Boulder, CO – “Making a Home” – February 15, 2002

the sky is tinted salmon and the mountains are black and crooked. It’s not my idea to be up at 6:00 and I look through squinted eyes at my beloved, who’s just hit ‘snooze’ in hopes of finishing something important he’d started back in a dream.  

I slip into Carharts and shiver my way into the dark hallway of our new house.  This is the first time I’ve lived with a boyfriend, let alone owned a home with one and it’s both thrilling and daunting.  I’ve always loved living alone, enjoying the freedom of hanging pictures where ever I please and the comfort of knowing a slice of chocolate cake will still be in the fridge where I left it in the morning.  So far, the joy of waking up next to my love every morning and the thrill of collaborating on making a home with him outweigh any downsides but I’m not sure how I’ll handle losing some of my independence.  I feel slightly like a wild horse tamed.  2403 Pine Street is a fixer-upper in downtown Boulder and Dean assures me we can make it great.

The past three months have been spent renovating and we’ve been doing most of the work ourselves. So far we’ve put in some windows, hardwood floors and demo-ed our ceiling (which I did, single-handedly by crawling through the heating vent and slamming the roof down with my heal).  Not that we’re nearly done! Dean and I have a giant poster board with a never ending list of things we need to do before Christmas, or Sally’s birthday, or Valentines day or summer.

The living room without the ceiling I took down

I can see the list from where I’m standing. It’s shoved under a leg of the scaffolding covered in sawdust and insulation but I only have to glance at the blue indelible ink on the page to know that it’s “SAND & STAIN” day. Dean surfaces behind me while I’m making coffee in the French press.  He kisses my shoulder. “Chop Chop let’s get workin’,” He says.  We’ve got to finish prepping the one hundred and eight 10’x6” planks we hand-selected to line our newly exposed cathedral ceiling.

I stretch my high-end facemask over my nose and mouth—a gift from Dean to  protect my lungs from the sawdust.  I’m in charge of the 220 sandpaper and the Black & Decker power sander while Dean takes on the more cumbersome Porter Cable.

The sun rises behind us warming the thick canvas of our coats but never really getting to the core of the winter inside our bones. Once the sanding’s done, we’ll wet the planks, dry the planks, prime the planks, stain the planks, and polyurethane the planks (twice). Of course, we won’t get it all done today.

Some friends we got to help us install some metal beams

Dean has taught me so much about renovation. He has a knack for seeing a house’s full potential and bringing it to fruition. He’s not afraid to take on a “project” and I turn out not to be at all shabby at this whole house-building thing either. In fact, despite the 6:00 wake-up call, I like working outdoors, with my hands, with power tools. It’s meditative, mindful, creative, and a great workout. I definitely recommend it.

My blue guitar case is in the corner and like our “To-do list,” it’s also covered in dust. I walk by it every time I leave the house. It makes me sad. I imagine I can hear it singing to itself inside its case, just trying to keep itself company in the dark. I don’t dare take it out now for fear it might get demolished along with the rest of the house. It’s OK. I know it’s writing melodies in there without me, for me to sing to so I’m not worried. It’s weird to be consumed by something so completely different than music. But it feels good too. Like a vacation. Like a moment of silence.  I could get used to this life off the road.

Sal’s drawing of 2403 Pine Street

Boulder, CO – “Making it OK” – Sept 25, 2001

Colorado — This is truly home.  Here, my house is vast—the sky is my ceiling and the mountains, my walls.  Even alone, as I find myself this morning – with Dean in Thailand, dad chasing highways, mom and Ben on Martha’s Vineyard and the band scattered who-knows-where — I feel held.  Anchored. There’s something about this place that quiets the noise and brings me back to center.

I clutch a mason jar filled with scalding lemon tea, warming my hands against the cool morning air. The familiar trail to Sanitas calls.  It’s a trail tucked into the folds of the front range. It etches its way through green fields, across a perfect stream up into the jagged beauty of purple rock formations that jut from the earth like a stegosaurus’ spine or a pair of prayerful hands.  When I reach the top, Boulder stretches below—a snapshot of the life I’ve built yet rarely stop to live in. My heart pounds against the thin, crisp air, and in this moment, I feel whole and peaceful for the first time in ages.

I try to remember who I was before I started touring and what that person really wants. My sense of success has gotten undeniably skewed —a casualty of the hypnotic heatwaves that ripple off endless highways, of chasing milestones that always seem just out of reach— more CDs sold, more gigs booked, better venues, better pay. On the flight home from Reno, I had an epiphany so sharp it felt like a slap to the face: “Making it” doesn’t necessarily mean “making it OK.”

That realization brought me here, to the summit of my world in Boulder, where I’ve come to reassess what success really looks like—and to ask myself whether music still plays a role in it.

Soucy, Kenny & Brian McRae late night waiting for a hotel room key outside Moby at 2am

Apparent right away is how much success means connection for me.  I think of the camaraderie that comes with life on the road—the sardine-can closeness of five people crammed into a van, sharing the bittersweet humilities of small-scale touring. The struggle, the inside jokes, the laughter forged by shared challenges. Those moments are what I truly cherish about the lifestyle. But the reality of small-scale touring comes at a cost, and those costs are mounting.

There’s a pressure that looms over every musician (perhaps me more than most with two famous musical parents)—a silent expectation to climb a one-way, invisible ladder. Clubs. Theaters. Amphitheaters. Arenas. Stadiums. Each step upward validates your “success,” not just for the outside world but for your bandmates too, who’ve paid their dues and deserve more than cramped vans, bad pay and nameless motels. This trajectory weighs heavy on me, warping my definition of success and feeding the insecurity of who I think I should be in the minds of others.

And then there’s the financial reality. Every dollar earned is a dollar spent, getting us back on the road, and keeping the vision alive. It’s draining and disheartening to have invested so much into this pursuit to only now be nearing the break-even point.

Then there’s the physical toll of touring —drinking too much, staying up all night, risking our lives with all-night drives, and eating crap food. This lifestyle is starting to feel at odds with my desire to live past 40. The grind is wearing me down, threatening to leave me burnt out before I get a chance to burn bright.

But perhaps the greatest cost of a life spent on the road is love.  I know what the life of a musician does to love.  It contorts it, pulls at it, feasts on it, and leaves it dead on the side of the highway like road kill, and that’s not the worst of it. 

Having fallen in love with the man I dream of marrying one day, I find myself at a crossroads— love vs. music.  Apart from the harm I know my career can do to a relationship, there’s the glaring ache at the thought of being away from him—to miss out on mornings in bed, late-night talks, and the simple joy of being present—feels unbearable.

How can I reconcile this growing desire for a grounded, shared life with the transient, thankless, punishing chaos of a life spent on the road?

In addition to all of this, the world outside my small bubble feels heavier, too. The twin towers have fallen. The country is at war. These collective tragedies make the urgency for connection feel even more pronounced while simultaneously making my world of music feel small, almost trivial by contrast.  Paradoxically, the life I’ve built to connect with others—through music—has often left me feeling disconnected. From family. From love. And most importantly from myself.

Standing here in Colorado’s stillness, I can see the shape of a truer, more robust version of success. One that isn’t built on arbitrary milestones, ticket sales, or venue upgrades. It’s about fostering authentic connections—whether through shared laughter on tour or quiet moments with loved ones. It’s about being rooted in who I am rather than chasing who I think I need to be for others.

Does music still play a role in that vision? Maybe. Maybe not in the way it has in the past. Perhaps it’s time to explore what music looks like when it’s not tied to hustle or survival. Maybe music could return to being a source of joy rather than a measure of achievement.

What I do know is that ownership of my life and my choices feels more critical than ever. To find balance. To breathe. To connect. Here, in Colorado, under the vast ceiling of sky and within these steadfast mountain walls, I feel like I’m finally beginning to understand what success could really look like. It’s not “making it.” It’s making it OK—making it right for me.

And isn’t that worth everything?

Reno, NV – “Unmoored & Adrift” – September 22 & 23, 2001

I’m at the Reno airport now — unmoored and adrift.  Every ten seconds, a mechanical slot machine screams “WHEEL – O F – FORTUNE.”  Kid’s race past luggage, parents reprimand them and blurry voices announce canceled flights and new gates.  I’m going home—home to an empty house. I feel sad all over — the kind of sad that comes with flu like body aches.

It started last night, the sadness I mean, while on stage with dad.  We were singing “Close Your Eyes,” (our go-to encore) when an overwhelming devastation flooded my body and I started to cry. It was just some gentile welling up at first, but when we got to the chorus, I burst out in a full-fledged sob and couldn’t finish the last line. I felt powerless, destroyed, vulnerable, lost, little and embarrassed for not being able to hold it together.

I thought about the state of America, our president declaring war.  I thought about loneliness, about the people in the Twin Towers on 9/11 being lost or gone — their loved ones not knowing which.  I thought about the vacuousness of the unknown, the event horizon of fear and depression.  I thought about leaving my dad — not knowing when we’d see each other again. It’s always been that way, when we say goodbye It’s “hope I see you soon,” and “I love you,” without necessitating definitive dates for a reunion.  But in this time of craziness and instability, I feel our “goodbye” in a way that hurts the breath out of my lungs and evacuates it like a fire alarm.

The tears lodged in my chest and in my heart and in my eyes and solidified there, in a hard-to-remove-oil-stain sort of way.   I felt numb as the bus pulled away from the terminal—my dad on it. I waved at it’s blind, mirrored windows until it bent out of sight.  The tears didn’t stop there.  They haven’t stopped yet, and I wonder if and when they will … I sure do miss you daddy.

Salt Lake City, UT – “It’s Not Your Fault Line” – September 21, 2001

This morning, we left Sun Valley, ID. There, we’d played two nights in sheds under a mountain covered in a blanket of stars.

Dad had me sing an unrehearsed “Mocking Bird,” as an encore. People seemed to dig it and, of course, I had the time of my life. That night we slept up at Dad’s manager, Gary Borman’s, house.  His living room hosted a view of the mountains so wide, it felt glutenous to take it in, in a single glance.

We had a hike through giggling golden aspens. The leaves rained down like nature’s confetti and when we got back, Dad thought we had time to get another workout in before nightfall.  We borrowed a couple of bikes and headed out on the a path through town. Though I’m roughly half his age, I found it challenging to keep up with him.  I’m convinced my ol’ man will never get old.  But it wasn’t just fitness my pop was proposing on this outing.  We’ve always found difficult conversations easier when our hearts are already racing and he had some challenging news.

“I’m afraid I’ve got to let you go back to Colorado a couple days early” he said.  “Jerry [road manager] is looking into changing your flights from Tuesday to Sunday if that’s alright.”  The change of course was truly minimal but I felt devastated all the same. I tried to keep my composure.  Was my presence a burden? Was a week with me too much to bear? Did he hate my voice? He must hate my voice. Always looking for proof of my unworthiness, I scouwered my brain for reasons why I was being dismissed from his life (and not just the measly extra 3 days he was suggesting). 

Of course, I found plenty.  They were waiting for me like bandits hiding out in the shadows of my hopes — “You’re not important,” “You’re not successful or beautiful or talented,” “You should be ashamed of wanting more,” “Your dad has more important things to deal with,”  “He has the unconditional love of so many people, why do you think your love is special?” “You’re a burden,” “You’re selfish,” “You were never worthy of his love, why do you think your parents got divorced?” “You’re the first batch of pancakes, the ones that get thrown out.” These corrosive beliefs jumped on me, hijacking my dreams.  Of course, they were a gross overreaction to a visit cut short.  But childhood fears are tricky. They’re always waiting in the wings for an invitation to spoil a vulnerable moment.

I held my tears, grateful dad was riding ahead of me and couldn’t see the expression on my face.  “Ok pop.  How come?” I tried to sound casual.

“Oh, well, Kim and the boys are coming out, and I think I’ll just be too preoccupied,” he said,  “I should probably focus on being a dad right now I’m afraid.” I knew he meant to add ‘of two new babies’ but what I heard was ‘you’re no longer my daughter and I need you to get out of the way of my new, better life.’  I took it in stride, already resigned to my insecurities.

“Ya, Ok Dad.  I understand.”  I swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and gave myself into self loathing.  Dean was already in Thailand for work.  I wasn’t going home to his strong arms and I felt lonely.  I felt depressed, damp and suddenly I realized how cold I felt.  Perhaps it was the chill in my heart freezing me from within or perhaps it was my sports bra.  I’d grabbed it, still damp from the wash before we left for our ride.

The sun was sinking down. Dad offered to buy me a sweatshirt but we only had 19 bucks between the two of us and decided we’d better just to get back before it got much colder. But by the time we returned, I had all the telltale signs of hypothermia—nausea, dehydration, and dizziness. I spent the rest of the night shivering in a 102° hot tub under the mothering supervision of Mrs. Ann Borman, and her friend Barbara Rose. 

My pop did his guitar nails in the room with me while I rested — a ritual involving super glue, a plastic hotel key card, fiberglass, and a nail file.  He whistled while he worked and hugged me between dryings.  I know how much my dad loves me—really I do.  His hugs felt like apologies for not having more to give.  But I know all this is not his fault and I know it’s not Kim’s fault or the new twin’s fault or the road’s fault or even my fault.  This is the fault that lies in our family line — a fault inherited from ancestors who didn’t know their sense of rejection and unworthiness it wasn’t their fault.  And I know what my job is, if I can muster the strength to do it in this lifetime. It’s to politely decline the fault for myself and gracefully forgo the opportunity to pass it along.

Sun Valley, ID – “Touring with Dad, What it’s Like” – Sept 20, 2001

As I evaluate all I’ve accomplished over my five years on the road, I can’t help but feel disappointed.  Have I done what I set out to when I first sat down with Fausta? My therapist and I met weekly in the summer of 1997 and, sitting in her shack one day I asked her if it was nuts for me to consider a career in music.

I’d been in a plane accident recently in Peru, and the scare had prompted some deep reflection on my future.  Fausta didn’t think music was an altogether terrible idea to pursue music. But she wanted to know what my goals were.

“I want to archive the music I’ve written. When I went down on that plane, I thought of all those songs I’d written that I never gave birth to. I want to archive those songs, give them bodies.”

“OK, will you look for a record deal?” Fausta was contemplative.

” I want to try to do it on my own. I don’t want to sign a record contract. I want to learn what I can about the music industry and then maybe I’ll start my own label — One that develops artists and educates them about how to make it on their own.”

“Why?” asked Fausta thoughtfully, her moth-eaten sweater falling off one shoulder.

“I want to inspire young musicians. So many think they need to get signed to make it. I want them to know it’s possible to make it on their own. I’ve seen so many labels screw artists and I want musicians to know there’s another way. They don’t have to sign away their ownership or publishing or souls to be successful.”

“Ok, good. Those sound like really meaningful, solid goals. What are you worried about?”

“I’m worried I’ll be tempted to sign a deal—that it’ll be too hard, that I’ll get addicted to applause and lose sight of my values, that my ego will end up in the driver’s seat.”

“Ya, that would suck,” she said laughingly, “but I think we can put some measures in place to ensure your road to success stays in line with your values, and we can create an evacuation plan if the shit hits the fan.” The scaffolding we came up with was as follows:

  1. I shouldn’t be tempted to take the same path my parents had. 
  2. I should never take good reviews or applause as an indication of success. The thinking was that if I believed the good reviews, I’d also believe the bad reviews, and it would skew my vision of success.
  3. If at any time your ego gets in the driver’s seat, don’t be afraid to “Jump Ship!”

Recalling these measures now, I wish I could return to Fausta’s shack through the woods, hug my former shelf, take her out to breakfast and suggest a career in theoretical physics. “It’ll only take an additional four years of school,” I’d say, “and just think of the marvelous insights you’ll have along the way to pondering the Grand Unifying Theory.”  But it’s too late, and from here, five years later, on dad’s bus, exhausted and worried about the state of the world, I can’t help but think I’ve failed my twenty-three-year-old self as I size up my miniscule accomplishments next to my ol’ man’s. 

His tour experience is nothing like mine. Well, almost nothing.

For one, his band travels in a bus with bunk beds and DVD players and a refrigerator with yummy snacks in it while their equipment rides in a separate truck. My band drives in a van (Moby) where there’s a cooler with warm sodas and one neck pillow to go around for the 5 of us, plus we fit all our equipment in one trunk.

We stay in the same type of hotels, my dad and I, only we get 2 rooms while dad gets 50.

My dad’s band sleeps in bunk beds with TVs and VCRs in them while a driver drives them through the night to their next gig. I sleep on a bench with 2 other guys, my ponytail pinned under my guitar player’s ass to a hotel, post-show. Then we wake up at 7 am and drive all day long to our next gig.

My dad’s got two people to run his sound. One to fix his stage speakers and another to run the front-of-house sound. We’ve got a road manager who’s also our primary driver, who’s also the monitor engineer and also runs the front of house sound.

Pop’s band’s got a room for “Hospitality.” We’re lucky if we’ve got a table with a couple of tea bags on it.

The JT bus has a toilet on board. Our closest bathroom is a Denny’s at the ‘next exit.’

The members of my dad’s band each have their own changing rooms. Our changing rooms are the ‘men’s’ and the ‘ladies’ restrooms.

The only writing on the walls backstage with my dad, are placards with the names of the different band members on them. The writing on our walls reads “I _____ your mother in the back of my van SUCKER!!!”

But my failures are less about my ability to make a name for myself and more about the the following:

  1. I have not taken the path my parents took to stardom, and yet I’m comparing myself to them. 
  2. Somewhere along the line, I let good reviews and applause be the measure of success instead of what I’d originally set out to accomplish and
  3. I burnt myself out yet am unwilling or unable to look at how much my ego had taken control of the steering wheel.

What seems clear is this—I need to re-evaluate everything—need to sit down and inventory what I’ve gained and all I’ve lost to this musical adventure.  I need time off the road, to peel back the layers of soot and set lists and sections of highway and really take a look under the hood.  I need time to sleep and fall deeper in love with Dean and not think about the road….

But man I wish I had a fridge in the van…it wouldn’t suck to have the driver, either…and maybe a couple more neck pillows. Yeah, that’d be nice.

Bozeman, MT – “Isn’t it Nice to be Home Again” – Brick Breeden Fieldhouse -Sept. 19, 2001

During sound check, Dad decides I should sing “Sign of Rain,” and then “Close Your Eyes” with him, as an encore. I’m over the moon.

It’s thrilling to be on stage with him – the juxtaposition of being recognized as a “grown-up” singer in front of all those people while feeling like a little girl next to him. It’s a meditation to be on his stage – between the lights and shadows and bows and harmonies and butterflies. I love my Dad.

After the last song, we jump on his tour bus and begin our journey south toward Sun Valley. The bus smells like my childhood.  

There’s Mexican takeout on the counter and we make up songs about chicken enchiladas as we sip Stewarts Ginger Beer and brace ourselves as the bus wags its way through the parking lot, dodging cars and fans. Dad has a PayDay candy bar, he’s pilfered from the kraft services table at the gig and offers to share it with me. Arnold McCuller emerges from the back of the bus already in his pajama bottoms. We curl up with the rest of the band, on the cold leather couches and watch “Vampire in Brooklyn.” 

When I feel my head nod without my consent for the third time, I excuse myself to turn in for the night.  I grab the bunk above pops. It’s the one he cleared for me before the show but already it’s full again with his stuff —  half-empty water bottles, a single sock, a medicine kit from the last hotel, and his favorite green sweatpants. Before I nod off, I hear him snoring below and think to myself between the bump and the brake, “Isn’t it nice to be home again.”

Colorado to Montana – “The Twin Towers” – Going on the Road with My Ol’ Man – September 18, 2001

I’m traveling West to meet up with my pop for a week of shows. Our reunion couldn’t come at a better time.  I need family connection right now.

DIA is empty and what else can be expected?  The Twin Towers in New York have crumbled to the ground and nothing will ever be the same—especially travel by air.  The way my fellow travelers hold their breath makes the bleak day outside seem unbearable, impenetrable, steely, and cruel.  Everyone looks scared to fly.  You can see tragedy etched into all of our expressions—the echo of towers on fire and falling, the asbestos-filled plumes of smoke, the screams of New Yorkers searching hospitals and armories for their loved ones—gone.  These scenes and others are sashed in the storage lockers of our our eyes.

As I wait my turn to go through a metal detector, I recall when I first heard the news a week ago today.  I’d been Rain-X-ing my car on September 11th—cursing myself for not following the directions on the bottle. There was a permanent fog on my windshield that no amount of elbow grease seemed to erase. While I scouered the semi-translucent haze on my window, my neighbor, Joyce Beene, drove by and rolled down her window,  “Is your family alright?” she shouted across my yard.

“I think so.  Why?” I hollered back. 

“Have you seen the news?”

“We don’t have a TV,” I replied.  The bright day filtered through the pines forcing me to squint a little to see her.

“You’d better come over and see what’s happening.  Two planes crashed into twin towers in New York.”  In shock, I raced upstairs to get Dean. Together, we hobbled over barefoot through the woods to Joyce’s house. 

Nothing could have prepared us for what we saw—both towers in flames, holes in their sides, people jumping off rooftops to their death.  John, Joyce’s husband, who’d shot an elk earlier in the morning, was cleaning it in the kitchen.  He appeared now and then to inspect the TV and pink pools of water followed him on the floor. The blood clotting on his hands and smeared on his face only added to the carnage unfolding on the screen. 

We were glued to The Beene’s couch for the next two days, returning home only briefly to make food or take a hike to cleanse ourselves of what we’d seen.  We slept, knotted in one another’s arms as though we might lose each other in dreams. The country was traumatized and we along with it. The twins had come down but it was the whole world was falling apart around them. What would become of us? Nothing was clear except my love for Dean, his for me and the certainty that we could be each other’s strength through the chaos.

Once through the metal detector at DIA, I turn out to be one of ten people flagged for a random search.  I’m escorted to a small room where there are men with badges and tight polyester midnight blue pants wearing semi-automatic weapons and I can’t tell whether I feel more or less safe in their presence.  The woman in front of me packed a clothing steamer in her carry on. She had, to both our chagrin, also thrown her alarm clock in with it, making her otherwise innocuous red luggage look suspiciously bomb like. Suddenly, there are dogs and more men with more weapons and a very embarrassed woman and another hour tick tick ticking away…

My therapist warned me to keep an eye on my depression. “Your PTSD predisposes you to the sadness of this time in our national history,” she’d said as I was leaving our last appointment.  I told her I’d keep my finger on the pulse but assured her I’m made of pretty tough stuff.

The plane, like the terminal, is eerily empty, and we’re requested to ignore our seat assignments and proceed to the back of the plane to balance out the unexplained extenuating weight in the cargo space below.

My dad’s not at the terminal when I arrive.  There are new restrictions around airport pick-ups at gates. Instead, he sends a car to escort me to the hotel in Bozeman.  It’s been a while since we last saw each other.  He’s had twins since then. I’m not sure how we’ll find one another. But when I see him, all quiet and reserved and glad to see me in his glasses and green sweatpants outside room #181, I feel the drought of fear subside. We hug and catch up on the edge of his bed in the gray rayon, halogen-lit room. 

When there’s nothing left to say, we trudge down the hall and do a load of laundry in the coin op.  Between cycles, we catch a makeshift workout in his room.  This form of fitness has been a James Taylor Tour signature for as long as I can remember.  We create designated stations utilizing door jams for lat pull-downs, furniture for bench presses, balcony ledges for calf raises and bath towels for floor mats.  Dad excitedly retrieves something called “The Ab Slider,” from his bag. It’s a rarity to have a piece of legitimate gym equipment in our make-shift routine. He explains that it’s something he found on a late-night infomercial and demonstrates its uses before letting me try. 

It’s great to be with my dad—to be on his road with his touring patterns and rituals.  His familiar fitness breathing pattern is a balm for my nerves and we forget to talk about the state of the nation or the state of our family, and find ourselves back in the state of our small lives — talking about small problems and joys and memories and something called “Total Tiger,” another infomercial product dad’s dying to get.

It’s in these small conversations about small things, we find a way to connect — to forget that the world’s crumbling down around us, forget to be scared and threatened and tragic — and instead find ways to pick up the pieces, forge new memories and be grateful for what’s left.