The windows are opened and the scent of sagebrush and freedom pour through us. We move at a lethargic 60 miles per hour, which is okay when you have nowhere to be, and are somewhere in Oregon headed toward Boise Idaho. It’s dark in the van.
A Game is on the radio, Duke vs. UCONN. We’re split on who we want to win but 1/2 of us are indifferent. I spilled Diet Coke on my seat and now I’m sitting in a sticky wet spot.
During commercial breaks (which seem longer than programs these days) we tell our “back in the good ol’ days” stories. So far we’ve heard about “The Largest Acorn” from Chris Soucy, and the one about “The Sinking Boat and Wet Oreos” from Mr. Mcrae. I told a story about the time I had to have a spinal tap, and Nisa told us that when she was younger, she threw herself through a glass door because her mother insisted she come in for dinner. What a strange and wonderful group we have.
Our morning was a struggle against gravity and the allure of a warm bed. I must’ve asked that poor woman at the front desk for 3 callbacks after her first attempt to rouse us at 9 am. I could hear desperate rain pelting against the window, trying to force its way inside from behind brown paisley curtains. Soucy, one bed over, drooled, face down into his Clorox-scented pillow.
Our battle against sleep was won only when Dellucci yelled “It’s Shari’s time!” from outside the hotel door and the promise of waffles and hashbrowns proved stronger than slumber.
The Sit and Spin is an eccentric gem. Imbued with a distinct bohemian charm, this funky venue masquerades as a Laundromat by day and a bustling hub of music, games, food, and drinks by night. Its walls are adorned with board games, ranging from Strategy to Monopoly, creating a vibrant, playful energy.
While Dellucci wrestled a rebellious bass drum mic that refused to comply, the rest of us peeled off soggy jeans and tees until the lot of us were down to our skivvies and whatever towels the bar had on hand. Tossing drenched threads into one of Sit & Spin’s hefty driers (one that could probably spin a small car) we huddled around a game of “Sorry” and listened to soundcheck slowly take shape in the background.
As we draw the curtains on our first national tour and start to head back over the Rocky Mountains, what I’ve learned and need to remember is this; It’s not enough to be good. Music is only a fraction of why audiences go to see live music.
When I step on a stage, whether it’s bathed in a spotlight or nestled in a dim corner of a coffee shop, there’s an unspoken promise I am making to those who came to honor me with their ears. I’m not just there to play; I’m there to connect, to give a piece of myself that can’t be gifted any other way but through song.
The next time I pack my guitar case, tune strings, and set out on the road, I want to remember that I carry more than just a heart full of melodies with me. I’m a modern-day troubadour, sharing tales through rhythm and rhyme that echo back to a time when stories weren’t just told, they were sung.
I want to remember to stay open, like the road that stretches its arms out to me. To be compassionate, like the old cracked door of a venue that’s seen decades of artists leave their hearts on stage. I want to remember to play every note like it’s a secret confided which whispers, “We’ve shared something real tonight.” I want to remember that songs, masquerading as music, are a feast for the soul.
And until the next leg of gigs… I want to sleep. Only one show left on the way back to the stable.
“Lack of space is a true test of band harmony.”-Brian Mcrae
Never were truer words spoken. Stuck for seventeen hours in a van with seven other souls on a rainy day could make even the most Zen monk cranky… and we ain’t no monks.
Dawn was breaking when we checked out of Chez Delluchi. The sun, like a bald orange head, peeked at us over the suburban rooftops and cast an eerie glow on a threatening sky. By the time we negotiated the twists and turns of Chris’s cul-de-sac, it started to drizzle. Our first stop was Safeway for breakfast (raw carrots, candy, deli meats, and soda…we’re trying to be healthy).
By the time we hit I-550 our bodies had moulded together to accommodate our new passengers:
Kipp (my boyfriend who’d come to support us on the road but if you asked the band, had realllly come to boss us around and eat all our food) and
Kate (my pal from Nashville who probably didn’t fathom the adventure she signed up for when she accepted a lift with us from San Fran to Oregon)
We fit together like slightly abused puzzle pieces against the already uncomfortable grey leatherette seats of Moby. We used one another’s knees as armrests and shoulders as pillows. 3-weeks worth of clothing lolled like sleeping dog tongues out of ½ zipped bags. Our warm damp bodies frosted up the windows where the boys drew penis’ in the fogged glass, snickering and pointing at their artwork. My yarn traced the road, zigging and zagging and tangling people together like flies in a spider’s web.
By the time we reached the petrified forest, our nerves looked like my yarn; frayed. I took a solitary walk deep into the forest to find some serenity and reclaim my space. I bathed in the forest feeling the tension wash off me with every step.
With the rain, our constant companion, we took turns at the wheel – enthusiastically calling dibs on the driver seat – the only uncrowded spot in the van. Kenny managed to clip a stray dog during his stretch but luckily didn’t kill him. It was an infinitely long drive and we didn’t reach our hotel until 3 am.
The onslaught of the rain continued unabated on the following day. Our venue, The White Eagle, in downtown Portland, was rumored to be haunted. If I were a ghost I’d probably haunt it too. Its walls were adorned with woolen Turkish and Persian rugs, with lanterns casting flickering shadows on a ‘Palmistry’ mural that marked our humble stage. We retreated to the green room, a glorified kitchen supply closet, as our fans began to trickle in. And despite the weather, we managed an exhilarating sold-out show.
I woke up on Delucchi’s sister’s floor. We’d made it to the Goldengate bridge just after midnight last night and while Chris’ family had retired before we arrived, they’d left the lights on, food on the stove, and futons on the floor with unrolled sleeping bags in lollypop colors. I hit the pillow hard and woke only due to the racket downstairs. Brian and Delluchi’s dad were one-upping each other’s drum skills on dualing samplers in the basement. It wasn’t the drumming so much as the two of them yelling over their deafening headphones: “Listen to this.” “No, no. Listen to this.” “What?” “What’id you say?” “WHAT?” they shouted over one another.
It’s a luxury to wake up in a home. People who open their houses to bands are a rare breed. I don’t know if I’d be so brave. These folks (The Delluchi’s included) don’t appear to balk at 6 loads of laundry, the rancid baked-on stench of smoke and booze that follows bands like a bad habit, the inevitable din of instruments unshethed and played at all hours of night, the inside jokes a band has formed which alienate everyone not in the band, the depraved voracity a band has for food and comfort and space that they can’t help but devour like a pack of wanton dogs straight from the pound.
A band on the road becomes a beast with a mind of its own.
Sweetwater was a warm blessing on a rainy day. Its spiced, honey-colored wooden walls, floor, and stage glistened in the dampness. Downstairs, the green room featured old newspaper clippings, vintage posters, and stickers from all the “greats” who’d played there before us. I sipped a cold coffee from a leaky paper cup and toured my musical heroes on the wall; Elvis Costello, Jerry Garcia, Huey Lewis, John Lee Hooker, Ritchie Havens, Ry Cooder, Bonnie Raitt, Sammy Hagar, and Carlos Santana. Soucy came with tape sent from the bar to hang our own poster beside the rest. What an honor. Who knows, maybe in 30 years time, we’ll have blended into the history here.
The audience was generous, attentive, and plentiful, and “Actress” went over particularly well (despite Kenny losing his pink wig at the Gallaxy Theater gig in Santa Ana).
I was delighted to run into an old babysitter, Jane Hogan, who was now shorter than me but otherwise, unchanged. Jane was one of Ben’s and my favorite sitters. She used to host “Pig Outs” for us when we were lucky enough to spend the night at her family’s house in Cranford, New Jersey. She reminded me of her “All you can eat Fluffernutters.” I wish she’d brought one with her.
When unexpected old pals like Jane show up at gigs, it makes life like one perpetual surprise party.
The Hotel Utah was built in 1908 as a saloon and hotel. It is small and intimate like playing in the belly of a whale. Backstage, someone mysterious had sent me a bouquet of wildflowers with no name attached. Whoever you are, thank you so much.
I took advantage of a fully stocked rider to sample an assortment of medicinal teas; echinacea, throat coat, gypsy cold care, and ginger lemon. A rider is a band’s list of backstage needs a venue agrees to provide. A rider is sent before a gig, along with a contract agreeing to fees, times, and dates and an aditional stage plot marking the location of monitors, mic stands, cables, and players on stage. A venue usually tries hard to accommodate rider requests but sometimes they’re so ridiculous they become notorious. Infamously:
Van Halen requested NO brown M&Ms backstage.
Elton John had two dressing rooms on his rider and
Iggy Pop once requested seven dwarves, a Bob Hope impersonator, Grolsch beer, and two bottles of red wine, “preferably something we’ve heard of but still can’t pronounce.”
Though the tea was delicious, it did little to soothe my undeniable lyangitis. In the mirror, my eyes were bloodshot and glassy from sneezing. Talking was too painful so I tied some loose yarn around my neck, strapped a notepad to it, and took a vow of silence until showtime, communicating between the lines in bold letters to my band.
The owner of Hotel Utah looked skeptical, wondering if I could fulfill my end of the contract and perhaps regretting having bought all those expensive teas for me. But haha! Dr. Theater came through and while I admit, not all my high notes came out smelling like roses, I managed to get through the night before returning to vocal abstinence and passing little notes to my band.
Last night was the BEST night of my life and I don’t say that lightly. When people say: “When pigs fly,” or “In my wildest dreams,” I now know what they mean. I was in my wildest dreams last night and pigs were filling the sky. I don’t even know where to start, the shock hasn’t completely worn off and the grin (from ear to ear) doesn’t seem to go away even after sleeping.
We got to the Troubadour for a 6:30 load-in. After losing my voice almost entirely after the Galaxy show, I did a vocal fast during the day, nervously opening my mouth at 5-ish to see if it was still there. It was horse so I decided against a vocal warm-up (my usual practice). Luckily, it came back almost completely for the performance itself.
I’d never been to the Troubadour despite it being where both my parents made their start. It’s a tall room with a balcony facing east and a huge stage that takes up 1/2 the room and faces west. We sound-checked, grabbed a bite, and did a little interview with a very nice Canadian man and his wife outside on Santa Monica Boulevard.
At 8:15 I went backstage to get dressed. My boyfriend, Kipp came up and said “Sally, there’s some guy named Joel from Martha’s Vineyard here to see you.” I couldn’t think of who Joel might be. Confused, I followed Kipp into the hall. At the bottom of the stairs, there was my beloved brother Ben and his girlfriend Bridge, who I’d previously been told were in New York. I was beyond surprised and excited.
My brother asked if I’d call him up on stage for “Happy Now.” I was honored he wanted to sing with me but when I called him to come he said: “I’d like to invite one more person up here.” In turn, I replied, “Oh great, I invite you up and the next thing I know, the whole audience is up here.”
And out from stage right I see someone coming. It doesn’t look like anyone I know. And then, the spotlight catches her and I almost die right there on the spot. It’s my mommy. My sweet adorable mommy came all the way from the east on a plane (which I know she hates more than anything in the world). And there she is, standing next to me, and then on her knees hugging me, and were both laughing and floating 5 feet above this stage. This stage where 28 years ago she was discovered and I’m more happy than I’ve ever been in my life.
They joined me on Happy Now and then left me to finish up the show. But I didn’t need to finish. I didn’t need anything else ever. I could have just laid down and died and said I’d already lived my dream.
The Casbah is an institution. It’s a 175-capacity venue with a tall stage in a tight space which makes me feel like a bat wrapped upside down in a cave. All the great West Coast bands cut their teeth at The Casbah. Nirvana and Smashing Pumpkins were both routing through here just 8 years ago. Clearly, it hosts an eclectic group. This week on the roster: Queens of the Stoneage, Nashville Pussy, and…. Us?
We rolled into town on a red carpet of concrete which emitted an intoxicating heat and tarlike perfume as we loaded our equipment into the club and Nisa went to find us iced coffees.
Never a man to miss an opportunity for a cultural experience, Delluchi scored an invitation to the Taylor Guitar Showcase and, between soundcheck and show time, Rick Fagen gave us a tour. Laser beams cut seamless guitar faces into fragrant ancient woods. Technicians with ancient wisdom maneuvered hammers as delicately as if they were paintbrushes. The cacophony of luthiers is a music all its own. It takes approximately 7 days to birth one instrument and, like all living things, a lifetime for it to settle and bloom.
Rick slid guitars into our hands to see how they sounded when played through our souls. Even Kenny got to hit on an acoustic bass. Much to Brian’s dismay they did not make “guitars for drummers.” But he was happy to walk away with a bag of Taylor swag.
Soucy on slide steelSal on electric
As magical as the Taylor factory was, I’ve been sneezing like mad since we left. I must’ve been allergic to something in there. I was already in danger of losing my voice after a cough I picked up after the Garton’s show. This is exceptionally unlucky as we’re playing the famous Troubadour in two days… Please voice hold on…
Last night, I packed and repacked an assortment of stage and street clothes in an embarrassingly large bag that clenched its zipper when I tried to cram one last unnecessarily jumbo-sized multi-vitamin bottle into its mouth. I couldn’t sleep. I was too wound up. I unfurled Chris’ map and read the highlit, yellow lines which looked like a constellation connecting Colorado to California to Oregon to Washington. I studied the highways like a gypsy looking for the future in the palm of a hand.
‘Califonia, here we come!’ I thought.
Over caffeinated at 10 am I felt giddy about escaping the confines of Colorado. I galloped down the path in my well-worn travelin’ overalls to greet the boys when they landed on my lawn. After loading Moby (the way Delluchi taught us) we smashed as many boxes of Tomboy Bride as we could fit under our seats, threw a red Igloo cooler stocked with sandwich fixings between the driver and shotgun, and took some photos to commemorate the occasion before setting out on the road.
Delluchi & SalThe BandSal & Moby
Later….
We’re 7 hours into our 17-hour drive to San Diego. There, we’ll play a spot called “The Casbah.” Bananas roast on the dashboard and perfume the air. Galactic is on the stereo playing funk in vain to our funkless reclined bodies. Various empty coffee containers strune on the floor roll lazily with each turn.
Tunnel, light, tunnel, corner, grab for loose soda cans, tunnel, tunnel, repeat.
1/2 the band is asleep. I feel so grateful to have Nisa along with me in this sea of boys. She looks adorable all snuggled up next to Kenny in the back. Those of us who’ve not been lullabied to sleep by the highway, are in separate worlds. We’re looking out the window, imagining our loved ones missing or not missing us. We’re planning our futures and re-inventing our pasts.
Zone, zone, zone. Bare feet up on the cooler. Truck stop. Gas stop. Rest stop. Repeat.
I’m knitting. I know it’s silly but it’s how I meditate out here, in the middle of nowhere. I’m making a red sweater without a pattern.
Nisa’s been my best friend since I was 7. We shared the same babysitter, Valarie Nuick, who wore vanilla bean essential oil, spoke softly and seemed to swallow her laughter before it escaped her lips. She was young and fun and sometimes let us tag along to her retail job. She worked at “The Song of the Reed,” a magical clothing store known on Martha’s Vineyard for importing Afghani jewelry and Middle Eastern textiles.
On weekends Val would lug us into the store. She’d unbolt a door built into the stairwell, hand us two dull knives, and leave us to work breaking down boxes for a quarter an hour while she lit Nag Champa and put Jackson Brown on the tape deck. Nisa was older than me by two years and the most glorious creature I’d ever seen. Her skin appeared to emit flecks of gold. I, on the other hand, was scrawny with gangly legs that threatened to tangle in the wind and cornsilk hair that disobeyed hairbrushes. Nisa was beautiful the way goddesses and queens are beautiful. She carried herself above the rest, looking out on the world ambivalently while braiding her heart in thorns and barbed wire. Oh, how I dreamed of getting past her defenses and scoring the privilege of knowing her heart.
Slowly, one box at a time, I gained her confidence. Under the bare blub, under the “Song of the Reed” stairwell, we found occasions for laughter. We discovered we were both boy-crazy and confided our crushes to one another. After flattening boxes, we played dress-up, admiring ourselves in floor-length mirrors wearing headscarves and beaded kaftans. We got drunk on incense.
Before we could drive, Nisa and I would ride my tiny white pony bareback through the woods to meet up with her boyfriend. “Gusty,” who was 30, spicy and infuriated at being made to trot two tittering teenagers around, often succeeded in bucking one or both of us off. Barefoot, I’d wait outside Nisa’s boyfriend’s house to keep a lookout for grown-ups while she got to first base.
Later, we dated two brothers, the eldest of “The Blackdog” family. Robbie and Jamie Douglas were windsurfers. When Nisa got her licence we’d drive to meet them on the shore in her beefed-up black jeep. We’d stop at Dairy Queen and splurge on XXL rainbow sprinkle ice cream cones which would stick to our hair in the wind while we watched our brothers skip back and forth over the waves. We daydreamed about marrying them and becoming sisters one day. Jamie is the one who “takes to downtown, brown suburban in the rain,” in Sign of Rain.”
Nisa came to all my Boggies shows. She raided the island’s thrift stores and found ways of making polyester sexy. And when I told her I was moving west, starting my own band and going on the road she said “When should I be there?”
“You’ll come out on the road with me?!?! Really?”
“Of course! I’ll sell your merch for you and beat the boys away.”
“Well, come on then.”
She’s been with us since March 1st. Having Nisa in the van is like having cotton candy for breakfast. It’s fun, delicious, and slightly naughty. Reunited we’re immediately 7 again, back under those stairs at “Song of the Reed,” getting bucked off my pony into puddles, picking rainbow sprinkles out of each other’s hair and daydreaming about what we’ll be when we grow up. I am so blessed to have scored the privilege of knowing her heart. I am so privileged to have her along on for the ride that is this life.
Soundcheck was cold. My fingers barely shaped chords let alone plucked strings. Dellucci requested Brian soundcheck his kickdrum and the rest of us zoned out, staring into the dark empty venue, feeling the water in our cells quake with every ‘thud’ ‘thud’ ‘thud.’
While I waited for Brain’s hammering to end so I could check my own instruments, I reminisced about the spectacular evening last night at The Howling Wolf in Aspen. A slew of increasingly familiar faces called out songs off Tomboy Bride, danced, and played air guitar (which I particularly enjoyed). But there were new faces too; A group of radio DJs from KSPN said they’d be psyched to play our stuff on their station and a crew of ski patrol hotties in ragland sweaters swarmed us post-show and pushed hot toddies into our cold hands.
At 3:00 am we crawled into wobbly hotel beds. Having secured the last room in town, we designated the two queen-size beds “the snoring” and “the non-snoring” sections. Soucy and I took the one on the left and Brian and Delluchi took the one on the right. We arranged ourselves head to foot and, throughout the night, dealt with a bandmate’s stinky gig socks in our faces and the occasional kick stuttering our slumber. Kenny took the rollaway (smart move Kenny). We were exhausted but not tired so we stayed up and talked about our dreams.
I snapped out of my stage daze as Delluchi repeated “Sally? Can I get you to sing into your mic please?”
We ate at the venue. Soucy got very excited about a large salad and made me take a picture of it. Over shrimp tails and croutons, Brian told us his mother had been learning to play the electric guitar and suggested we have her sit in with us. We thought it was a fabulous idea.
We’re driving to Boulder tonight after the show to catch the tail end of The Funky Meters at the Fox Theater, repack, sleep for two days, then head West.
