$6 Bucks
Go Carts
Midnight
Mini Golf
And cheap wine discreetly sipped from straws in jumbo White Castle plastic cups.

It was cold when we arrived in Missouri and windy. The mini golf range was our scenic view from the middle of the nowhere motel. After checking in, we opened a bottle of wine and settled into a room swathed in overtly floral patterns. Chris Delucchi, visibly enchanted by the mini-golf course, started pointing out some of its quirkier features—“Look at those rainbow flaming lights!” he exclaimed with admiration. “Those water fountains gotta be dyed blue.” “Are those plaster dinosaurs?” Soucy asked, moving closer to the window. Kenny joined in, “That’s the greenest astroturf I think I’ve ever seen.”

Perhaps it’s an indication of how low our standards of a good time have fallen but suddenly we were chomping at the bit to play a round. We poured our freshly decanted wine into super-sized cups left over from lunch and headed across the parking lot, ready for a late-night adventure.

I was delighted by how seriously Brian McRae took his game. He positioned his feet with precision at the top of every hole, claiming the direction of the swing was “all in the feet.” He’d hit his lime green ball and stroll to it like it were a hot girl he was pretending not to notice at the bar. He’d monitor the wind, line up his next shot, and then fold his arms and wait patiently as the rest of us laughed hysterically, hitting our balls haphazardly into bushes and fountains. We were the last group to finish before closing time, and I think the mini-golf employees were glad to see the back of us.

The day was hangover gray when the phone rang the next morning. A bouquet of bright yellow sunflowers in a makeshift water bottle vase nearly blinded me. They tottered threateningly close to falling onto a sleeping Delucchi in the next bed over. It was Brian in the next room, calling to see if I’d go rollerblading with him. He remembered something before he hung up and called so loudly into the receiver I could hear him from the other room: “Sal—my friend asked if we wanted to open for Lynard Skynard this weekend? It would mean hanging out in Missouri for an extra few days but I think it pays well…(hehe)” he laughed nervously. Brian does that. He laughs nervously when he’s unsure of how someone will react to what he’s saying. I imagined the four of us up on a tall outdoor stage at high noon playing to Lynard Skynard’s brawdy crowd (in Missouri no less) and the whole southern, beer-drinking, “Sweet Home Alabama,” sunburn-ness of it gave me heartburn. “So…(hehe)… What’da’ya think?” Asked Bri. “Let’s think about it.” I said, “I mean, I don’t wanna let you down but I’m not sure Lynard Skynard’s our market.” Brian paused, perhaps imagining the same heartburn-inducing visual and replied “On second thought, that’s a terrible idea… (hehe).”

Wheels on, I rolled into the hallway and skated down the red-carpeted isle to the elevator. I hit complimentary breakfast in the lobby, thinking I’d just grab an untoasted bagel and an orange when I discovered it—My new favorite thing. It sat unassumingly on the indelible, beige, mica, linoleum countertop—An automatic mochaccino machine!!!!! All you can drink, all-day, all you have to do is press your desired cup size, your preferred strength of coffee, slide a paper cup under its lip and hit “start!” Over the course of the day, I took advantage at least 50 cups of complementary mochaccinos. Brilliant invention! What will they think of next?!?!?!

Our blade was desolate. We kept mostly to the flatness of “paved paradises” (parking lots) and side streets. The area of Missouri we were stationed in felt soulless, as though even the breeze was afraid to breathe there. We trekked into St. Louis for lunch and ended up at the top of the St. Louis arch. Even though it was pretty cool up there, we all agreed it wasn’t worth the hour-long line.

The Firehouse is an old fire station. Its rugged brown brick walls are beautiful and strong but unfortunately, they make for an echo chamber of a venue if the show’s not packed to soak up the sound. Our show was NOT packed. Apologetically, The Firehouse’s owners, Christian and his wife Kaylene, let us know we were competing with Dave Matthews Band and Chuck Berry on a Wednesday night, no less, and a home team baseball game was just down the street.

The green room was hot and downstairs. I hung my dress on one of the pipes off the low ceiling and sat in a deep yellow chair. My dress rocked on it’s hanger. I Watched some fruit flies case a freckled bunch of bananas in a silver bowl and sipped camomile tea an anonymous employee had brewed and left for me. And in that moment I thought to myself…

This is truly the best time of my life.

On our way home now, speeding along as eagerly as horses heading back to their stable, Kansas stretches out before us—a long, flat, windy place. Over these 9000 miles, we’ve listened to so much good music. If we were to make a compilation tape of this tour, it would definitely include:

1. John Hyatt – “Come On Baby Drive South”
2. Black Crows – “Remedy”
3. Liv Taylor – “Olympic Guitar”
4. Lucinda Williams – “Car Wheels on A Gravel Road”
5. Meshell Ndegeocello – “If That’s Your Boyfriend, He Wasn’t Last Night”
6. Eric Erdman with The Ugly Stick – “Nine Planets”
7. The Brooklyn Funk Essentials – “Creator Has a Greater Plan”
8. G-Love and The Special Sauce – “My Baby’s Got Sauce”
9. Staple Singers – “Love Comes in All Colors”
10. Donny Hathaway – “Jealous Guy”
11. The Brand New Heavies – “Make Sauce”
12. Cymande – “Brothers On The Slide”
13. Iris May Tango – “Hairdomagic”
14. Ben Folds Five – “Magic”
15. Looking Glass – “Brandy”

STB would like to thank the following for making our “Flying V Tour” of the East Coast so damn great:

Big Hand Todd, Dan Beach, The underage dancing girls from Minnesota at The Port O Call, Gary Jones, Kipp, Charles at Harbor Docks for all that phat food, “Big Time” and “Re-run,” Of course: Eric the “Bird Man,” Melba and Mary from the Waffle House, “mom” from Madison, “Hot Po” Tader, I.Q, Peggy, David Starr from Arkansas, “Missy”: Chris’s Mystery girl from Shuba’s, Kim Kelly in Tuscaloosa, Alex Taylor for housing us in Northampton, “Smithy,” Livingston and Maggie Taylor for all of their unbelievable support and loving advice, “The Bubble Man” who ever you are, Ian Selig and Val for up all night in Tribeca, Nimi, Heidi, Cat, and Mikol, Dr. Len and Diane at the Raptor Trust, The kids at the Walden School and Marji and her family (thanks for the chocolates, flowers and “gingew beeww”), Jeffery, Sean Pocock and Mary Jane Rumley, “The Gloms” who probably don’t know who they are, Brint and Liz Anderson… Yummmm food, music, and “one boot playin’ on the porch board,” DJ Image (The parking lot attendant in NOLA), The Porch Board people at Enroute Music, Howard @ Blue Note for the J-45, Jason for the beautiful flowers, Josh for the Safe House, Kate Faccia (thanks for leaving me in Boulder alone!!!!!), “Disco” for supplying Kenny with the cup….(next time bring two), The Paramount for supplying us with our mascot “The un-kind Bud”, Shuckers, All those people who “looked like a chicken to me!”, Those of you who stuck us with the fat ass tab at Walker’s in NYC, Reid’s Ginger Beer, “Key’s to the Trailer,” Laura back in Boulder for everything, Those of you who gave us hours of listening with your CD’s, Ariel, P.I.M, Those cool phone interviewers, Thai Joe, Beccini contestants #5 & #7 From the Windjammer, Gene O’Brian, “Pelican, Pelican, Pelican”, Amityville, all of our parents for their support, Mel, Heidi Wild and Brandon, Nisa, Dave our tow truck driver, Michael White and Mary, and thank you to I-70 headed us West as we speak.

The rain drums on the windshield in heavy metal bullets. It drowns out the music on the sterio. Beyond the window is a blur of blue-green foliage and a ribbon of grey road, which bends like a snake to swallow our van whole. The drive is like being inside a 3D Monet painting.

Flowers in plastic bottles are braced in cupholders and wired to the back of the instrument cage. They jostle and spill around the corners. I love flowers but rarely buy them or cut them for myself. I see killing them for my pleasure as somewhat unjust but I’m grateful to tend to them whenever they come into my company.

Our current floral haul came on board this morning, gifts from the students from The Walden School who showed their appreciation with bouquets bigger than my head. I have a “No flower left behind” policy. I can hear the boys in the band groan whenever flowers are presented to me, be it a handful of freshly picked wildflowers or a dozen long-stemmed roses, they know it’s a full band commitment. These flowers need to be carried from the backstage to the van and from the van to the hotel room. They’ll need to be pruned and have their water changed daily. Hosting them in the van will mean someone gets wet, gets bitten by a thorn, gets a pollin tatoo on their stage cloths or has a sneezing fit. But these are all part of the sacrifices my band makes for me and my commitment to flowers.

What a joy it was playing for the kids at Walden. The day started off late, with Chris S. tugging at my toe to wake me up. It was already 10:30 AM.

Sharing a room the night before, Soucy and I laughed at our reflections side by side, brushing our teeth in front of the mirror in the bathroom like an old married couple. With a mouth full of fluoride, I asked him if he’d be willing to join me at the Walden School the next day. “I love kids,” I confessed, rinsing my mouth out, “but I don’t quite know how to relate to them. And since you were a 5th-grade teacher before becoming my guitar player –” Chris suddenly became very serious, taking charge of the situation as though performing for 6- to 14-year-olds required the skill of twenty bomb disarmers.

“We’ll need to practice,” he declared, abandoning his frothy toothbrush on the sink to retrieve our guitars from the van. Unsheithing the guitars he spoke to me a mile a minute. “We should play ‘Happy Now’ and teach the kids how to sing the different parts. And ‘Song For Kim’—just make sure you watch the ‘f’ word. We shouldn’t play ‘Red Room,’ it’s too suggestive.”
“But Chris, it only says, ‘I kissed a boy…’
“Well, maybe it’ll be OK. But avoid the bit about going to songwriter’s jail; they’ll think you’re serious. Sarcasm and kids don’t mix. Also, we should stick to songs from the CD. Marji said they’ve been listening to it a lot. We should do ‘Sign of Rain’ and you should teach the kids how you write about images. Maybe we should include a song like ‘The Cat Came Back the Very Next Day,’” he suggested, strumming the tune on his guitar. “NO!” I said firmly. “They hired us to do our show, and that’s what we’re going to do.” I began to wonder if inviting Chris was such a good idea. But once I relinquished control and let him take the reins, everything went smoother. It was clear this meant a lot to him.

Marji, the teacher who’d arranged our performance, wanted us at school by noon and mapped our route from the hotel meticulously accounting for traffic lights and even the weather. Her family—Larry, Katie, and Ryan—treated us like royalty when we arrived, surrounding us with chocolates, Reid’s Ginger Beer (my fave), and a student-crafted welcome banner. Katie and her friend even made me a star and ribbon crown to wear on stage. In a classroom turned greenroom just for us, we gathered on folding chairs around a blue plastic tablecloth, delightedly drinking no-name cola and gorging ourselves on homemade sandwiches from a pickle-juice-soaked platter.

The children gathered in the assembly hall at 12:30, their eyes peering up at me from a sea of blue, orange, pink, and green tie-dyed shirts. As Soucy choreographed, I sang and then answered students’ questions. After the second song, Chris leaned over his mic and, wide-eyed, asked, “Wanna talk about songwriting now?”

The students made me think in ways adults rarely do. When I talk to adults about songwriting, I speak to what they already know. But with kids, I had to start from scratch and use a vocabulary they would understand. I told them, “Songs are pictures born from emotions.” I told them “You can draw a picture of a song just as easily as you can write a song from a picture.” To show them how, I asked the kids to close their eyes and see what images came to mind during the next song. Chris and I played “Sign Of Rain,” and then called on raised hands asking them what the song had brought to mind.

“Christmas,” one girl said. “Summer,” said another. “A van driving through leaves,” “rain,” they all wanted to chime in. I told them they were all right because there is no misinterpreting the meaning of a song. “That’s the beauty of art,” I said. “It’s allowed to look, sound, feel, and smell different to everyone.” We did the same exercise with “Waiting On an Angel,” and the children’s vivid imaginations blew me away: “I see an angel holding her child,” “I see an angel riding a horse through the sky,” “I see angels at Christmas time.” And then one girl pointed at me and said, “You.” That nearly melted me into a puddle on the floor.

It was a fabulous gig; my favorite of the tour. After we played, we signed CDs and I found myself in a hurricane of tie-dyed children who wanted Sally Taylor stickers and for me to sign their tie-dyed backs and yearbooks. I tell you, I love those kids at Walden. In challenging me to teach them about songwriting, they ended up educating me about the spirit of muse. I clearly have much more to learn from children.

I never want to get off the road. I want to keep going, and with only a week left on this leg, I’m feeling anxious. I’m going to miss the middle-of-nowhere-ness—the heartbeat of the van on the highway over its control joints. I’ll miss the slow strobe of street lamps, which pass Moby from one post to the next in halos of light. I’ll miss the scent of small towns (no two smell the same). I’ll miss sampling bakeries and coffee shops, window-shopping along Main Streets, wondering about who owns the minimart here or why there are two antique baseball card stores in town. I’ll miss arriving anonymously and leaving like a friend to be missed. I’ll miss coco-coffees at gas stations and complimentary continental breakfasts in hotel lobbies. I’m gonna miss living out of a bag, only owning what I can carry. I love the road. I love the cyclone dance of it and learning how to breathe in chaos. I’m scared I’ll hate my apartment when I get home, that my walls will feel tight around my shoulders, and that I’ll feel trapped and without myself, as I did after coming off the West Coast tour. I’m scared of being alone, without my band. I’m scared of standing still.

The Concert Under the Stars was held at a picturesque outdoor venue. Our stage was adjacent to a picnicker’s paradise where, in an hour, our more-than-appreciative audience would unfurl blankets and hold children captive in their laps. A quaint gazebo stood behind the stage like some sort of perfect, life-sized wedding cake decoration. This is where we were told to take shelter if the rain in the forecast came to pass. Big, bruise-like purple clouds loomed overhead. But, like a reverse rain dance, the second I started “Sign Of Rain,” the sun came out and blinded us, shining over the right side of the lawn sitters. A great photographer named Jeffrey Sidelsky captured the moment….

Soucy’s parents live in Millington, New Jersey where they run a bird rehabilitation center, “The Raptor Trust.” They nurse injured Bald Eagles, Red Tail Hawks, Vultures, and Owls before they return them to the wild.

Dr. Soucy Sr. gives us a tour of his facilities which cater to every raptor from the smallest open-mouth ospray (needing hand feeding every hour with a little silver spatula) to the gnarliest, copper-headed, tare-your-throat out Eagles. It’s bird world over here at the Soucy’s in northern Jersey! I’d never seen eye to eye with a raptor before and Dr. Soucy (Len) let me hold an array of them on my arm. Slipping into a stiff leather glove, I got to meet a red-tailed hawk with one wing, hold a beautiful heart-faced, barn owl, and got to chill with some vultures who looked like cloaked supervillains. We had the pleasure of eating lunch with Ms. Soucy on her birthday and to share in her banana birthday cake. Our visit was cut short by the long drive ahead of us to PA.

The Point is a historic folk venue. While the name of the venue has been shortened (It used to be “The Main Point”) little else about it has changed including the street it stands on. My ol’ man used to play here along with Springsteen, Bonnie Raitt, and Jackson Brown. It’s a coffee bar at heart and performances are early enough to bring along a kid or two.

The stage is the focal point of the room. It’s low as a tall curb with a huge oriental rug on it. I love a rug on stage!! It makes me feel so at home and I can go barefoot which always makes me a better performer.

The Point was packed for our show and the caffeinated coffee-sipping faces draped delicately against pastel couches were vastly more attentive than the drunk whisky-swilling faces propping themselves up on our usual bar crowd. My stories felt funnier, my guitar sounded brighter, and my CDs sold faster they had any right to. Best of all there were no“gloms.*” We were loaded out before the sun had a chance to set and we delightedly watched it descend from a splintering park bench eating take-out vegetable chow mein and chicken fried rice. What a gift it was to get an early night.

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*“Glom,” refers to the one, or sometimes two people in a crowd who attach themselves to the band, or to me, the way super glue attaches to your fingers, and as you frantically try to disconnect your digits, the glom just gets more fingers involved. We’ve discovered there’s usually one in every crowd. The telltale signs you’re dealing with “A Glom” are

1. They ask really inappropriate questions or tell you deeply inappropriate things they think will endear themselves to you, i.e.: “You know, I slept with your father back in ‘68.” Or “What color underpants are you wearing?”
2. They follow you backstage, or into the bathroom and get in your van without being invited.
3. They stand too close to you while you’re talking to someone else and answer their questions before you can.
4. They ask “Do you have any SHWAG CDs?”
5. They eat the band’s ‘food and drink rider’ backstage without being invited backstage.
6. They grab your guitar and start singing your parents’ songs…badly.
7. They ask if I can get them JT’s autograph.
8. They don’t understand that when they see you running in the opposite direction, you’re running away from them, and instead of taking the hint, they try to keep up.
9. They tell you they’re your parent’s friends when really they’ve only just seen them on the other side of the street (keeping their distance no doubt, due to their well-seasoned “glom” radar)
10. When you tell them you’ve gotta go. They say they’ll meet you back at your hotel.
    

If you fear you, or someone you know, is a glom it’s not too late to seek help. Just call 1-800-Glom-Anonymous.