Boulder, CO – “Time’s Ticking” – May 18, 1998

On Tuesday, Wendy and I got together in the morning to lay down guitar tracks.  Unfortunately, I ruined the session with my terrible mood.  I’d taken antihistamines to counter my hay fever and they made me bristly, snappy, and slightly agro.  We left the studio at noon having accomplished little.  We agreed to take a beat and reassemble for a nighttime session at 6 pm.

My best pal Kate suggested we go to the batting cages to get let off some steam. What a gift it is to have a friend like Kate.  We hit balls and raced go-carts and watched horses trample the dry earth into dirt and dust. 

Afterward, we went clock shopping, not for a device by which to tell time, but for an instrument that gave the right “tick.”  I wanted a real clock “tocking” the time in place of a metronome in my song “The Goodbye.”  Kate and I must have looked very funny holding our ears up to different clocks and I assume most people thought I was mad when I loudly requested silence from an entire shop before bending down to listen to the intonations of a specific coo coo.  But finally, out of exhaustion, I opted for a cheep $5.95 pharmacy wind-up alarm clock.  It ticked in ¾ time but somehow managed to work for the song in 4/4.  You can hear it here.

Brian McRae (drummer) and Greg (stand up bassist) laid down tracks in the evening and even though everyone thought “The GoodBye” and “When We’re Together” were my weakest tunes, I advocated for them to be on the record.  It made me think that maybe I’m beginning to believe in myself.

We were at the studio until the wee hours of morning.  Each time we hit record, we had to remember to also shut off the house fans, close the door, and hit the buzzing dimmable lights to ensure complete background silence.   In those moments of dark and silence, lit by candles and smiles, we held our breath hoping for a steady performance, one that wouldn’t need to be redone or patched.  We sipped shitty 3.2 gas station beer and by 5 am we were stumbling out into a newly broken dawn. Bass tracks were complete on “The GoodBye,” “When We’re Together,” “Small Town,” “In My Mind” and “Red Room.” 

I know I change my mind about it every day but I think this demo/record will turn out to be grand.  And if it DOES suck, it won’t be because of the musicians.

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Boulder, CO – The Break-Up – May 13, 1998

I broke up with Doppler Circus.  The boys were surprised.  I was surprised they were surprised.  They told me I owed them $489 for the Red Door demo tapes and rehearsal space for 3 months. I cut a check and left them, jaws agape, in the rat-shit-infested garage I found them in.  I went straight from the rehearsal space to the second-hand store across the street and bought myself a white slip and cowboy hat with a radiator burn in the brim.  I plan to wear both for my photoshoot on Wednesday.

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Fort Collins, CO – Opening for The Samples – The Starlight Theater – May 11, 1998

I turned in my last paper today for Anthro to Professor Patton.  It was not my best work.  I’m thoroughly exhausted. We opened for the Samples at the Starlight in Fort Collins and it changed my life. 

Our little garage band is now “Doppler Circus,” formerly known as “Tiny Yellow Ducks” formally known as “Not Eric” formally known as “Mary Sister Reload.” I got the call from Tom (Drummer) when I got home from recording keyboards on my own demo at Skyline. On the voice message, Tom said “We got the gig opening for The Samples and the guys are all in.  See you Saturday night.” 

I rode to the gig with Jeff  (guitarist) whose squareness brought out the cooky side of me. I sang silly songs in British accents along to the radio most of the journey.  We arrived close to 5 pm.  Just in time to hurry up and wait (as is often the case with sound checks).  Venues want you to be on time and imagine (rightly so) that since you’re an artist you’ll be late.  So they schedule their sound guy to come in 3 hours after they’ve told you to be there and thus, the colloquialism all bands are familiar with, “hurry up and wait.”

Wendy Woo randomly showed up and we talked about the tracks on my record while The Samples sound checked.  It was a warm night.  The club was medium-sized with an indelible patchouli scent that had no apparent source.  I was watching the buzz of bartenders tapping fresh kegs and listening to musicians test mics with the tried and true “Mic check 1, 2.  Testing 1. 2. 1. 2.”

Suddenly I heard a voice that came from somewhere deep inside me. It said, “This is just the beginning.”  But of what?  I’m not sure.  Opening for The Samples?  Doppler Circus on the road?  My own musical career?  Whatever it was, I couldn’t wait.  I felt confident and strong. 

We sound-checked with “In My Mind,” and our audience began to file in. 

Sean, The Sample’s lead singer, asked if I’d join him for a song during their set.  I got out my guitar in the dark red light of the stale green room.  We did tequila shots and drew sharks and parrots on the walls and Sean suggested we do a Neil Yong song “Old Man.”  Of course, I knew all the harmonies. 

“You look like your dad,” he told me “Your eyes are like waterlilies and I’m falling into them.” He said drunkenly while his girlfriend rolled her eyes and got up from his armrest.  “Will you open every gig for us this tour?”  He asked.

“I’d love to.  I’ll ask the guys.”  I did and of course… they declined.  “If the Samples won’t pay our gas, it’s not worth it man!“  said Dave (insert eye roll here).

When Doppler Circus was introduced at 9:30 I dove into the spotlight first “Hey everybody, we’re Doppler Circus and we’re going to play some tunes before you experience The Samples.”  As Tom counted off “Weaving The Tomb” I felt my feet ground like roots into the stage.  I felt electricity flood my body. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to fully direct my energy into the mic but when I opened my mouth my voice shot out as clear as a laser beam.  I felt like the limb of some giant ancestral tree branching a new bough out into time and space and I knew that the music had me, more than I had the music.  I let it flow through me.  My black floor-length polyester dress struggled to hold the universe in my lungs, in my chest. 

This

Kicks

Ass!!!!!

I thought.  Before launching into “F#” another Doppler Circus original, I said “You all having fun?” and the coagulated crowd roared their consent.  “OK, we’re gonna play a couple more and it’d be cool if you all danced”. The crowd laughed and one guy toward the back, shrouded in darkness shouted “If we could move!?!”

At the end of our set, I shouted “You guys want to hear one more?”

“Yeah!” The room responded.

“Ok, Twist my arm.  We’re Doppler Circus from Boulder.  If you want, there’s a live performance recording of us in the back!  Good night!” and we finished up with “Not Eric” a song we wrote as a band in the middle of an identity crisis.  But while that crisis might continue in that chilly, cavernous garage back in North Boulder, as we evacuated The Starlight spotlight and re-entered the sea of faces below stage level, my personal crisis was over.  I knew who I was.  I was not Not Eric or Tinny Yellow Ducks or even Doppler Circus.  I was Sally Taylor and I was branching out on my own.

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Boulder, CO – “A Short One” – May 6th 1998

I’m going out to sky trails today to lay down drum tracks, then rehearse with Mary Sister Reload/Not Eric/Tiny Yellow Ducks/Not My Fucking Band. 

Tomorrow is bass tracks and Jeremy Lichter is coming out from the East Coast to lay down guitar tracks but before then I have to write two papers and study for my Anthro exam on Friday and somehow I’ve got to transfer all my credits to my college back east to get my diploma. 

Frankly, I don’t even care if I graduate anymore. 

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Boulder, CO – Wendy Woo – April 27, 1998

Wendy picked me up at “The Other Place” coffee shop in North Boulder. It was grey but not raining and I’d done an hour’s worth of vocal exercises, taken 2 Sudafed, a hit of “Singer’s Saving Grace” throat spray and drank almost a gallon of water before our meeting.  I wanted to be prepared to sing well.

She joined me in my little purple Rav and we listened to my newest songs on the tape deck.  Usually, I tense up listening to myself but with Wendy it’s different.  She soothes my nerves.  She was excited by the songs and said she wanted to produce the demo herself if I’d let her. 

I was so honored and excited.  I grew up distrusting women’s intentions but here. In the mountains, on the way to my first professional solo recording session, I felt embraced by this muse, this goddess of a woman who believed in me.  Who believes in my music.  I was nervous about recording my songs.  To birth them into something solid… a CD that will encase them for eternity like a tomb.  But when I opened my mouth to the microphone…. It was a relief.

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Boulder, CO – Tiny Yellow Ducks – April 23, 1998

I sat outside at The Trident coffee shop where white hippie stoners pridefully stroked their dreadlocks the way Park Ave. princesses stroke their pearls. They talked in smoke-filled syllables and cackled endearments like “duuuuude!” and “mannnnnnnn!” as I pressed the cell phone closer and pluged my right ear with a finger.

Tim White, Editor in Cheif at Billboard was calling to tell me he loved my album!  “It’s original and strong,” He commented before suggesting I take out the first song “The Complaint,” explaining, “It’s not as strong as the rest of the record.”

He recommended putting “Red Room” first then “Tomboy Bride,” then” In My Mind.” I scratched notes on a napkin. Everyone has opinions on song sequencing it seems. I’m grateful for advice. Dad recommended making a tape recording of the first and last 15 seconds of each song and patching them into various orders. This is a brilliant strategy. His sequencing suggestion is the following:

“Do you need help finding a record deal?” Tim asked me before we hung up.

“No,” I cringed as I said it. It felt heretical to be turning down such a once in a lifetime offer. “I think I’m gonna do this music thing on my own for a while. But thank you. I can’t tell you how grateful I am for your help and advice Tim.”

“Just promise me you’ll perform your best every night whether it be to one person or 100,000.  That way I can gloat when people come up to me in the future and say “You know Timmy, you were right.  She is awesome.”­

I drove to rehearsal at the warehouse with the band formally named “Not Eric,” recently renamed “Tiny Yellow Ducks.” Inside the refrigerator of a rehearsal space, I found Tom, Dave, and Jeff fighting over what an awful name “Tiny Yellow Ducks” is. 

Luckily, today a bass player named Kenny Castro left me a message on my cell phone saying he’d love to hear my tape and would I meet him at “Albums on the Hill” record store to drop it on him.  I left rehearsal early, frustrated. 

Kenny Castro on the Bass
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Boulder, CO – FTS – April 21, 1998

This is my last week of college!  For graduation, I bought myself my very own cell phone!  A potential drummer named Brian McRae was the first person to leave me a message on my new voicemail.  He said he’d be interested in working on my demo.  This cell phone thing is the greatest. 

I did vocal exercises on my way to rehearsal with Tinny Yellow Ducks who sometimes sound really good and sometimes awful.  Last night was awful.  Dave, the bassist, decided he wanted to pull out of the gig opening for The Samples because “it’s not even going to pay for gas to the gig” and frankly I’m done with this whole garage band scene.  The late drunk nights, the cold, the ringing in my ears, the drums so loud that I can’t even hear my voice coming out of my mouth.  I’m sick of the crackheads that jump when the motion sensor lights betray their efforts to break into our cars.  I’m sick of the ceiling stain which drips again.  I’m sick of the infighting, the other bands in neighboring garages that compete for airspace with their never-ending jams.  I’m sick of driving home dodging deer and worrying the gigs I’ve lined up for us (Like these with The Samples) will be gift horses looked straight in the mouth.  God, Please send me my own band.  FTS.

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Boulder, CO – “Waiting for my Musicians” – April, 12, 1998

I drove to North Boulder yesterday.  My lovely purple Rav 4, balloon animal of an SUV purred along the edge of the continental divide.  I was late to meet up with Wendy Woo, a local musician with great street cred connections to both musicians and local studios and effortless style.  Wendy was sipping coffee out of a broad-rimmed mug near the drafty front door of “The Other Place,” an uncreatively named coffee shop across the parking lot from the garage where I rehearse with Mary Sister Reload/Not Eric/Tiny Yellow Ducks.   One cup of bitter grounds later we drove up to Wendy’s studio in Lyons an hour away.  On the way, we listened to my demo tape.  Her knee bounced along to my untammed drum tracks and ½ way through each song she already knew the choruses and sang harmonies along with them in perfect 3rds.

“Sky Trails Studio” was in a house nested in a canyon up a 2-mile-long dirt road lined with tumbleweeds and crumbling boulders.  The low ceiling space was small but light.  It looked more like a living room than the fancy studios I grew up doing homework in circa 1980 in Times Square.  but I liked the place and I liked the people.  They played me a recent track of a local gal named Michelle something who’d just finished her CD and used Wendy’s house band to record.  It sounded really good.

Driving back, I was all but determined to use Wendy’s musicians as my band until I called my pop and he convinced me of two things.

 #1 I need to find my own players. 

“Your songs are great Sal and you’ve been working on them for a long time and you know, even though it’s a self-released record or a glorified demo, it’s still The Release of these songs and the players on it are going to make all the difference (wise words). 

#2 There’s no rush to do this fast. 

I should take my time.  Once I put out the first recording the countdown starts on my second. 

But all the same, there are butterflies in my stomach itching to dance with lightning bugs in my head and my intuition screams: “IT’S Time!”

At $200 bucks a day (not including engineer, recording tape, or musicians) at Wendy’s studio I’m looking at approximately $6,500 to do my demo.  Not out of budget and I could probably still get my touring van. 

Candles winked flirtatiously across tables tonight at Dandelions restaurant. Kipp and I joined up with some musical friends for dinner and everyone agreed “Wait for your musicians!” How frustrating!  They don’t come in the mail ya know guys!

Sally’s To-Do List:

Finish writing my final term papers.

Study for finals

Find a drummer.

Find a bassist.

Find a keyboardist.

Find a rhythm guitarist.

Find strength in my music.

Sing on stage as much as possible.

Decide what songs I want to record.

Rehearse

Copyright my songs.

Get over my fear of flying.

Graduate from College

Rehearse to go on the road with Not Eric to open for The Samples on the 3rd.

Get good at guitar.

Look at other possible studios.

Breathe.

The opposite of success in music is not failure, it’s silence.  I won’t be silent.

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

I successfully handed out all 10 copies of my rough demo of songs on my trip to LA.  Some of the songs I recorded with “Not Eric,” now calling itself “Tiny Yellow Ducks.”  Others I recorded on my 4-trac in my apartment which feature the scratching skills of Fatty J who likes to get in on the action.  I felt weird about handing out my cassettes with their handwritten song titles.  It was so self-promoting and forward but when I was sure I was going to die on the airplane back to Denver I kept chanting through hyperventilating breaths “Everything is gonna be OK” and “Your babies (songs) are out there.”  And that made me feel reassured. 

I woke up to an enthusiastic message from Mom.  Overly enthusiastic in fact.  She was raving about my music.  “I just got the tape this morning and it’s so amazing.  I’ve only listened to the first 4 songs but I love ‘Complaints’ and ‘In My Mind’ is great and ‘Sign of Rain.’  The line about Alex liking when the weather matches how he feels inside is fabulous.”  It was sweet of her to overzealously compliment my music.  Before I put the cassette in the mail to her I told her how much her opinion meant to me and how vulnerable I felt about sending her my “Babies.”  She was excited for me but in my heart, I disbelieved her enthusiasm.  It felt too expensive and perhaps too elusive to claim.

Dad met in Boulder for lunch at “Dot’s Dinner with a bunch of my pals, musicians, record company execs, and Kipp, my new boyfriend.  Clustered into a red pleather booth inside the makeshift gas station, we bribed waiters for egg white omelets and talked shop. 

Back at Dad’s hotel room #300, I played him a couple of songs: “Cowboy” and “I Meant To” which he tweaked and twanked but said he liked a lot. “I’m blown away by what you do with your voice.” He told me, “Your soul really comes through in your music.” 

“That means a lot to me pop.” I said and of course, that was an understatement.

He asked me if I wanted to take Ben’s route into the music business:  “You know, find a manager, a record label, and a booking agent and go all in?” he asked, elbows on knees watching the floor like it were a taro card.   I Couldn’t tell if he was offering to help me or not.  “You’ve got what it takes to make it in the industry though I’d never wish this career on anybody.” He said.  “Being a musician, it’s a blue-collar gig my Sal. It takes a ton of elbow grease and grit and it ain’t easy on relationships either” He said. 

It was the first time I actually believed such a thing (a big famous-filled career with all the glitz and all the shit) was possible.  As I peered in at the possibility in the cloud bubble above my dad’s head, the idea looked not so appealing.  Too big, too scary, too fast.  Too many sharks swimming in the icy dark water.  So I said “No. No pop. I think I want to go it alone.”

Leaving Dad and walking back up the hill to my pad it hit me, I don’t really know all that goes into a music career.  You think I would, having grown up with two legendary musicians as parents but frankly, I don’t even think they fully know. 

As the sun dipped below the surface of the day I realized I wanted to create my own label.  I want to find my own band, I want to book my own gigs, and do my own PR until I know how much I’d pay someone not to have to do those jobs anymore.  I want a hands-on music business career. 

My pace picked up as the night grew sweater-worthy and I passed by the Fox Theater where people qued in Birkenstocks to see Zuba in concert.  The first thing I’m going to do next week is make a better recording of my demo tape, next, I’ll find a bunch of band mates and then. I’m going to buy a big ass van. 

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Boulder, CO – Fatty J & Not Eric – February 9, 1998

So I guess I’m staying.  Boulder, its flatironed red mountains stabbing at the sky, holds something mysterious for me.   I rented a 2nd-floor apartment at 9th and University and converted the porch overlooking the cemetery into a makeshift bedroom hanging some found fabric on the windows.  The first night I moved in, there was a mound of rubbish outside my front door.  As I moved my furniture in, I moved someone else’s garbage out.  My desk in, someone else’s broken TV out.  My CD collection in, Someone else’s smelly hefty bag out.  As I was nearing the bottom of the stack of trash something in a glass terrarium moved.  I thought it was a rat and nearly fell down the stairs backward.  But it wasn’t a rat.  It was a softball-sized hedgehog some a-hole had abandoned.

“People do that,” explained the vet I rushed the spinny orphan to.  “They buy hedgehogs as novelty pets, over feed ‘um and when they realize they can’t pick ‘um up or play with ‘um they abandon them.” 

“Well that sucks,” I said.

“This one is about two times the size it should be.” She said, donning gloves and retrieving the critter from the terrarium.  “They’re supposed to curl into a ball when they’re scared but this one is way too fat.”  Indeed, as she hoisted the little guy up he gave what looked like a lazy abb crunch but nothing that much resembled a ball. 

“He’s got parasites too, see?  He’s losing a bunch of quills.  You’ll have to buy a pair of gloves and feed him a dropper of medicine every day.”  So, I took the pathetic little beast back to my new apartment and named him “Fatty J” after the all-night stoner pizzeria down the street.   

The floors in my living area are so wrapped that after a day of classes (I signed up for at CU Boulder in an attempt to finish my college credits) my furniture migrates into the center of the room.  Fatty J is always buried in the center of the pile and I make a game of finding him while peeling back tables, armchairs, and rugs to their original positions.  He’s a free-range hog.

I took the gig with “Mary Sister Reload” and we’re now calling ourselves “Not Eric.” Rehearsals are weekly.   I’ve since washed the orange plaid jacket from the ceiling insulation and wear it with pride every freezing practice. 

Last week we recorded an assortment of songs at The Red Door Studio.  As we arrived at the back-alley studio, ½ frozen flakes the size of watch faces were just starting to litter the air.  We took turns laying down tracks, stepping over each other’s semi-reclined bodies to get into the clenched fist size of a control room.  There we drank skunked beer and re-listened to parts we’d just played.  We made up band names.  Steve, engineering the session suggested, “Big Head Sally and the Monsters.” Dave offered “Naked Trout” and Rob suggested the alteration “Just Trout.” Names were thrown around like spaghetti at a wall: “Emotional Blender” “Sounds Good Naked” & “Spudboy”.  We laughed, we ate, we drank, we recorded, and repeated until 12:30 at which point I was wasted, exhausted, and back in the damp snow.

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