingness to drive at all hours of the night.

We retrieve our bags from Ben’s van, congratulate him on a fantastic first night and bolt, promising to reunite for an early breakfast that never ends up happening. Back onto the conveyor belt of subways that lead to our hotel in Woburn. Here we reunite with Moby, right where we parked him when we’d flown back to Colorado for some mountain gigs last week.

In the room, I throw Ben’s CD in for a spin . The guys are excited to hear the tunes I sang harmonies on, but to my dismay, all of my vocals have been scrapped. I’m not even mentioned next to my Mom and Pops’ names on the ‘additional artist’ fold-out.

I’m feeling pretty embarassed and dejected when Delucchi yells up from the ground floor to let me know “Moby’s dead.” A light was left on while we were away, and we need a jump before morning. I’m on hold with AAA when I get a message from Dean that he doesn’t think he can make it out this weekend. I feel deflated and tired and it sends me into a tailspin of self-loathing. This is no way to start a second leg of a tour. I kick myself for letting myself get so down and it’s 2:30 before AAA shows up.

I open a can of lentil soup and eat it out of the can with stone wheat thins I find in the trunk. There’s no AC and I fall asleep, above the covers, reading “Choke” and feeling the way those blue cotton panties must feel on my lawn.

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Boulder, CO – “Our House” – July 30, 2002

I’m two days shy of flying back East to finish up the tour. The idea of heading back into Moby’s upholstered arm(rest)s is bittersweet when contrasted against this week spent in my fiance’s real live arms. Dean was a sight for sore eyes, standing at the door waiting for me, heart open and steady as I stumbled into his embrace, exhausted and battered, like a soldier returning from war.

2403 Pine Street, our house — bought together and renovated with our own hands, has grown and transformed in my absence. Our shelves have new dishes, our bed has sheets. Dean, ever thoughtful, outdid himself and by restoring my parent’s dining room table, reviving its 1975 charm in a way that made it glow with my musical, childhood memories. For my homecoming, he adorned every corner with little miracles—lights hanging delicately, plants thriving, and our bedroom turned into a haven of love. Candles flickering like an orchestra of warmth and hope.

We’ve barely left that room. The world slips away, and our time together is reduced to only the simplest needs—food, the occasional breath of fresh air, some light stretching, and three shows in the mountains.

Dean came with me to all of them. The first two were smooth enough, but Aspen was a total mess. The venue was chaos—two soundmen were in a full-blown standoff when we arrived, and from above, torrential rain poured as if to drown the town off the map. But all storms have their silver linings. My grandma Trudy surprised me by showing up smelling like tea rose (her signature scent), and despite everything, we sold $700 worth of CDs. Take that rain!

It’s interesting, even though the first half of this tour has been uglier than most, there’s been a shift in the energy at shows. I can see our crowd size growing, our show tightening, and my career blooming and growing roots. I know we have something special and that people are catching on and it’s exciting. But it doesn’t change the fact that being away from Dean physically hurts.

Where I once used to dream of a life on the road, basking in its freedom and adventure. Now I dream of a life at home—here, in Boulder, in Our House, which like the one in the CSN song, is a very very very fine house, with two cats in the yard…

and the steady rhythm of daily routines, and a man who loves me. Being away feels…off, like I’m stretching myself too far—a rubber band set to snap.

But what would I be working toward if it weren’t music? Would I pursue Dean’s and my landmine victim rehabilitation innitiatives in The Tranquility Project? Write music for others? Open that raw food restaurant I keep imagining Dean and I running? Or maybe breathe life into Consenses, a new idea that’s been begging that I build a multidisciplinary art collective in town?

The possibilities might be endless if I could bring myself to imagine stepping away from the path I’ve charted—but the tracks I’ve laid are my own. I’m invested in them. I routed them. I forged and carved them and lay them into the dry earth —a road less traveled in the well worn map of music. I’ve committed myself to this lifestyle, to this band. I bought Moby to take us where I believed we were all heading —The idea of jumping tracks feels utterly impossible.

And after all, to be fair, the road isn’t all bad. It’s just… hard and awful.

Maybe surrounded by Moby’s arm(rest)s are exactly where I need to be, at least for now. It’s only two more weeks after this, and Dean will be flying out to see me next weekend. I’ll hold onto that thought, wrap myself in it like armor, and just keep going as I have been for five years now.

I’ll have to see how I feel by the end of this leg.

Signing off… confused.

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New York City – “Greetings, From My Hairy Nuts” – Sotheby’s Auction House – July 24, 2002

After tonight’s gig in New York, we have a whole week off in Colorado. I can’t overemphasize how excited I am to see my fiance! But it’s too early to get worked up. Though our flight home is less than 24 hours away, we still have four states to visit before take-off.

The day kicked off in New Jersey, where Soucy woke me with breakfast in bed? Suspicious. He hovered over me with a lukewarm coffee and a bagel, ever so slightly smudged with cream cheese. He gave a little throat clearing, eh hem, and gently grazed my shoulder with the underside of his paper plate. Soucy is nice, but never this nice. I stumbled in the sheets to insinuate my reluctance to get up.

“Come on, Sal,” he announced with unreasonable charm. “It’s Raptor Trust day!”

Ah. Now it all made sense. The Raptor Trust, if you aren’t already aware, is a bird rehabilitation sanctuary in New Jersey. It’s operated by Soucy’s parents and is the childhood home of my continental breakfast carrying guitarist. I should have remembered it was bird day!

As we slid through the backroads of Soucy’s hometown, he pointed to places of interest like an enthusiastic tour guide — his best friend in fifth-grade’s home, unrequited loves parents’ house, favorite stoner hangouts, and the pièce de résistance, the site of his first french kiss.

Unfortunately, our Soucy tour made me late for my interview with Paper Magazine, and I spent the first hour of my visit, glued to a phone in the Soucy’s living room.

When I finally emerged, I joined the band on the continuation of the Soucy tour around The Raptor Trust grounds. Chris proudly showed us the inner workings of his family’s organization. He demonstrated how to feed baby birds with tiny instruments inserted into cup like, screaming mouths. He explained the process of freezing rodents to make yummy rat pops for hungry adult raptors.

Soucy samples the rat pops at The Raptor Trust

I got to hold a barred owl and a beautiful eagle with an injured wing. But to stay on top of our busy schedule, our bird handling would have to be cut short.

Bidding a grateful adieu to Mr. and Mrs. Soucy, we cruised over the bridge and down the FDR toward New York City. Our destination? Sotheby’s. Yes, that’s right, that Sotheby’s.

Was playing a set at Sotheby’s even a thing? Turns out, not really—we found ourselves in the middle of some big opening event for a new Miguel Calderon exhibit. Load in included riding up in a freight elevator next to a $5 million Andy Warhol portrait. Our green room was crammed with precious artwork worth billions and we decided against making ourselves to comfortable, least the couch turn out to be a Thomas Molesworth or the drink tray, something once belonging to Louis Xiv.

After a brief sound check I decided to amble around the newly hung gallery. The artwork was quite shocking (which is really saying something. I am not easily shocked). Off to stage left was an series called “Greetings from my Hairy Nuts” featuring Miguel’s balls against scenic postcard backdrops — tiny paper mâché action figures vacationing, diving, and fishing on the artist’s hairy nuts. Off stage right was a series of photographs showcasing a wannabe gangster shooting taxidermied safari animals with a Magnum.

Our makeshift stage was in the main hall and when I took the mic, I pretended I was only there to auction off some of the instruments (insisting the players came with them). The audience seemed to enjoy my bit and played along. Sotheby’s was soon packed with music enthusiasts, two of whom came from 6 hours away in Syracuse just to see us. They shouted and sang along to all my songs (even the words I forgot). The whole event was a surreal experience — more dream than reality, and over too soon. Once again, we were rushing to stay ahead of our unreasonably tight schedule.

This last bit was going to be the tricky part—the dismount if you will. I’d made reservations at The Spring Hill Suites in New London, and figured we could get there by midnight to kack out for a while before heading onto Boston for the flight. But there was construction traffic and cars dripped through the interstate like water through a leaky faucet. Dino took the first shift and I, in shotgun, fell asleep to the lull of classical music over crackly FM airwaves.

I woke up at 1:55 alarmed. Dino was doing 90 with his chest pressed against the steering wheel, elbows jutting left and right. There was loud static coming from the radio, which was, intermittently playing Mozart and Brian shouted up from the back “How you doing there Dino.”

Dino’s eyes were wild and wide “I dunno man. I’m getting tired. I might need to stretch a little.” We pulled over and Dino proceeded to do some impressive yoga on the side of the road to wake himself up. Luckily New London was only the next exit and we snagged three hours of sleep, before climbing back onto the road at 5 AM.

I took the morning shift, navigating toward the sunrise and Boston while Kenny, finger tacking a map, hollered directions from the back.

At the airport, we cobbled together a breakfast of dry biscuits, suspiciously yellow eggs, and undercooked, fatty bacon before collapsing at the gate. Dino and I claimed an unmanned secondary screening table for a kip while the rest of the band sprawled beneath it on the floor. As I fell asleep, I could hear Soucy distressing about the things he’d forgotten in the van and when I woke up it was to getting kicked out of the area by a frizzy-haired, secondary screening woman with an intimidating frisking wand.

The flight itself was a collective knockout—we were all sleep-deprived, drained, and high fiving our legendary capacity to make an exceptionally chaotic, tight schedule work out.

Colorado, here we come.

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This Valentine’s Day – Will I Be Yours?

We’re down to our last ten gigs guys! I just wanted to take this opportunity to thank all of you for coming along for the ride. You’re comments have kept me going and I love all of you.

This is just a reminder that you have to put someone’s first name, last initial in the comment box below and get that person to sign up for the daily gig (the link: https://sallytaylor.com/writer/#tales), to be eligible to get ME (hand knit me) when the tour ends. Deadline for sign-ups is Valentine’s Day so… instead of “Will you be mine?” I’m gonna ask you this….

WILL I

BE YOURS?

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Indianapolis, IN – “3 Sets & A Bar Brawl” – Zanies Too – July 22, 2002

Zanies Too S U C K E D .

I woke up on the floor in a St Louis Marriott this morning. Michelle, from our booking agent’s office, who’d agreed to book our hotels this tour—must’ve mistaken us for a band of four because everywhere we’ve been thus far has been one bed short. I called ahead to New York to confirm our reservation for tomorrow and low and behold, we were only booked one room between the five of us. Each little discouragement these days feels like another excuse to never tour again. Each slight feels one punch closer to my career’s TKO and every sigh feels like a silent resignation.

We arrived at Zanies Too around 6 pm. It was in a strip mall next to a five-and-dime store which shone yellow from within. Soucy poked his head in the club and said, “This place is disgusting.” That’s Soucy though. He says what’s on his mind whenever no matter what feelings he slices and dices. But we had to agree with him. The club was in a red light district so there was quite the crowd milling about the parking lot. The bouncer opened a screeching metal door, “You the band?” he shouted. “Ya,” we answered. “Ya don’ wanna stay out there too long. Been a lot’a shootings this week.” With that, he let the door slam.

The bar was swarming with some dozen bar flies who stared at us through glazed, unseeing eyes. The in-house sound guy was somewhere between hungover and drunk—Jägermeister by the smell of him, and our green room was a storage closet. I walked to the front of the house to check out the gear. Some guy was sweeping last night’s butts off the stage.

Barbara (a God-sent barmaid) fed us some pizza and Cokes and slowly we began to let our guards down. But then Brian (you’ll remember our temporary sound guy— the one who would rather be on Leftover Salmon’s tour bus than in our van) came to tell us there’d been a mistake in the booking and we’d been scheduled to play three (count ’em, THREE) 60-minute sets in this smoky-ass bar. This wouldn’t get us back on the road until 1AM (when I’d be heading back to make my bed on a hotel floor). I felt sick and went to look for some Tums.

It seemed like years before we actually got on stage to play, but once there, we surrounded ourselves in a little protective bubble — a forcefield where we imagined nothing could touch us — that is, until someone threw a CD and hit Kenny. “Is that all you got!?!?” the drunk, irate CD thrower yelled, and that’s when the bar brawl broke out. The bouncer yelled “Take it outside!” And nobody listened.

That was our cue to cut and run. We didn’t even stick around to get paid we just bolted.

I’ve got to say, though, the women in that place were champs! They were gutsy beyond belief and still sweet. They were like the Amazon women on Popeye’s island—the ones who brought him up and taught him how to be strong and good. They were gems amongst the trash of Zains Too and I have huge respect for them.

Thank you gals, for saving us. We most likely won’t be seeing you again.

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