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.

Notes on the way back to the hotel…

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.

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.

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.

Overalls.  Old T-shirts. Mismatched socks.  Neck pillows.  Ripped maps.  Coffee stains.  Laughter.  Repeat.

This part of the country looks like the moon.

The Boulder Theater is a remarkable place. It feels full without a soul in sight.  Its hardwood floors have faces. Its ceilings are shellacked with a lifetime of laughter and applause.  Without exception, our Colorado-bound gigs this tour have been stellar, well-attended, and imperative in helping us work through kinks in both new songs and players. But headlining the legendary Boulder Theater is a special kind of privilege that no artist can deny.

We gathered as a band behind the black backstage curtain, stage left, in the shadow of the fires on stage just before the show. I don’t know if there is a way to describe the apprehension I normally feel before I go on stage.  I feel like I’m running toward the edge of a cliff with both excitement and nausea.   But last night was slightly different.  I watched my band take the stage, and saw them glide to their instruments in an Icarus-blinding light.  I closed my eyes and steadied my heart. I heard to the announcer introduce me in slow motion “SSSSSSSSSaaaaally TTTTTTTTTaaaaaylor.”

Cue the applause.  Cue the feminine “woos” and the masculine whistles. I dove off the cliff from the shadows and felt embraced, caught, and lifted by the wings of those who bravely flew to the brightness of this stage before me. 

The show was excruciatingly exceptional.  The band gets tighter and tighter with every tune.  Our wrinkles feel ironed, our flyaways are smoothed.  We’re ready to take this show on the road… Beyond the rough edges of the continental divide…  Beyond the boundaries of our beloved state…  We’re ready to ride Into the sunset.

Just one last Colorado show tomorrow in Vail before the real road begins. I’m chomping at the bit. 

Props are in order.  We’re trying a new song in the set tonight.  “Actress” is one of my mom’s latest tunes. It’s about an aspiring ingenue, narcissistic to the extreme who hungers for the embrace of the spotlight.

I slow walked the gas station aisles lined with shiny, colorful chip bags while the boys took turns in the external restroom, trading off a key tethered to a 15 lb. hubcap to discourage theft.  I picked out a pink frosted wig for Kenny, a white feather boa for Soucy a sequin star bandana, and hot red sunglasses for Brian, and for myself, I snagged a big red boa that was shedding before I even touched it.

When I unsheathed my collection back in the van, I fully expected moans and sighs but not one of them complained.  They seemed delighted to be cast in the “Actress” act. They test-drove their costumes and Brian even said I’d got him “the Ferrari of gas station shades.”