The gig today was a teaching gig. Delucchi and I got a 7 am wake-up call to ensure on-time attendance at Trumansburg High School’s opening bell. Unaccustomed to any day that starts before 10 am, I followed my sleepy hand down the hotel corridor in search of complimentary coffee in the lobby. My pajamas and messy bun inspired disapproving looks from the business men and women dressed in suits and pinned up coiffure but, luckily, I was too tired to be ashamed.

The drive to school was gray and drizzly and when the first period bell rang, a twinge of panic shook me back to my own high school days. The stale stench of paper and the residue of dreams in which I turned up naked for my SATs haunted me. Exams, insecurities, and self-doubt (“oh my!”)–Each gripped me like a hormonal hangover.

My first lesson was a music class full of sophomores sitting in a semi-circle. Some probably know more about music than I do I thought as I entered the room. Self-conscious about my music-reading illiteracy, I took a seat among them and watched their eyes dart to their classmates, wondering if their questions were important enough or smart enough to ask.

With energy fueled by coffee and sheer unpreparedness, I told them what I knew about writing music.

Songwriting

• It’s about getting out of your own way and listening to what wants to be carved from the fabric of silence.
• Having a relationship with muse is as intimate as having a boyfriend or girlfriend and almost as time-consuming.
• It’s about listening and then being practiced enough with an instrument, to paint with it what you hear.
• It’s about learning healthy techniques to stave off your internal ‘judge.’

Next, I told them some tips and tricks for performance….

Performance

• You can use an audience’s energy to fuel you and then recycle it back to them.
• If you’re nervous look into the spotlight. Treat it like the person you wrote the song for or best friend.
• You can cure nerves backstage with push-ups and leg exchanges and reframing fear as excitement.
• The ultimate goal is to connect with a song so deeply that the audience disappears and gets the Peeping Tom thrill (from the comfort of their dark seats) of seeing someone at their most human, on stage.

Touring

As the class winded down I spelled out the logistics of getting a band on the road and told the class how difficult yet rewarding it is to be a musician.

• I explained that being a touring musician is a blue-collar job. It’s not glamorous. It’s pull-out couches and bad coffee and smoky rooms and drunk hecklers (at least in the beginning it is).
• I explained the rewards and consequences of being an indie artist vs a signed act and
• I told them why I believe all of them should pursue the artist’s life.

“Life is an interpretation,” I told them “no one else on earth is going to see the world the way you see it. Therefore you owe it to the rest of us to share your world by creating art so we can be expanded by it.”

Still, after class someone wanted to know: “How do I get famous?” and I looked into her cute insecure face all covered with fragile poreless skin and I saw myself in the audacious twinkle of her eye.

“Write this down,” I told her, “sit down with a pencil and a paper and write out all the reasons you want to be famous. Be honest about it. Next, write down what you think will make your life successful. Then make sure they’re in sync with each other.” She seemed content with my response though I knew I wasn’t answering her question.

“Keep that piece of paper, OK?” I said as I turned down the colorful graffitied hallway—with the scrawls that read, “I love so and so” and “fuck high school.” Passing students plastered between staunch blue lockers, I saw through anxious expressions into the depths of shining souls, and what I saw is that they, just like the rest of us, just want to be loved…

To be truly, truly, loved.

New York Route 7, headed west in the van, Chris Soucy (Guitarist) reporting

From the Best Western Rensselaer Inn in Troy, New York it’s only a fifteen-minute drive to Valentine’s in Albany. But Troy is a historic city. Perhaps not experiencing its glory days right now, but once upon a time…

Sally and I had breakfast with her stepfather, Jim Hart, and his son, Amen, at a greasy spoon called Duncan’s, where everything seems to be served with a side of bacon whether you order it or not. Eggs over-medium are served over-easy and runny just because and the coffee is the color of a goldfish tank in need of a good cleaning. That’s just the way it is. That’s just the way it needs to be, too.

Jim spent some college days here a while back. He actually painted the polyurethane finish behind the bar at Holmes and Watson, where Sal and Kyle had lunch yesterday, which also happened to be Kyle’s wedding anniversary. (Sorry to keep your hubby away from you, Traci, but his services are required on the road here with us for a while longer.)

Jim told us a little of the Albany/Troy area history over breakfast. Once a thriving industrial area, its iron ore and textiles traveled to other cities via the Erie Canal in horse and ox-drawn barges. It’s the birthplace of “Uncle Sam.” Uncle Sam was the name of a meat packing company that shipped food supplies south to Union soldiers during the Civil War, and the name Uncle Sam has been synonymous with patriotism ever since. Troy is also called the Collar City because back in the day when shirt collars were produced separately from the shirts onto which they were clipped, they were made here in numbers great enough for the city to build its reputation on them. Beautiful old brownstones and big granite libraries and courthouses line the streets, but most of the industry is now gone and empty storefronts seem to be the order of the day. That’s what we learned over breakfast this morning.

Last night’s show at Valentine’s once again proved the old saying that you can’t judge a book by its cover. It seems to be a phenomenon we encounter over and over again on the road this year. We walk into a club at five o’clock to set up our gear, look around and say, “Yikes, another dreary black box of a bar.” Then of course it turns out to be a great gig.

Apparently, there’s a little bit of construction going on at Valentine’s. A large corner of the room just next to the stage is blocked off by raw plywood. Maybe it has always been that way, but it has that “Men Working, Please Wear Your Hardhat” look about it. I imagine that most nights there’s a pretty heavy rock band taking the stage at Valentine’s and thrashing at an earsplitting volume while young rockers, dressed like vampires, tattooed and pierced in urban tribal fashion drink, cruise, pose, scam, deal, and fall down the stairs. But last night they set up chairs for a somewhat tamer, older crowd and a triple bill of acts fronted by acoustic guitar-playing songwriters.

The opening acts were terrific. Two guys named Tao and Johnny played first. They’re from the Northampton, Massachusetts area and they played a blend of old-time roots country, blues, and bluegrass with some modern touches. Our new favorite guy is Stephen Kellogg, who played in the middle spot. Stephen is also from Northampton. He’s a terrific singer, a great songwriter and we all became instant friends with him and his girlfriend, Kirsten, who bravely ran the merchandise table all night. Stephen and I chatted over the relative merits of different types of pickup systems for acoustic guitars all night. Sally invited him to join us on stage to sing a verse on our cover of the Stealer’s Wheel tune, “Stuck in the Middle with You” and on Sally’s “Happy Now.” Stephen happens to be a terrific kazoo player and he and I joked about having him whip it out for a solo without telling Sally about it beforehand, but we felt it was best for him to maybe leave the kazoo in his pocket after all. I’ll bet a kazoo solo would sound GREAT on “Happy Now,” but these kinds of intricate complicated parts played on such sophisticated instruments need to be carefully rehearsed, you know. Next time.

The loudest and rowdiest contingent in the crowd last night was a bunch of folks from the Hatch family. Once upon a time, years ago, I worked as an elementary school teacher with a fiery, crazy woman named Gigi, who happens to be from a huge clan of brothers, sisters, and in-laws spread out over the continent. Gigi and her family members Nanette, Natalie, Joseph, others whose names I can’t recall, their assorted boyfriends, girlfriends, spouses, and drinking buddies have now come to many of our shows: Hoboken, Saratoga Springs, a few different shows in New York City and again last night in Albany. Gigi came to gigs of mine in New Mexico back in the day. I even did a recording session with her husband, Jon, once. These folks have been great fans of the band. The fact that they are a whole family of gorgeous blondes and redheads (except maybe for Joseph) doesn’t seem to bother any of the boys in the group either. Thanks for all of your support. I think we’ll just set up and play in your living room next time, as long as you promise to take it easy on the martinis and stop shouting for guitar solos before the show even begins, OK?

We’ve been taking lots of photos these days ­ pictures of the musicians, fans, and staff we meet at various venues, snapshots of 28-pound kitty cats named Jerky that live in Boston, pictures of other kitties that live in bars, more and more photos of Kenny sleeping in the van with a book on his chest. We’ll try to post some of this craziness on the website soon. It may help you begin to understand just exactly why we are the way we are and why we behave the way we do. [From the road, Chris Soucy, Guitarist/elf/resident smart-ass]

7 am was out of the way but worth the detour to get to watch the morning bloom from the back of the van—the fog lifted its skirt to the day and a hemline of mist settled in the tops of the trees the way lint gathers at the end of a broom. It was a beautiful drive to Saratoga Springs. In the highway median, grass waved wildly like enthusiastic spectators along the Queen’s procession.

Kyle, our new drummer, is a comic genius. He’s had me laughing since day one when someone, admiring his drumkit asked what kind of skins he used and without a beat, he responded “Babies.” We ate Twizlers on the ride to Saratoga and made up pseudonyms for our future selves to check in to hotels under.

“Mine will be Sally Taylor The Second,” I said jokingly and Kyle responded his would be Sally Taylor The Second’s drummer.

“Ya know,” said Kyle, “Ice Cube uses the pseudonym O’Shea Jackson.”

“Hu,” said Kenny ripping a Twizzler from the bag, “why.”

“Because,” said Kyle “It’s his name. Despite common wisdom his mother named him ‘Ice Cube’ at birth, he’s actually O’Shea on his birth certificate.” We didn’t hear the end of his deadpan delivery because we were laughing so hard. Delucchi had to pull over onto the soft shoulder so his convulsions wouldn’t get us into an accident. While we were stopped, Kyle took the opportunity to play us his new Dan Bern CD, “Tiger Woods,” which did nothing to improve our howling laughter nor Delucchi’s driving abilities. We’d be late for sound check.

Café Lena’s floors bent and slouched here and there and its paint-flecked walls leaned in as if to tell us their secrets. Oh how I wished they could talk, would they have stories to tell — about Bob Dylan who played here in his heyday with Joan Bias and other folk founding mamas & papas. Needless to say, it’s an honor to get to count myself amongst those folking heroes and musical pioneers.

Handsome Dave wearing a green apron, greeted us with hot Lemon Zinger tea and we set up for sound check. Spring light poured like an eager audience, through Lena’s crooked-toothed windows. Before we were done checking, a crowd had arrived. They sat patiently sipping cappuccinos and mochas around old, round, wobbly tables the way Europeans sit in cafes in oil paintings.

Already on stage, we decided to forego our vocal warm-ups and costume change and simply started our set where the sound check left off. It was a spectacular evening though I got the feeling people were waiting not so much for our songs to begin as they were waiting to clap at each song’s end — like they were worried they’d miss their cue for applause. It was a little weird, but overall, nice they were so eager to show their appreciation.

After the show, John Quale from USA 1 Stop (one of our CD distributors) gave me the nicest compliment. It wasn’t about my voice or songwriting or how tight we were getting as a band. “You’ve got a very well-oiled machine,” he said “No one in this business works as hard or as efficiently as you do.” It brought tears to my eyes. There’s something about being seen for the work you do off the stage by someone else in the music business that means more than anything. For the first time in a long while I felt successful. I gave him a hug and climbed back into the van.

I awoke to someone yelling loudly in Spanish in the hallway. Hoboken, I remembered where we were almost immediately, as I reached my eyes toward a headboard clad like Elvis in white and gold. The bedsprings screeched reluctantly under my every movement. The bottom sheet, detaching from its embrace revealed an immoral, floral matrices below. The lampshades were pink and the bright jungle print comforters matched the opaque drapes. They looked like they’d just come off the set of “The Love Boat.” My mother would HATE this place, I thought to myself as I tripped toward the bathroom wearing an oversized John Forte “Poly Sci” T-shirt.

The door was unlocked and I opened it to find Delucchi staring skyward with a confused expression on his face. Looking up I discovered the ceiling was a wall-to-wall mirror. “What in the…Why?” He muttered with authentic concern as we both broke into bent-over laughter.

The show last night at Maxwell’s was pretty odd. The cellar-style venue, once known for having forever altered the face of the New York music scene, has hosted every band I can think of — Nirvana, REM, The Smashing Pumpkins, and Yo La Tengo just to name a few. A torrential thunderstorm drenched hopes of a sold-out show but, thanks to Soucy’s family-sized guest list, we had a reasonable and very enthusiastic turnout. Kenny blew his bass amp toward the end of the second set and the storm managed to flood our green room but the good news was no one got electrocuted as I’d expected. The night turned into one of those damp-to-the-bone scenes where everyone (band and audience) looked on the verge of hypothermia.

I was warned when we arrived, that Hoboken’s notorious for car break-ins. With over $100,000 dollars worth of equipment in our van I was nearly frantic to find a way to protect our gear when I suddenly had a brilliant idea. Leaving the band scratching their heads, I dashed into a corner bodega and returned with a box of Kraft Macaroni & Cheese. I threw it on the dashboard with a loud, “Ta, da.” The boys looked confused.
“Theft deterrent!” I exclaimed.
“How is Kraft Mac & Cheese theft deterrent, Sally?” asked Kenny with a, I can’t wait to hear this, expression on his face.
“Nobody’ll want to break in if they think this is the kind of grub we’re eating,” I insisted. The band burst out in laughter….

…but it worked. Thanks, Kraft Mac & Cheese.

My lids creaked open as though on rusty hinges. There was the type of crunchy, featherlight comforter I’ve come to associate with motels, over my head turning the pale light of morning into a red and gold lava lamp pattern on the starched sheets. Though still early, Philadelphia was already surfing the heatwave the forecasters had predicted. Through an open window, I could feel the heat radiating off the parking lot cement. I could hear motel residents in wife beaters sweating and swearing and retrieving things from cars and slamming trunks. There was no chance of getting a jog in without acquiring heat stroke or potentially getting stabbed so I doggedly slugged down the stairwell in my tube tops, towel in hand, sleep still staining my eyes, to the hotel gym. It was a sorry sight — a converted supplies closet with a broken upright bike, a stair stepper thingy, a pair of mismatched hand weights, and a slack-chained rowing machine I made myself sit on for 20 minutes before resorting to yoga and stretching. The History Channel was on. And snippets of useful information leaked like a faucet into my brain to mingle with the remnants of my dreams.

We have a marathon of Eastern gigs on the horizon — both a curse and a blessing. We’ve been out for a week and I’ve already lost my voice. I suppose I was asking a lot of it to work 7 nights in a row. It is officially our first day off and I’m officially on vocal rest. But honestly, the road is like a vacation compared to the last 6 months making the album. I think the best metaphor for it would be childbirth. Not that I’ve ever been pregnant (other than with song).

Birthing an Album

Conception:
First, the spirit of songs comes in the middle of the night, insisting on being brought to life. they force you out of bed, put a pen in your hand and a guitar in your lap before you know it, gestation has begun.

1st Trimester:
The songs knit themselves into your body and soul the way the sun braids gold into the ocean’s face and you start to glow all over.

2nd Trimester:
You clean out the clutter. Anything superfluous needs to go. You get rid of verses and choruses that don’t serve your baby and start to imagine what it will look like.

Birthing Class:
Lamaze is pre-production. You practice and practice and practice and breathe hard so that when the time comes, labor will be easier.

3rd Trimester:
You anxiously enter the studio. You try not to think about the possibility of birth defects, unexpected fees, or extenuating circumstances and you wonder if you’re actually up to the challenge after all. Will you love this baby? Will others? Have you picked the best producer to father it? What band members will help raise it? You question if labor will be as hard as your mama said it would and wonder if it will be delivered by its due date (oh please let it come by its due date). You question what it will cost and if your heart, soul, and pocketbook can afford it.

Labor:
By the time you get to the mixing studio you’re exhausted and ready to get this baby out of you and get on with your life, but the beauty of being pregnant, with child or song, is that you can’t just tell what’s growing inside you’ve got a flight to catch or a deadline to meet or things to do. You’ve just got to wait…. and wait and wait and wait and while you wait, you give your baby a name and you knit it a (CD) jacket.

Labor is difficult. No matter how hard you’ve planned and prepared for it, it hurts. It’s scary, full of uncertainty, and always takes longer than you’d like. But in the end, after the wait and the labor and the pain and the worry and the anxiety, you’ve got something in your hands that is as precious as your own breath. You’ve got something that truly reflects your heart and soul. You’ve got something that lives and breathes just for you, all because you took the time and love to birth it.

Maternity Leave:
Exhausted and overwhelmed, you hibernate for 3 months tending to your baby’s every need. You watch it grow before your own eyes into a shrink-wrapped and swaddled CD ready for the road.

Pre-school:
This. Touring.