Those of you who’ve been on the road with us from the git go know how much playing for the kids at The Walden School in Media, PA means to me. Walden in Media is my happy place, my refuge, my spa day. No matter how I arrive—exhausted, heartbroken, or road-burned—the kids meet me exactly where I am, with open arms and endless love. They lift me up, erase the sorrow from my face with their hugs, and bring me back to my core.
Today, they outdid themselves. They were waiting for me on the lawn, holding acrostic poems they’d created after our last visit in Spring. They couldn’t have known just how much I needed this—how deeply their sweet words would heal me. Each poem was a gift, a priceless reminder of why I do what I do. It was exactly what I needed after this long, winding, backbending, challenging year on the road.
Though I could pour my heart out forever, I’ll let the photos do the talking. To the kids at Walden, thank you for restoring my spirit, my sanity, and my soul. You are my light.
Listening to acrostic poemsBest reviews EVER!How sweet it is I’m not sure why they drew food there but it’s awesome!to be loved by you
We picked back up with the band outside Harrisburg, PA. The boys had to drive through the weekend from down south to link back up with us. Soucy and I had traveled light when we flew to the PA show with only our instruments and the clothes on our back (give or take an extra pair of undies). I was looking forward to being reunited with my extra-large suitcase filled with the freshly washed outfits I’d recently laundered in a coin op back in Annapolis. It was a hot day and I was desperate to ditch my new leather Harley jacket and change out of stage cloths, so I was shocked and dismayed with what I found when I opened the back of Moby.
Out of the steaming trunk came the noisome chemical scent of fruit. It was so strong, I instantly got a headache and I closed my watering eyes to curb the assault on my senses as I felt around for my jumbo black bag.
“Pew!” I shouted up to the boys in the front “What happened back here while we were gone?!?! Did you lose a battle with a porta-potty or something?” I heard a snicker as I unzipped and flipped open the main compartment of my suitcase where I was accosted by the toxic fragrance of not one, not two but twenty Little Tree air fresheners scattered throughout my clothes in every scent and every color. “Oh, Good LORD!!!” I screamed as the rank fragrance defiled my face.
“What in the —. Who the HELL —? How did this —? WHAT?!?!” I yelled.
Picking one of the car air fresheners out of my bag, I studied it like an ancient artifact. The stiff pineapple yellow tree had dyed its acrid silhouette into my favorite white sweater on which it had sat for the last 48 hours, sweltering in the hot trunk. Suddenly I heard the van erupt with laughter and four heads appeared at my side with huge naughty smiles. I dropped the yellow tree back in the bag.
SOUCY! That tolerant, patient band-brother of mine had bided his time, letting me think he was a picture of piousness, putting up with my relentless tickle attacks, spit ball fights and imitation designer cologne ambushes only to counterattack with the entire catalogue of Little Tree offerings. Bravo Soucy. I was both deeply impressed and totally dismayed.
“Payback’s a bitch,” yelled Chris as I chased him through the parking lot.
“I traded my underwear for a Harley Davidson jacket.”
“You did WHAT?!” screeched my mom over the phone.
“Don’t worry, I wasn’t wearing them.”
“Excuse me what?!” Apparently my wearing them wasn’t mom’s main concern. “Back up. Where are you? tell me what you’re talking about?!?”
“Soucy and I flew in for a one-off at a woman’s expo in Pennsylvania and it turned out to be a Harley convention with booths and food and tons of people in grey long beards and – ”
“O K A Y ?” she was still confused.
“And this guy named Michael drove me onto the stage on the back of his motorcycle with my hair all flowing out behind me. It was wild mama.”
“Y A A A,”
“And I complimented Michael on his cool leather jacket when he dropped me at my mic stand. Did you know York, PA is where the manufacture Harleys?”
“So how did you end up losing your panties?!”
“After the show the promoters, Michael and a huge crew of his rider friends and their girlfriends all helped me sell CDs. Then they wanted me to sign their denim shirts and leather hats which of course I did, and then they insisted I pose with them on their bikes – ”
“Sally!” sigh, “please get to the point.”
“So, when we were done, fifteen of them took me aside as a group and said, “can we get your underwear?”
“They just out and asked you?!”
“Ya.”
“And you said YES?!?!?!”
“NO!!! I said no.” Pause “But then they said they’d trade me for Michael’s leather jacket and I said ‘sure.’”
“You said sure!?”
“They said they wanted ‘um dirty.”
“WHAT?!?!?!”
“Ya. Isn’t that freaky? Especially the women in the group, they insisted. So I said I was just going to excuse myself to slip out of them and instead, I grabbed a clean pair out of my gig bag, threw them to the wolves and Soucy and I headed out the door.”
Doc Soucy and I flew from Memphis to Pennsylvania for a one off on Saturday, arriving in Harrisburg a little past 9 pm. A six-hour day of travel was hardly easy considering how scared both of us are of flying.
I flipped nervously through the Sky Mall catalog thinking I might get something for one of the Chrises, whose birthdays both fall during this tour. (Soucy’s is Oct. 24th and Delucchi’s, the 28th). Hummm, Hammacher Schlemer? Sharper Image? …. What up with the mail-order meat? I thought. “Hey Soucy,” I said, grabbing and clutching at his shirtsleeve from across the aisle, “I was thinking of ordering you a nice steak from Sky Mall for your birthday.”
“Dude, don’t you dare.” He replied as I bat my eyes. An attractive stewardess walking down the isle stopped to look at the two of us, and said “Aww, you guys are cute,” before passing. “No, we’re not. NO WE ARE NOT CUTE!” Soucy called after her.
We had a 3-hour layover in North Carolina, which we spent playing and regressing in a toy store. I bought a fluorescent yellow “nose flute” for a buck and walked around the airport annoying fellow passengers trying to learn how to use it. Soucy followed me, dragging his disaster of a bag around the treadmill walkways. Little known fact, Soucy loves airport conveyor belts and would spend all day going back and forth on them, given the opportunity.
Let me take a moment to describe the abomination that is Chris Soucy’s travel luggage. It’s a bag on wheels, like the rest ours, only, it’s somehow taken 100 times the abuse. One wheel has come off and so it limps and clumps through hotel lobbies like a stray puppy tearing up carpet as he tugs it pathetically behind him. The leather handle is broken and flacidly flaps to one side. Three tours ago, he attempted to fix it with some duct tape and now it’s sticky to the touch. the metal pull-up frame is crooked too and clicks when he walks like a prosthetic knee. He refuses to retire his bag because “the new ones are so expensive,” and so, continues to drag the poor thing around behind him like some sort of dirty binky.
At the Hotel in PA we threw our stuff in our rooms and went for a nightcap in “Chats,” the hotel bar. There, a wedding reception was winding down. Muffled disco music wah wah-ed it’s way through warped mirrored walls. Glittery dresses walked their wearers around with mannequin-like stiffness. Men in tuxedos tripped through balloon-filled halls with plastic glasses of Champagne, small talking to one another: “Where are your kids in college Stan?” and “My wife always cries at these things, Bill.”
I leaned over my gin and tonic and sighed. I’ve been feeling under a considerable amount of stress recently from the discord in the band and Soucy let me vent to him before taking me to the hotel arcade. There, the least enthusiastic wedding guests and most derelict kids had assembled and we fit right in. Doc Soucy knew just what would make me feel better. First he fed one buck into a jukebox and cued up a stack of Led Zepplin tunes, then slipped another buck into an air hockey game. I went to town on that floating blue disk and lost every game. But by the end of the night, I’d won my sanity.
Ok, So I’m drinking the skunky bud this tour. The tradition, if you don’t know already, is that whoever makes the biggest blunder during a tour, must drink the skunky Budweiser beer that’s been intentionally sitting in the cooler, heating up and cooling down for the entire trip.
Read more about our “Skunk Buddy” tradition HERE
Picture this: I’m on stage, having just strummed the last chord of “Spilt Decisions,” when I suddenly realize I’ve misplaced my capo. “Where’s my capo?” I shout to the guys, pointing to the bald spot next to my mic stand where I swore I’d placed it. The boys help me turn the stage upside down, searching under every rug and wire until Kenny polightly taps me on the shoulder and points to my capo—right there on the neck of my guitar, perfectly primed for the next song.
I was embarrassed, sure, but that wasn’t the end of my mishap. Next, I butchered the opening verse of “Happy Now.” It came out something like this:
There is a house without a phone and we have locked ourselves in here. It’s broken shlick anotham en found it asham aglockafondu afair.
My friend it is because of you toganther frolick meair to what you and I all blabla bla. Blabla bla bla bla bla bla. HE HE HE!!!”
Had this been the Olympics, I’d have lost the gold for sure. But at Newby’s, my fail earned me
The audience’s laughter
A bewildered look from Delucchi behind the soundboard, and, of course,
One gut-wrenchingly, skunky BUD! (read more about Skunky Buddy here)
Despite my blunders, Newby’s was a blast. It was heartwarming to see familiar faces and share a laugh at my own expense. Tensions have been running high in the band, even minor slights escalating into full-blown feuds—people picking sides, and glares being shot that could kill at close range. A couple of (non-skunky) beers, a venue full of familiar faces, and an excuse to laugh was exactly what we needed to ease the tension.
In New Orleans, the city pulsed with life. People with luminous, dewy skin and fevered gazes danced through the streets, captive to the rhythmic beats of brass bands and zydeco music pouring out of novelty shops and po’ boy sandwich stores. The air was filled with a never-ending symphony of magic and jazz and I felt like we were riding a conveyor belt of sound as we strutted up the street to find our venue. Every other person we passed seemed to be out busking, whether strumming a guitar, blowing into a trombone, or hitting a drum—each played with a broken heart and passionate expression, their straw hats on the ground outstretched to catch the infrequent passing dollar.
Upstairs at the Parish, an almost cathedral-like calm enveloped us. Chandeliers dripped from the ceiling, and folk-art watched us out of sequined eyes. The Birdman met us backstage, having driven 100 miles to serenade us with a 28-minute opus to our last Eastern Tour together. Dressed in a black and blue, sparkling, see-through shirt—he was a sight to behold. It was wonderful to be reunited with him again!
At ten we play for a crowd of beautiful people clad in feather boas, masks and mardi gras beads. The exotic room was filled with salacious laughter and smoke that flowed like condensed milk on the stagnant air.
After the show, the lighting girl—a vision in blue dreads, innocent eyes, and translucent tattooed skin, approached me with her pet snake. “This is her first show,” she said, placing the small, rainbow boa constrictor in my hands. “I want you to name her.” I could feel the spirit of New Orleans winding around my fingers—beautiful, cold, dangerous, and mysterious. I named her “Isis,” after the Bob Dylan song.
We woke up early at the Residence Inn. “Welcome Home!!” It said on the door, and I inhaled deeply knowing that this nondescript inn in this podunk town would be the closest thing to home I’d find for the next six weeks.
I made the mistake of taking the rollaway last night. I woke up, after staying out too late post-show at Juanita’s, immobilized in a cocoon of blankets, sheets, and pillows—my back arched like a bow and my eyes slammed shut against every painful movement.
We’d partied with Todd last night, the regional manager for The Waffle House, who once again invited us to eat on his tab at any Waffle House between here and Louisiana. Breakfast at The Waffle House in Little Rock has become a STB (Sally Talyor Band) tradition and it’s egg yoke yellow doors opened with their familliar charm—a haze of smoke, sizzle of skillets, the tantalizing aroma of bacon, and laughter hanging in the air like a pool of Southern Comfort. Melba and Mary (our two favorite waitresses) greeted us with unrestricted enthusiasm which included flailing arms and swaying hugs.
Customers with trucker hats floating atop oceans of rumpled hair, smiled half-toothed grins and tipped their heads in our direction as we passed on our way to our favorite booth. Costomers smoked cigarettes while they ate, puffing in between bites, and they spoke in southern drawls we picked up faster than green grass through a goose, finding ease in the lazy boy lull of their southern tongue. “Hey, Melba” one of us would say, “cud’I git me sum’more’uh that coffee when you git a sec’n’ darlin’?” and: “Mary, what you been doin’ wit yer self girl?”
Ever since I misplaced my wallet, I’ve been using an empty Pop-Tart wrapper to hold my money. The guys are convinced I’ll accidentally throw it away at a gas station, which is probably why I haven’t lost it yet. Stomachs bulging under the weight of free grits, OJ, coffee, bacon, and, of course, waffles, I pulled out my silver Pop-Tart wallet to leave a tip. Melba snatched that wrapper clean out of my hand faster than a one-legged man in a butt kicking competition and tossed it in a trash can full of spoiled batter and discarded napkins despite all our protest. We laughed as she retrieved my make shift money holder all covered in eggshells and goop.
She refused my tip and offered an empty hot coco packet to transfer my funds into — frankly, it’s an upgrade. Now, we’re off to Shreveport.
It’s 4:00 am and I’m awake, staring at the cottage-cheese textured ceiling. I can’t sleep ‘cause I’m not used to having my own bedroom and because the hotel is inconveniently located next to a landing strip across the street from some train tracks. My eyes are blurry on the way to the bathroom mirror, blurry on the way to the magenta curtains which I pull aside to assess the proximity of dawn. In the dim light of the parking lot I can make out a chain linked fence, a field of flat dry grass and the silloet of suburbia just beyond the horizon of my sight. Missouri. Misery. Missouri. They sound the same in my mouth and I tease the two states into a lyric as I sit down on my bed with a guitar. What are my options? Watch TV? Read a book? Write a song? Do some yoga? and then I’m up ‘til 5:30, inverted and converted into pretzel-like shapes and tired (but not tired enough to sleep).
At ten, we headed to a BBQ held in our honor by last night’s promoters, Patsy and Mitch. Their house was adjacent to a cotton field so while short ribs sizzled and a strawberry rhubarb pie cooled on the sill, Mitch took us to pick some cotton. It’s something none of us had done and it’s harder than you’d think. Each white cluster is filled with jellybean-sized seeds which, without a cotton gin, you have to abstract by hand. I still have the little cotton ball I de-seeded, in my jeans shorts and give it a little squeeze each time my hand visits my pocket.
After our BBQ, the family took us to a driving range where the boys proved naturals at the sport. I however sucked!!! I’d approach the T and hit a ground ball 20 feet to my left and that was on a good try. Most of the time I was yelling “heads up” before hitting the shiny white globe into someone’s butt. But the outing was fun and I laughed a ton, mostly at myself but every once and a while, at the person I was hitting.
I was giddy by the time we left Mitch and Patsy for Little Rock and when I get giddy, it often spells trouble for Soucy. For some reason, he’s my target when I get playful—his seriousness makes him fun to tease. We were at a gas station, browsing balloons and light-up toys when I discovered a “tester” blueberry air freshener. With a mischievous grin, I liberally sprayed Soucy with a happy trigger finger, before dashing out of the store laughing like a hyena.
Soucy smelled the whole van up like a cheap New York taxi. He had a puddle-sized blue stain on the back of his shirt but never once lost his temper with me. He remained cool as a cucumber until we stopped for dinner at Cracker Barrel and it wasn’t the spitball fight I waged on him or even the relentless tickling while he was tryng to eat soup that made him lose his patience.
I’d ordered a hot tea which came in a little silver pot next to an emaciated slice of lemon. I was just shaking on a truce with the exasperated Soucy when a jumbo glass of ice water was set just beyond my metal teapot. I reached for it, my naked underarm touched the top of the steaming teapot and I spastically retracted my hand with a yelp inadvertantly knocking the glass of ice water violently into his lap. Everyone held their breath as the water dripped icily down The Doc’s forehead and shorts. His lap sparkled with transparent cubes along with the red striped straw I’d used as a spitball weapon against him in the moments prior.
“DO SOMETHING! SAL!!! DO SOMETHING!!!” He shouted frantically. But all I could do was laugh. Hunch over, laugh, and apologize – “I didn’t mean to. I’m so sorry, Soucy.” And I was. Soucy, though older than me, is the closest thing I have to a little brother on the road and I play with him as I would play with Ben but suddenly I could see I’d taken things 11 steps too far. “I’ll be good. I promise,” I told him, tail between my legs. But retiring back into Moby’s dark belly, I could hear Soucy’s thoughts screaming across his quiet lips: “This Means WAR.”
An hour outside of St. Louis, at a pit stop, I realized it was missing—my wallet. The boys helped me tear apart the van. We searched every nook and cranny, but deep down, I knew where it was. Panic bubbled inside me. “It’s back in the motel guys.“ Memories of my most recently lost wallet (two tours ago) flashed through my mind, especially the endless line at the Boulder DMV.
Under the relentless Missouri sun at noon, my suitcase splayed on the gas-stained pavement like a makeshift garage sale, I pleaded with the lady at the St. Louis Motel to “Please!!!” search the room. At first, she insisted she couldn’t. She was tied to the front desk as the only staff on duty. But whether she was swayed by the desperation in my voice or the cash offer, she eventually took pity on me. Moments later, she returned to the phone. “It was all rolled up in the sheets,” she said and promised to send my belongings to our next stop for the $100 bill she was extracting from my belongings.
We rolled into Malden, MO at five, a town of 5,000 people and home to the Malden Youth Museum. I never dreampt I’d someday headle a youth museum but it turns out to be a half decent venue. Between soundcheck and show, Mitch and Patsy, our promoters, guided us through their exhibits, and we became kids again, reveling in the nostalgia—blowing bubbles, playing with vintage action figures and, laughing until our sides hurt.
I was a good first show of the tour. We got to shake off the rust and even tried some new tunes. During set break, I signed CDs in front of a dolphin-shaped ice sculpture that unapologetically driped onto a tray of chocolate-covered strawberries. The Malden Youth Museum is not your typical music scene, but that’s what makes it fun. Who wants normal, anyway? It’s so mundane.
I remember taking my first serious high school boyfriend home to meet my mom on a weekend break when I was 17. He was already anxious when she opened the door to shake his hand, so when she boldly asked, “So Sacha, what are you addicted to?” he stammered, “No… no, nothing, Ms. Simon,” She gave him a distrustful pause, “Nothing, Sacha?” “No, no,” he declared, chest puffed with pride “clean as a whistle.” To which my mom frowned, “How boring,” she said and walked away.
It wasn’t that she wanted my boyfriend to be an addict; she just craved a bit of imperfection, something human and unique, something not normal. In our family, “normal” wasn’t healthy. It implied the obfuscation of humanity, and that certainly wasn’t right, or so the thinking went in my home growing up.
During our second set, just when I thought playing a show in a youth museum wasn’t odd enough, a random blonde named Stephanie, leapt on stage, poured a full bottle of beer into Kyle’s mouth as he drummed and danced with Soucy for the better part “Stuck in the Middle.” I thought she was flirting with him, so during our encore, I whispered to Doc Soucy that he needn’t extend his guitar solo—he’d already clearly impressed someone. “Who?” he asked, intrigued. “Stephanie,” I replied rolling my eyes—like it wasn’t obvious. But, my mistake. Turns out, Stephanie was married and Doc Soucy looked dejected as he climbed into the van.
“Look for the ring, Sal! Look for the ring!!” he chided.
Spanning 900 miles, our road trip from Boulder to Malden, Missouri marks the start of a new tour, a tour we’ve cleverly named “D Tour.” This stretch of highway is flat, filled with endless cornfields, cows, and cumulus clouds billowing like bong hits on the horizon.
I’m at a gas station somewhere in the expanse of Kansas, standing at the counter when I catch a glimpse of myself and Kenny in grainy black and white on the security monitor overhead. It shows our backs, the cashier behind us, a display of candy, and the juice I’m about to purchase.
“Hey, Kenny,” I say, grabbing his arm, “We’re on TV!” I whisper, pointing at the screen without breaking my gaze. But instead of Kenny’s familiar voice, I hear, “I’m glad I’m not doing anything illegal,” come out of the man (not Kenny) whose arm I’ve embraced.
I gradually loosen my grip, and turn my gaze to find a man at least three decades older than Kenny. I offer him a sheepish chuckle, and he nods gracefully. With a mix of embarrassment and humor, I hurry out of the gas station, eager to share the hilarious mishap with the rest of the band.
