Sally Taylor – Page 22

New York City – Mixing at Whitney Houston’s Studio – June 24, 1998

I’ve decided to mix “Tomboy Bride” in New York at Whitney Houston’s studio. Kipp connected me with Whitney’s engineer, Michael White, and he’s agreed to take on my project as long as we can finish all 11 songs in 5 days. I’m here now, in the hot city with Wendy Woo and at the moment we’re working on “Sign of Rain.”

My mom made a special trip down to the studio today. It’s such a role reversal. I spent my entire childhood and adolescence traveling to mid-town to her studio sessions, ordering grilled cheeses from take-out menus and finishing up homework assignments as musicians like Mic Jagger, Debbie Harry, Harry Belafonte, Ry Cooder, and every session player you’d ever want to meet passed through the reception area. I drank Lipton tea by the bucket, downloaded receptionists with my latest relationship sagas, and between subjects, I rewarded myself for having completed an assignment with a game of Donkey Kong, Ms. Packman, Space Invaders, the car one I can’t remember the name of.

Today at Whitney Houston’s studio I ordered Wendy, Michael my mom and me turkey subs. We ate while mom wheeled herself around on a console chair like a boss yelling half-chewed suggestions at Michael like “Fly it over.” “That’s the one. Don’t touch it now” and “Buy it baby! buy it!” Before she left for the day, she requested a copy of the track. “I want to blare it through the streets of Martha’s Vineyard and scream ‘This is my DAUGHTER!” I felt so so so so grateful for her love, tutelage, hand holding and accolades. It’s her birthday tomorrow and as we finished the day I sketched out this letter to copy into a card I painted:

Mom wanted to know what I was going to do about distribution for the Record. “It’s not really a record mama.” I explained, ” It’s more of a glorified demo.” I’m not sure I want to deal with retail or a professional distributor. I’d have to deal with returns and comps and shrink-wrapping CDs. For now, I got myself a mailbox at a local Post Office in Boulder and a website “www.sallytaylor.com.” I think I’ll take orders by snail mail for now, and test the waters just to see if there’s any interest. I can also sell CDs at shows. In total this record has cost me $7,778 plus a few dinners and brewskies for players who’ve refused payment. I’d be happy just to make my money back for now.

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Lyons, CO – “Being Brave” – May 30, 1998

Jeremy Leichter arrived in Boulder and now my band is complete.

My Band

Kenny Castro = Bass

Brian McRae = Drums

Jeremy Leichter = Lead guitar & BG Vocals

Me = Rhythm Guitar & Vocals

Jeremy came out to the studio today and I am currently listening to him track a killer solo on “Happy Now.” He laid down nine guitar tracks effortlessly and cut some harmonies that flew out of his throat with wings. I’m in heaven. All the pieces are falling into place. Mary Jane (MJ) a local booking agent, generously offered to book us a few shows. I scrawled venue names and dates she’d secured on a tic tac-sized sticky note.

“Tomboy Bride.” That’s what I’m going to call this album. I wrote most of the songs for it in Telluride overlooking Bridalvail Falls under an old mining town called Tomboy. The recording is almost done and all that’s left to do is mix and master. Of course that is just the beginning. What a caterpillar calls the end, the world calls a butterfly. I don’t know who said that but it rings true here. Once the music is done the production begins. I’ll need a website and CD artwork and some radio and print interviews lined up, and then of course there are gigs.

Oh my God what have I gotten myself into? I’m scared of being publicly rejected and humiliated but I’ve learned something from this crazy creative process:

Bravery is not the absence of fear. It’s being scared and doing it anyway.

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Boulder, CO – Leggo My Ego – May 29, 1998

Things have been crazy and now I HATE my album. I never want to hear any of these songs ever again after this damn thing is over.

I’ve been singing out of tune for DAYS! It’s driving me crazy and I drove home tonight listening to music I couldn’t bear to sing along with least I’d have to hear my own voice.

Sometimes I have a shitty day. I haven’t slept well or eaten enough or I’ve eaten too much or not exercised. These are the days I worried about to Fausta back in her hippy therapy shack on Martha’s Vineyard.

It’s these days when my soul feels rubbed raw and every voice in my head is yelling “What do you think you’re doing? You are SHIT at this! Your songs suck. Your voice sucks. You can’t play guitar for shit and you look like ass.” During these self-abusive sessions, I look to anything that will drown the voices out. Sometimes a drink puts the fire out. Sometimes I just have to go to bed. But when I can’t sleep, I turn to applause to repair the cuts and bruises I inflict on myself. The battery is relentless and can go on for days.

Sleep is the healthiest of my crutches but it doesn’t always work. Last night, for instance, I woke up with the fullest brain of assholes I’ve ever experienced. “You can’t be a musician.” They said, “You suck and your songs suck.” “You can’t perform.” “What were you thinking recording a demo?”

Sometimes I feel so small that if my body were just a 1/2 a pound lighter I’d fall through the cracks in the sidewalk. In these moments I say to myself “I’m nothing. I am nothing. I am a housewife. I am Betty Crocker and where’s my little tiny cooking set?”

And then I feel sudden bouts of relief. The sort that alo vera brings to burns, the sort that tingles like mint jelly on lamb chops, the sort that nibbles like patient waves at the crust of a shoreline. But then the dis-ease begins again and I want to scream and fill canyons with echos. Instead, I silently cry and scratch my face until the pain subsides.

I had to wake Kipp and beg him to hold me “Just talk me down.” I begged, my breathless tears nearly strangling me as he rocked me back to sleep.

Booze and applause are decidedly the more detrimental of my crutches. And, while alcoholism runs in my family and is a risky rod to bait, an addiction to applause would surely take me down quicker than a career in booze. Drinking applause when you need it is different from accepting it as an unnecessary gift. It wakes my roaring ego, that dangerous and skilled villain, who speaks to me in my own voice and locks me out of my own soul.

How I’ll stay away from ego:

I’ll make fun of myself.
I’ll make a point of enjoying other success.
I’ll love myself regardless of whether others enjoy my music.
I’ll never be jealous or bitter. I’ll never do anything just because it might “look good” or “boost my image” but I will believe in everyone I surround myself with and I will believe in all my decisions.

I feel 8 months pregnant with this record. It’s too late to turn back now and yet I’m scared as shit to give birth to it and set it free into the world. How will it be received? Who will love it? Does it matter?

I just want perform to my very best, sing with all my might, and do it to an absorbent crowd.

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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.

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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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