Sally Taylor – Page 4

The Middle of Nowhere I-70E – “Pet Peeves & Perms” – Sept 18, 2000

Ahh, there’s nothing quite like heading home. The open road is a relief after a grueling tour — the vast stretches of space between exits and fields of harvested crops painting vertical lines toward the horizon. I’m thrilled the boys will drop me at my favorite hot spring on the way back to Boulder. Orvis is nestled in Colorado’s Ridgway mountains and is my go to between tours to soak away my exhaustion and reset before the next tour. The final five gigs on the west coast were a blur of poorly lit green rooms and gas station pit stops I couldn’t bring myself to write about. The one highlight was opening up for Vonda Shepard who was a pure angel.

Kyle pops his head up from the back seat like a stoned jack-in-the-box, clutching a photo of himself — a throwback snapshot featuring a younger version of himself, sporting what looks like a miniature black poodle on his head.

“How long do you think it took me to realize getting a perm was a bad idea?” he asks, passing around the picture.

“Almost immediately,” Kyle says, sending us into hysterics, rolling on the van floor.

Inspired by his sharing, I decide to take advantage of the thousand+ miles ahead to interview the band for you.

Kyle Commerford (Drums)

Nickname(s): Oso
Favorite Gas Station Snack: Spree & Arizona Iced Tea (with Ginseng extract)
Pet Peeves:
When the wind blows loose hair from his ponytail onto his face.
The sound of Styrofoam cups rubbing together.*

Kenny Castro (Bass)

Nickname(s): Huggy Bear, K’nny!
Favorite Gas Station Snack: Klondike Bar & Drumstick ice cream bars
Pet Peeves:
Being the last person to get his meal at a restaurant.
Getting hassled for not having a backstage pass after spending all day at a venue.

Sally Taylor (Singer)

Nicknames: Shmoopzilla
Favorite Gas Station Snack: Peanuts in the shell, Bit-O-Honey & Arizona Green Tea
Pet Peeves:
Mastication. Especially carrots, pretzels, popcorn, and chips.

Christopher Daniel Soucy (Guitar)

Nicknames: Doc, Bowling Ball Baby
Favorite Gas Station Snack: Carrot cake Clif bar & Arizona Green Tea
Pet Peeves:
Receiving iceberg lettuce in a Caesar salad.

Chris Delucchi (Sound Engineer/Road Manager/Mom)

Nickname: Monsters
Favorite Gas Station Snack: Gummy Bears, Licorice, and Nantucket Nectars (peach-orange flavor)
Pet Peeves:
People who walk by without acknowledging others, which he humorously claims is “the root of all evil on this earth… and our government.”

And there you have it—a peek into the personalities that make up our band. Thank you for being a part of our musical journey!

Footnote:

*Apparently, Oso is not alone in his pet peeve…. enjoy

@nobosart
I had to this audio was too good 😂 #lipsync #lipsyncchallenge #challenge #styrofoam
♬ original sound – bigfatpoopypants

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Dana Point, CA – “Just Happy to be Included” – Doheny Days – September 16, 2000

I attempted to paint my naked toenails red while riding in the van—a decision I quickly regretted. In the passenger seat heading up I-405 towards Dana Point, I propped my feet on the dashboard. Holding the polish brush steady, I relied on the highway’s bumps to jostle my nails against the bristles. Unsurprisingly, my attempt resulted in a mess—a murder of red polish on my feet as well as on the dashboard.

Our day started at the Miramar Hotel in Santa Monica where I discovered Kyle’d stole the miniature lotion out of our bathroom before I could use it to sooth my sunburn. Soucy and I ventured out for a morning run along the beach, joining a throng of joggers each donning “Los Angeles Marathon in training” T-shirts. Judging by the sheer number and their varying fitness levels, it seemed like it must be the first week of training. “25,000 sweaty little reasons not to move to LA,” Soucy quipped as he retreated to the bathroom. His grumble prompted me to call after him, “Wake up on the wrong side of the bed, Soucy?” which set the tone for his smart ass demeanor the rest of the day.

The show was set up outside, along the beach. Although there were two stages, the music flowed seamlessly as one band finished and the next began. Strolling through the festival, the sun blazed overhead. Vendors called out to us with wares ranging from bathing suits to sky chairs and the air was rich with the scent of chicken teriyaki and flat beer—an intoxicating mix. It was a perfect day filled with fantastic music from bands like Tommy Castro, Dave Mason, Ozomatli, the iconic Steve Miller Band, the legendary John Lee Hooker, and of course, …. us …. just happy to be included.

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Los Angeles, CA – “HOT DAMN!” – Luna Park – September 13, 2000

The AC is blown in Moby and driving through Death Valley without a coolant, spelled disaster for our trip from Tulare to Los Angeles. The relentless heat was unyielding, searing us whether we were parked or hurtling down the highway at 90 mph. Poor Kyle, drenched in sweat on a normal day, had it the worst. Stuck in the back with the least ventilation, he made a beeline for the air-conditioned gas station the moment we stopped. Inside he gasped:

“Do you love me, Sal?”
“So much, Kyle, you know that.”
“Enough to get that AC fixed,” pant pant pant “NOW? RIGHT NOW!?!”

We lingered in the gas station as long as humanly possible, loitering in the cool air. We didn’t bother with gas or snacks. Instead, I snagged some ice cubes from an open cooler and rubbed them on the guys’ backs, a little band maintenance, if you will. While we wasted time watching heat mirrages in the parking lot, Soucy broke into “New River Train,” an old country standard. He could only remember the first three verses, so we improvised our own, blocking the entrance and laughing as people squeezed by with polite “‘scuse me’s.”

Kenny sang, “Darlin’ you can’t love four, ’cause that would be a chore…”
Sally, “…Can’t love six, ’cause that’s way too many pr___s…”
Delucchi, “…Seven ’cause you might not get to heaven…”
Kyle finished with, “…Nine, cus that’s too good of a time…”

Later, Back in Moby’s hot belly, Soucy tried to cool us down by reading “cold” words from his book about Sir Ernest Shackleton’s icy Antarctic adventure. Words like “ice-encased boat,” “icebergs,” and “freezing gusts” floated through the van in Soucy’s best spa inspired voice. It offered a meager respite from our sweltering plight but we appreciated it none the less.

With windows down, the hot wind whipping through at a blistering 105 degrees, the scent of cow shit mingling with my essential oils inside the cabin, and cell reception cutting in and out, we finally emerged from the hot desert into the hot City of Lost Angels.

The gig was electric. CNN recorded our sound check and did a quick interview with us after. Agents from Virgin and Sony were there to try to sign us (of course I stuck true to my plan to stay independent, told them I was honored but not interested and to enjoy the show). James Gandolfini and Kelly Lynch were among the sea of familiar faces and to top the night off, our fantastic new booking agent, Jonathan Shank, told us Colm Meaney, the Irish actor of The Commitments and Star Trek fame, had offered us his mansion while he was out of town on a shoot!?!?! Only in L.A. do such incredible opportunities present themselves, and we eagerly harvested them. While Delucchi and Shank tried to chase Luna Park’s management down for the $375 they owed us for the gig, the rest of us loaded the van.

We wrapped up our night, drinks in hand, in Colm’s sprawling estate nestled in the hills, with the city’s lights dancing below us like waves. Jonathan, handing me the gig’s pay out (in a very slender envelop) promised that theaters and $2,000 offers were coming in for next year. He set me up in the luxurious master suite, complete with a courtyard view, a glowing pool, and a sauna that enveloped me until 3:30 am. It was a night to remember, one befitting the wild, sweaty ride it took to get there. Rock on!

The mysterious generosity of Colm Meaney

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Tulare, CA – “Steve, The Hypnotist” – Tulare County Fair – September 12, 2000

We’re heading to LA after an unusual gig at a country fair. Picture this—a nearly empty venue and a shared trailer with a hypnotist named Steve, who tried every trick (short of hypnosis) to charm me. He was our opening act, and his performance was something to behold—convincing a woman she was a chicken and a man to hand over his wallet. Impressive.

Our stage was set in a red-and-white Budweiser tent, complete with 500 folding chairs. Yet, only 25 enthusiastic fans filled the seats, along with one notably inebriated gentleman who wandered onto the stage during our first set, pulled down his pants, and attempted to pee on our equipment. Thankfully, the authorities swiftly intervened.

The fair was bustling with cowboy hats and tucked-in flannels, but most people preferred to keep moving rather than settle into our audience. The allure of cotton candy, candy apples, stilt walkers, clowns on tricycles, dart games, and rides with flashing lights proved irresistible. I found myself distracted by the attractions beyond the tent, even as I performed.

During “For Kim,” fireworks erupted overhead. Initially startling, the burst of colors turned out to be a magical backdrop to our performance.

In the end, Steve gifted me a dazzling rhinestone belt and a hypnotism tape to help Soucy and me deal with our insomnia. While Soucy suspected it was a ploy to make us fall for Steve, we gave it a try and slept like babies. Of course, I couldn’t resist waking Chris up with a playful declaration, “Now, get up and help me find my long-lost lover Steve!”

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Camino, CA – “Here, put on these Handcuffs” – Rainbow Orchards – September 9, 2000

I’d never set foot in an orchard, much less played a gig in one, and neither had the rest of the band. It turned out to be the most magical experience any of us had ever had. Smiles hung from tan faces as ripe as the fruit that hung from their trees. Children with a twinkle in their eye, played hide and seek in frilly dresses between the apple trees whoes branches looked like the weathered hands of old jazz musicians. The stage was nestled in the heart of the orchard. Apart from a small, cleared area where people danced, the crowd was tucked away under the shade of trees laden with juicy apples, clinging like ornaments on crooked, dark branches. It was the most mystical place I think I’d ever been.

The crowd was wonderful too —generous, joyful, and earthy, like the dust that mingled with the air. We were on just before Jefferson Starship, and as we poured our hearts into the orchard, bubbles drifted lazily past the stage, adding to the dreamlike landscape.

Afterwards, while signing CDs, some little boys came up and blew bubbles for me. I caught them in my mouth and blew them back, much to their delight. I spent the rest of the afternoon playing bubble games with them, sipping cider, and lounging on a patchwork quilt beneath the arms of the orchard. We slurped peaches and listened as the psychedelic sounds of Jefferson Starship painted new kaleidoscopic colors across the sky, filtering through the gaps in the branches above.

We also met some really cool cops there. Since we’d almost been arrested in McAlester, Oklahoma back in May, we thought it would be funny to take some photos in a McAlester, OK T-shirt, with the cops joining in. They were all for it, and soon enough, we were taking turns wearing the T-shirt, posing as the cops directed us in hilarious scenarios.

“Okay, now we’re gonna throw you in the back of the paddy wagon, and you try to escape,” they said.

“Here, put on these handcuffs.”

“Now, let’s do a dominatrix one. Sally, hold my club like you’re going to whack us, and we’ll bow at your feet.” They came up with all sorts of ideas, and who was I to refuse a bunch of cops? It was a blast!

When we ran out of film, we hopped into Moby and headed off to Lake Tahoe. The orchard’s promoters sent us away with a gigantic carton of peaches, a jug of cider, a frozen apple pie, and aching bellies from laughing so hard.

What a day!

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Arcata, CA – “Abstain from Cocaine” – Café Tomo – September 7, 2000

I keep buying things at the gas station–plastic rings, gum, keychains with bottle openers–hoping it’ll be the thing I’m missing in my life but it turned out I was missing an hour soak in a hot tub… Found on at the Mokka Cafe in Arcata.

After a decent show at Café Tomo, Noel and Felix, a couple locals invited us back to their hippy-dippy crash pad for some homemade wine. They met us in their doorway with huge smiles and an industrial size mayo jar full of weed. They hoisted fistfuls into our hands as if we were felonious, underdressed trick-or-treaters. There was coke too, copious amounts of it, which Noel chopped on a cheese board, spilling it haphazardly all over the counter. I politely declined. Cocaine is one of the few drugs I’ve never had to try thanks to my dad who when I was 13, took me aside.

“Sal,” he said, “you can try cocaine,” shocking words coming from your father’s mouth, “but first,” he continued, “do me a favor, 1. Drink 20 cups of coffee as quickly as you can. 2. Punch yourself as hard in the nose as possible and 3. Gather all the money you have and light it on fire. If you like that, you’ll love cocaine.” And just like that, I escaped the clutches of that drug.

After two glasses of moonshine, I stumbled out of Noel and Felix’s macraméd drug den. I walked alone through the town square under a full moon to the hotel where I watched Dexter’s Laboratory on Cartoon Network until two in the morning. When I woke up I discovered an expired, crumpled, soggy hot springs pass next to the bed stand,

“Courtesy of Noel and Felix,’ said Soucy who was up for a soak and knew I was in need of some serenity.

Café Mokka was sort of run-down, or maybe it was never built up to begin with. A murky, green duck pond sat stagnant in the center of a circle of changing huts and soft, silvery moss had taken up residence on everything. But when I got into the hot water I could feel the painful pressure that had been weighing on my heart lift, and for two hours I didn’t think about anything– not work or the next gig or the drive back to San Francisco. I just floated in the stillness of the moment with the light filtering through the redwood trees like water through a helpless strainer. I was high for the rest of the day—reborn—a phenox from the ashes of a music career.

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Mill Valley, CA – “The Show Must Go On” – Sweetwater – September 5, 2000

We rose early at Delucchi’s parents’ home, where Bob and Judy graciously, albeit a bit madly, put the band up whenever we were in the Bay Area. The morning light stung my eyes, puffy and red from last night’s emotional breakdown. On the ride back from the Golden Gate Park show, I’d vented to the guys about my guitar’s annoying buzz in the stage monitors.

“Try taking guitar lessons,” Delucchi mumbled from the driver’s seat. I brushed off his jab, assuming he hadn’t meant it to wound. “Could it be my pickup?” I wondered aloud. “Try taking guitar lessons,” he repeated, this time louder.
I told him I doubted my guitar skills were the cause of the buzzing. I told him I knew my guitar playing was my weakest link. I told him it was easy for him to say and then I told him he’d hurt my feelings.

Soon I was crying—tears I battled to suppress—until my eyes were swollen like ripe berries and my face was a canvas of mascara and hopelessness. When we reached his parents’ home, Delucchi offered an apology and a hug under a flickering street lamp at the end of his parent’s cul-de-sac, but I wanted to be alone. I wanted to be “good enough” — to be simultaneously seen and unseen — I wanted fame.

Fame!?!? The very thought horrified me, far more than Delucchi’s remark. It revealed how little I valued my love, as if its worth depended on the accreditation of a crowd of screaming fans—as if I needed an audience to co-sign my heart.

I’ve noticed since my breakup with Sam I’ve started measuring my worth by show attendance, CD sales, and the number of compliments I get on my voice, my outfit, my stage presence, etc. I’ve been using praise like a drug and applause to mend my broken heart. It is not healthy.

I should just focus on recouping the money from this album and escape this business, I ruminated, wiping away the makeup debris in Delucchi’s bathroom mirror. I thought back to my therapist’s hippy shack on Martha’s Vineyard. I recalled the day I’d asked if she thought I was crazy to consider a career in music. Of course it was crazy, but she didn’t think so and together, we put some measures in place that might protect me against my ego if I ever chose to pursue a musical path. They were, in short,

1. Don’t sign a record deal.
2. Don’t read reviews. and
3. If your ego gets in the driver’s seat, jump ship!!!

But while it was clear my ego was in the driver’s seat now, how could I jump ship two albums deep, in the red, halfway through a tour? I imagined various music business escape routes as I drifted off to sleep on a futon in the middle of the Delluchi’s livingroom–some of which, near the horizon of dreams, involved life rafts and scuba gear.

I feel better this morning; besides itchy eyes and a throbbing head, my despair has largely cleared. We’ve got Sweetwater tonight in Mill Valley, and I know I have to rise to the occation. I pull myself up by my bootstraps, eat a breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast with jelly and OJ and remind myself, “The show must go on.”

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San Francisco, CA – “Visiting my Childhood” – Golden Gate Park – September 4, 2000

Performing at San Francisco’s iconic Golden Gate Park, I’m catapulted back to my childhood adventures during mom and dad’s outdoor concerts. The air is crisp and sunlit, carrying that familiar nostalgic scent that instantly feels like home. I can almost see my younger self playing hide and seek with my brother beneath tables draped in starched white linens, dodging the charcuterie displays that always tempted us—despite being warned to tread carefully.

Backstage, ghost-like plumes of smoke rise from the grill pits, blending with the tawdry scent of the beer tent. It’s a sensory recall of raucous laughter, stumbling musicians, and performers’ spirited spouses hauling pitchers between tents, painting a vivid picture of those vibrant days.
Out on the lawn, facing the imposing, insect-like black stage, there are white blankets scattered across the green expanse. There are free-range children everywhere, their faces adorned with painted butterflies and dragons. The sloping hills are a mosaic of disheveled towels, flapping-armed dancers with sun-kissed smiles, and blue cherry snow cone stained tongues sing along to every song. Charcoaled shish kebabs smoke somewhere in the distance… and then there’s the music.

Hours upon hours of M U S I C. Pure and exhilarating, the melodies float through the air, mingling with beer-buzzed cheers and pleas from the crowd for “more” and “never stop!” The harmony of it all surrounds us—the music, the hum of conversations, the sound of children, and the cheering merging seamlessly with the cloudless sky.

After our set, Los Lobos takes the stage, high-fiving us as we exit, arms loaded with our instruments. Their genuine compliments leave us awestruck. We retreat to the beer tent, our golden pale ale winnings spill as we find a spot on the sunny lawn to watch Los Lobos own the stage. My lungs feel fuller on days like this; the sky seems infinite. I dance with a little girl whose face is painted with angel wings. At the end of each song she yells “AGAIN!” and I can’t help but wonder if she is me, visiting her adult self from all those years ago.

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Casper, CA – “Banding” – The Casper Inn – September 3, 2000

“This place used to be a brothel,” says a pretty maid named Melissa who’s just finished cleaning our rooms. Her brown, moplike hair is thrown up on her head like a hurricane just came through. Her outfit—a black taffeta skirt, tall combat boots, and a knotted black T-shirt—hints at playful irreverence, captivating the boys as she gathers up laundry with a knowing smile.

The hallways are yellow and glow brilliantly like orange marmalade in the mid-afternoon sun. The floors are so old and warped that the door left ajar, slams violently without warning and Mellisa scurries out of the room. Soucy and I put our bags away in room #6 which is by far the smallest space I’ve ever shared with someone I’m not sleeping with. Meanwhile, room #9 across the hall—our designated “snoring room”—hosts Kyle, Kenny, and Delluchi, with its bunk beds and patchwork quilts, perched directly above tonight’s stage.

In Casper, there’s little to distract us, so we wander to the shoreline before sound check. The dramatic cliffs take our breath away. The mountainside cuts away to a metallic ocean that laps a thirsty tongue at crumbling clay walls.

A snake suddenly slithers by. “Look, a garter snake,” Soucy points. Mishearing him, I exclaim, “GARDENER SNAKE,” and reach out with childlike excitement.

“Garter, Sally, Garter snake.” He corrects, as though I were one of his fifth-grade students. Soucy can’t stand to let a mistake go uncorrected. It drives him crazy the way it drives me crazy to listen to the chomping of potato chips or the slurping of soup.

“GARDENER SNAKE,” I yell out again with the same childlike enthusiasm, intentionally mispronouncing the word now.

“GARTER GARTER GARTER,” he says annoyedly and stamps his feet. Kenny and I laugh at how easy it is to get under Soucy’s skin.

These are the moments that transcend the music—the times when we forget that work brought us west and instead feel like we’re on a family vacation, a band of lovable misfits. We’ve grown to know each other more intimately than most siblings, and the love we share is as profound and enduring as any I’ve experienced. We’ve ventured deep into each other’s hearts. We’re doning more than bonding, we’re BANDING.

We stumble upon a steep, muddy path leading down to the beach, laughing as we clumsily slide and tumble, covering ourselves in dirt. The beach is empty, inviting us to explore and play. Mysterious creatures and strands of Pacific Ocean algae line the shore, perfect for playful antics—tossing them at each other, slipping them down shirts, and surrendering to infectious laughter. Sand clings to our skin, and water drips from our clothes.

We gather, barefoot in the shallows, the waves licking our ancles. Breathless from joy, we fall silent at the horizon, as if in prayer. We watch the sun descend over the metallic ocean and disappear below the horizon like a candle flickering out.

In these moments, we’re not just a band; we’re a family bound by shared adventures and relentless laughter and a deep respect for every day that passes.

The end to another glorious day on the road

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Salt Lake City, UT – “My Husband’s Scarf” – The Zephyr – August 31, 2000

Salt Lake City turns into a picturesque canvas in the fall. The heat doesn’t hurt the way it does in June. After a long 520-mile trek, my legs refused to cooperate when we finally arrived at The Zephyr. They’d grown accustomed to their 90 degree possition having spent the road trip sleeping, reading, eating nothing but Swedish fish and immersing myself in knitting—a blue scarf for a husband I haven’t met yet.

No, I’m not engaged. And no, there’s no serious relationship in sight. But standing in a yarn shop in Boulder, I stumbled upon this irresistibly soft, variegated blue yarn. It struck me as the perfect material for a scarf I’d want to someday knit for my future husband. Why wait? I thought. Why not start it today? I bought a bushel of the stuff for $10.99 a ball and began my future husband’s gift that afternoon. My plan is simple—knit this scarf exclusively until I meet him. I’m under no illusions that my soulmate is just around the corner; in fact, I suspect this scarf will grow long enough to wrap around several city blocks before we cross paths. But I like the idea I’ll have something to give him when we meet. I like the idea I’ll recognize him by how naturally he complements the yarn and I like the idea he’ll know I was thinking about him long before we met.

As sensation returned to my feet, I cautiously scanned the area before stepping out of the van. A sense of unease clung to me; I couldn’t shake the feeling that Cindy, the lunatic Soucy had picked up during our last stop here, might spring from the shadows at any moment. It’s not paranoia when it’s justified. Two months ago, following our last Zepher show, Cindy had lured us to her place, promising a party and accommodations for the night. However, upon arrival, we discovered there was no party—just a cramped studio apartment with a lone twin bed and an oversized framed poster of James Taylor above it.

To Soucy’s dismay, Cindy had offered us her bed while she took the couch. But once the lights were out, she suddenly launched herself between the two of us, attempting to kiss us both. Escaping Salt Lake City unscathed felt like a narrow victory.

In the dressing room, I ran through vocal exercises, scoping the mirror for any new band stickers among the usual suspects. Then, my gaze caught something unusual—a child-like scribble on the wall that read, “Who is this Chris Soucy and why does he keep blowing my mind?” It was the only graffiti interrupting the sea of band stickers plastered around. When I pointed it out to The Doc—Soucy—he laughingly accused me of writing it as a prank. But I didn’t.

Is it a puzzle wrapped in mystery? or is it Cindy? You decide.

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