By great coincidence were the opening act for Entrain, my favorite Martha’s Vineyard Band. I used to sneak into The Atlantic Connection to watch them when I was underage and dance ’til the sun came up. Their music energized me in a way that freed me from my awkward teenage insecurities and inspired me to move from the roots of my soul. I was overjoyed to see the members of Entrain who I’d become friends with over the years. I watched their soundcheck with admiration and excitement.

The Emmys or the Grammies or the Oscars or some other ridiculous pomp-inspiring award ceremony was on TV over the bar. Between songs, I watched pretty, attention-seeking egos stroll the red carpet all dressed up in the latest fashions. Men strutted with their chests puffed out like peacocks and women paraded arched backs to display what days of self-starvation can do for a waistline. The stars panted nervously and self-consciously when interviewers’ asked them banal questions like “Who are you wearing?” or “What do you think your chance of winning is tonight?” their vapid eyes glassy with excitement.

I watched with an anthropological eye, curious as hell to know how these celebrities were surviving their fame. Of course many are not, Chris Farley, Kurt Cobain, River Phoenix abd Margaux Hemmingway to name a few. But many of these stars looked alive enough and I wondered if it was an act or if they actually liked themselves in the mirror when they went home and removed their tuxes and spanks.

Kipp called on my cell phone and I relieved myself of my self-assigned ethnological study for the privacy of the green room. He was at home in Boulder

“I’m getting a serious vibe that you’re cheating on me out there with someone,” he said.

“No!!!!” I denied.

The truth is, I was. In fact, I’d had a lovely little noncommital romp with Phil back in Providence and probably wouldn’t deny myself more late-night casual snogs if given the inspiration. I grew up believing in an unwritten rule about infidelity on tours. There was a not-so-hidden “what happens on the road, stays on the road,” and “if it happens on tour, it’s not really cheating” policy I’d picked up on from as early as 8 or 9 touring with my folks. But even after growing up with this understanding engrained into my belief system, I knew deep down it was wrong.

I was in no hurry to admit this to my boyfriend, however, nor my suspicion that our relationship was more than a little over a thousand miles before I got home. So I denied any infidelity adamantly and felt wretched for doing so. When I got off the phone, the song was already written. I just needed a pen and some paper.

Ten minutes later “Split Decisions” was jotted on the bottom of a paper plate and Soucy was coming backstage to get me. “Fifteen minutes, Sal,” he said delicately, looking into my red weeping eyes. I could hardly open my lips to tell him that I’d be right there. Fifteen minutes? Hadn’t we just gotten to the gig? I ran into the dressing room to let the boys know I was leaving it up to them to create a setlist for the night.

I grabbed the keys to the van and rushed into the alleyway. Grabbing my bulky black bag out the back, I peeled off a wrinkled gray T-shirt and a calf-length red skirt. My hair was tied back in a nest of a bun and my eyes were puffy from crying but there was little I could do about either. With no time to change inside the venue— I looked both ways and tore off my shirt and jeans and, naked in the ally, I shoved arms and legs into my chosen outfit. A red light shone down on me as I covered myself in my red scarlet letter of a costume and rushed back inside and directly onto the stage.

Sign of Rain was the first song, and in my confusion and sadness, I forgot to capo (I’m definitely drinking the Skunked Beer this tour). The whole show felt like one blunder after the next. We were all so distracted. I was ashamed of myself, Kenny was tired, Brian was thinking about the time he could be having on stage with The Freddy Jones band, and Soucy was defensive thinking my tears were about him. We weren’t playing together. We were each alone in our own little spotlights.

Chris, Brian, and Kenny, exhausted after the show, be-lined it for the hotel. I thought I’d dance some of my sadness and worry away to Entrain. But, not three songs later the guys reappeared. “We’re going to have to drive to New Jersey,” they said “The hotel here can’t take us tonight.” And suddenly we were clumped together like barnacles, rocking in our cradle-like van, through the night ’til we got to New Jersey. There, Delucchi found us a cheap hotel we could pay by the hour until our rooms at The Fairfield Inn were ready. I fell asleep on a moaning bed with a flatness even the horizon would’ve been envious of.

The Hot Club is a free, three-day festival on Providence’s waterfront. A smallish crowd gathered like fall leaves in a puddle, around the perimeter of our blue and white tent. If you’ve ever wondered why music at festivals sounds so shitty it’s because festivals raarely offer sound checks. What, you ask, is a sound check anyway?

What is a sound check?

A soundcheck is a preparatory process before a show that allows the soundman to adjust a venue’s sound system and ensure the best possible audio experience for a performance. A band and audio technician/engineer(s) work together to run through a portion of the show, test-driving songs and sounds.

• The sound engineer: Runs the soundboard or mixer.
  • First, they fix the monitors on stage for each artist, allowing them to set their own customized mix.
    • For example: I like both my voice and guitar to sound dry, but a lot of artists like reverb in their stage monitors.
      
• After a band is happy on stage, the soundman will open up the volume on the “front of house” (the area where the audience stands) and ask the band to play a full song.
• The rest of a sound check involves:
  • Tweaking monitors on stage for the band.
    • For example: I like my mix to contain approximately 60% vocal, 20% guitar, 10% of Soucy’s guitar, and 10% background vocals and to have high sibolence so I can hear my words clearly.
• Tweaking the front-of-house volume, bass, and frequencies. The sound engineer often walks around the venue to ensure the music sounds good everywhere and not just where they’re located at the sound booth.

I think of a soundman as one of the most important musicians in a band. They play the room itself and it’s an art and a talent.

A festival, hosting so many acts, doesn’t have the time or bandwidth (pardon the pun) to accommodate the nuances of each artist’s technicalities so instead of a “sound check” they offer something called a “line check.” This allows bands to plug into cables on the stage and make sure noise comes out of each instrument (no matter how bad it sounds). With no sound check, we were hard-pressed to find our instruments in the stage monitors making for a challenging show. Luckily it was short, seeing as my tired voice was throwing a temper tantrum every time I tried to sing above a whisper.

“Sit and Spin,” an all-female rock band, took the stage after us. A lone lanky man with orange, tussled hair danced in wildly poetic gyrations and sleek side winder glides in his Lennon-esque purple shades.

Two pals I rowed with at Brown, Josh & Phil, invited me to go out dancing. None of my guys were up for a night on the town, but I wanted to celebrate getting through 5 gigs without entirely losing my voice. They took me to a place called The Complex— “four clubs in one building for the price of one.” We drifted melodically through doors connecting one decade of music to the next. We danced until our hearts hurt and all the tension in the middle of my chest was gone.

Back at Josh & Phil’s place, candles were lit and dark wine was poured into long-stemmed glassware. I was home—not my home though it may as well have been. I don’t even remember what my home looks like, save that it’s on Pine Street and is white and has a lawn and a porch and black and white tiles in the kitchen and a bed that Kipp built for me with a little heart engraved in its headboard.

I imagined the deep sense of security Josh & Phil must have here, with their fireplace and hardwood floors and a back porch and white walls with pictures on them and a stove that looks like it’s cooked for friends, and blue placemats that are slightly worn at the edges.

They said it’d be OK if I wanted to stay the night instead of finding my way back to the crash pad. I can’t explain my gratitude except to say that I felt that they were handing me a slice of ground, of peace, of a sigh from which I can now sip from for the rest of this strange journey.

I woke up only hours after my head hit the couch. Blurrily, I shuffled down Josh & Phil’s narrow stairwell to find my band in Moby with the motor running and a coffee hanging out the window in a giant paper cup prepared just the way I like it. Taking my seat among my guys, I realized something important. I feel more at home in the van, in my suitcase and in my band than I do in a home—even the one I pay monthly rent not to live in.

“Where should I put this roll-away bed frame?” I turned to find Soucy, in plaid boxer shorts standing next to a folded, rusty, coiled spring, roll-away frame that looked like a medieval torture device or a bear trap. It was late—Three AM after the Burlington show. Chris had already slid the thin, crispy, mattress out of the metal mouth of its captor onto the floor. despite its newfound freedom, the terrorized bedding refused to lay flat on the ground and instead, sat upright like a pathetic excuse for the letter “L.” The vision of a nearly naked Soucy next to the saluting matrice made me giggle and I looked uneasily around the tiny hospital-like room for a solution to his dilemma. Where to stash this unseemly and slightly dangerous rusty, rolling bed frame?

The lights bleached the Fairfield Inn walls Clorox green. There was so little room in our room already and we’d made use of what lack of space there was. My sink-washed laundry dried over the back of a chair, a computer uploading the latest “Tale” was over here, a disemboweled suitcase was there, loose papers full of song ideas and chicken scratch from my days of silence were scattered on the bolted-down wood-colored table in the corner.

“Should put it in the bathtub?” Asked Soucy, referencing the only immediately obsolete space he could think of. Suddenly a mischievous grin saturated my face. “Put it in Chris’s bed,” I whispered despite the fact Delucchi was nowhere in earshot. My devilish grin spread to Soucy’s face and no sooner had he responded with a slow motion, “Shhhhhhhhhhhhould I?!?!” A cackle erupted from his soul-patched chiny chin chin, and the frame was up and tucked into Delucchi’s bed. I knew it would be a while til our little joke played out. The boys had collected in Brian and Kenny’s room after a VERY UNEVENTFUL, unpublicized Burlington show. Often they gather for what they call a “security meeting,” which is just code for smoking ganja.

I stayed up and watched the last part of “The Wall” while Soucy joined the “security meeting” in room #207. I turned out the lights when I heard the two Chrises approaching. Through the light in the crack of the door, I could hear the smile on Soucy’s face as he said, “I put something in your bed to sleep with,” It was a battle to contain my laughter as I listened to Delucchi, in the dark feeling around his bedding, trying to make out what Chris put in there without turning on the light and potentially waking me. “What did you put in here?” I heard him whisper and squint “A blow-up doll?”

This sent me into hysterical laughter and I switched on the lights to reveal Chris’s rusty rollaway between the sheets. The stoned look of surprise on Delucchi’s face was priceless and he toppled backward, tripping on the loose mattress on the floor. We all rolled around on the ground laughing about the rollaway and marveled at the fact that ½ way into a tour even a rusty bed frame can be mistaken for something romantically provocative.

It was hot in Northampton. I felt like I was baking in my overalls and tank. Vocal rest, while great for certain things, can also be such a drag, and I must admit I felt somewhat uncommitted to my silence. I’d left my favorite Purple T-shirt with the rainbow trout on it, which I’ve had since I was 8, back in the band house on Nantucket. So I was desperately calling the club and talking (or rather, having my bandmates talk) to people who could have cared less about my shirt and were probably using it as a bar rag as they insisted they hadn’t seen it “It’s probably gone by now.” They said.

Outside the Iron Horse, there was no sign-up that we would be playing and I wondered why no one had even bothered to advertise our show or put up any posters. I decided to do it myself. After we loaded in, I went to work postering the town with some duct tape and a Sharpie.

I came back to the club exhausted and HOT. “Sally?” I heard and turned around to see someone I’d never met before. “Hey, I’m Tom, I’ve been reading your road journal. That’s how I found out about the show tonight.” He said excitedly. Upon seeing the rest of the guys he yelled out each of their names having recognized them from their pictures. The boys seemed frightened but I was delighted as he recalled to them, the different scenarios we’d been through in the past couple of weeks. He offered to buy the guys a drink. “I think I’d better,” said Delucchi still stunned that the guy knew what color his coffee press was.

Celia was the opener. She lives around Northampton, so she brought in a good-sized audience and she sounded good too. She sang some cool jazzy stuff accompanied by sax and piano. Neil, the manager, told us to abbreviate our set but he was too polite to tell us by how much and that merely cutting two songs wasn’t enough. So I was greatly disturbed and confused when despite the positive reception and reaction we were getting from the audience, people were getting up and leaving after about an hour of the show. I felt rushed and somehow invisible up there in the red and orange glowing spotlights.

Afterward, when Chris was settling, Neil told Delucchi that people who come to see music here are used to a 45 to 60-minute set and that our 95-minute set was just too long for them. I wish they’d told us that before. We would have had no problem shortening our long set. Besides my voice was tired and raw now and I couldn’t imagine how I’d make it through the 5th consecutive show in Rhode Island.

Neil invited us over to the “Black Elvis Show” that was going on down the street. We agreed to go for a while. Inside it was dark and loud and everyone was twelve with too many holes in their faces, they wore ink stains on their shoulders and arms, and braids that had turned into lifeless arms that flapped and clapped as they hopped and danced in their thrift.

We felt old. Well, not old “just a little too ol’ to be in the club”-Chris Rock. On the way back to the van, Soucy had to stop into an old romp of a gig he used to play in Northampton. Chris went to school at Smith, so he knew all the ins and outs of the area. I fell asleep in Moby while the others went for late-night snacks down the hill.

“We’ve never played a strip mall before,” laughed Chris sarcastically as we pulled into the parking lot. I was busy knitting (I’m making hats for the guys for Christmas…shhhh, don’t tell them) but I only had to glance at the Husky Blues signage, squeezed between a pharmacy and a Domino’s Pizza, to feel queasy. Inside, Huskey Blues was like every other venue we’ve ever played. Framed and signed 8 X 10’s were displayed like trophies on the walls, limp input cords hung off crooked mic stands, and the familiar barmaid cry of — “Sound man’s not here yet,” rang out as we entered the venue.

We ate a comped dinner in a psychedelic carpeted booth. Brian had shrimp salad, Kenny (his favorite) Chicken Fried Steak, Chris — T-bone, Soucy had a pasta thing and I just had onion rings. I’d been feeling a little sick. My voice was shredded, and it was hard to know if I was getting a cold or just singing too loud in smokey, late-night bars. I hoped the fried food would oil my vocal cords and prayed my voice would hold out for the next string of shows. We won’t get a break for three more days.

A mini-vocal rest helps temporarily as a sort of bandaid. It’s qualified by a silence thats starts directly after a show and last ’til soundcheck the following day. But it’s no replacement for an honest 72 hours of not talking which is what I need to repair and heal my voice at this stage. As hard as you’d think vocal rest is (no talking, whispering, coughing etc. for days on end), It has certain fringe benefits.

1. The band asks fewer questions of me. They seem to figure stuff out independently in a way they couldn’t or wouldn’t if I were talking.
2. I don’t have to be on the phone. Anyone who knows me, knows I have a medium to high degree of phone phobia and a legitimate excuse to not use the phone is a blessing.
3. I develop facial expressions and gestures that can convey the nuances of my thoughts which is not only fun, it makes me a better performer.
4. I have more time to think and daydream and write songs in my head.
5. I’m always delighted and relieved when the time comes to test drive my vocal cords (after a two or three-day break) and my normal voice comes out.
   

I changed clothes in the back cage of the van which is slowly becoming the official band changing room. Soucy was back there too and there was a lot of bumping and a lot of “Turn around!” “Don’t look!” and “Close your eyes,” as though even a thread of modesty still exists between the 5 of us pent up together these last 8 months.

I did vocal exercises and knit band hats in the back of the van while we waited for a crowd that never came. The UCONN students weren’t back from summer break yet. Though we only had a measly thirty people in attendance, all of them lined up an hour early for the show worried they wouldn’t get in if they arrived later. Their enthusiasm made us play our very best and somehow, we managed to sell forty CDs!!!

After the show, I slipped into pajama bottoms and silence. I’m happy and ready for whatever may come tomorrow. After all, IT’S ABOUT THE RIDE….NOT THE DESTINATION.

The first time I played the Muse was back in 1996. It was with my old band “The Boogies.” I was 21. Not a whole lot has changed since then. The wolf still dances with the blond at the entrance to the backstage. Sand still sticks to the corners of rooms like food collected on a child’s smile. Bubbles still drift down in a soapy waterfall to the dance floor where they meet a delicate demise. People still shoot pool and smoke cigarettes all day in their bare feet and the same old salty dog still heckles the bands.

After soundcheck, I showed the guys around the band house which looked much the same too, only neater, with a new rug and a new lamp. There were new band stickers on the fridge and a new coat of paint. But the bunks were still there—8 beds to a room and I pointed out where it still read “SAL’S BED” in large sharpie letters down one of the 2X4 wooden bed frames. I’d written it one night to mark my claim on a matrice after hosting a huge post-show party and discovering a couple getting some horizontal exercise in my bunk.

I was recounting some hilarious stories from my days with “The Boogies,”—The time we played for the President, our cross-dress show, the naked show, and the time Adam took a glitter-covered bare-ass bass solo. “It was in this very room,” I recounted “I lubed Adam’s butt with vaseline and covered it with gold–” when who should appear at the door but Adam trailing a bunch of Boogies and a gaggle of friends from the Vineyard. I pounced on them like Tigger, taking them down like pins at a bowling alley.

My past met my present in one great moment of hilarity. More ridiculous ol’ time Boogies tales were told—ones I’d forgotten about like the time someone lost a bet and had to wear a tick on their lip for a day or the gig the stage got so flooded with beer we fell like dominos when “Tots,” our guitarist, slipped and took us all out. Kenny, Brian and both Chrises confirmed our gigs these days were much more boring and I smiled with the relief that comes from no longer living in fear of landing in jail after a show.

Dougie Fresh, and Jesse Dutra (Nantucket pals) arrived and took us all out to dinner in Kathy Lee Gifford’s club wag and after, I gave everyone a tour of Moby as though it were my home…. “Here’s our kitchen,” I said pointing at the cooler, “in the back bench is the bedroom, where we sleep. The living area is this front row and the way back is the garage

The show was fun and familiar. A young blond dancer asked if she could wear my red feathered boa and then disappeared with it into the night never to be seen again and a rusty bearded man asked me for my autograph after the show, then traded it to the bartender for a beer.

Like a zipper we retrace the miles up and down the east coast we left behind yesterday. Gigs begin to feel like well-worn habits. The sun comes up like a curtain on another day and goes down like the stage lights on another show.

It took us four ferries to get from Martha’s Vineyard to Long Island. It’ll take another four to get us to tomorrow’s gig on Nantucket. My friend, Heidi is traveling with us. It’s nice to have another girl on the road. Her boyfriend, Brandon Fisher, painted us a huge sunflower tapestry backdrop for our stage tonight. It definitely adds to our increasingly unique set. We now have the following stage dressings:

• Brandon’s painting
• 1 Betty Boop doll
• 3 Feather boas (1 red, 1 black, and 1 white)
• 1 Red star-shaped tambourine and
• Kenny’s collection of plush toys:
  1 Yellow Smiley Face Critter
  1 parrot
  1 Purple “Thing One”
  1 Brown “Thing Two” and
  1 “Puff Daddy” the Magic Dragon courtesy of Kenny’s daughter, Brittany.

At a gas stop between ferry 2 and 3, Delucchi let me know he still hadn’t managed to secure a place for us to stay tonight. All the hotels were either sold out or cost upwards of $165. I figured, if worse came to worse, we could get one room at that rate, and Heidi, Delucchi and I could sleep in the van. But I’ll be honest with you, the idea didn’t thrill me. I was overjoyed when our pal Ian, from NYC called out of the blue and happened to mention he had a house 3 minutes down the road from the venue we could crash at. Oh, bless your heart Ian!!!!!

We were warmly welcomed back into the Talkhouse. Drew, the house sound man, had hugs for all of us and the staff remembered us by name. They enthusiastically told us we were the only new group to be invited back this season. We were honored.

Pre-show, the boys, in their effort to rebrand me as a rough-rocker chick, dressed me in various mismatched outfits, scrunching up their noses or raising their eyebrows to show their approval or lack thereof. Brett, the manager, interrupted our game of dress-up to reassure us we’d have more people this time at our show. The last time we were here the gig was sparsely attended and half the crowd were only present to cheer on The Knicks who were playing the Eastern Championship at a TV over the bar.

Indeed, this time there WERE more people. Stephen Talkhouse was overflowing with a rapt crowd and when I spotted Suzanne Vega in the front row I got so starstruck I nearly toppled off the stage. But the best part of the night wasn’t the free housing, the generosity of the staff, the packed house, or even my idol sitting stageside.

At the end of the show, after I’d played my encore and thanked everyone so much for coming, I dashed upstairs to grab CDs, preparing for our post-stage show. The one where we sell and sign merch, pack the van, and drive off into the night. But not this night. This night was special and you can’t believe how touched and dumbstruck I was when the audience persuaded me to sing another song. It was the first time I was asked to do an honest encore.

Encores, for the most part, are prewritten into a set. For example, on tonight’s set list written on the back of a kazoo wrapper, you’ll see Tomboy Bride (TBB) has been singled out for the encore.

The performer goes off stage and is seemingly “persuaded” to do “just one more!!” Meanwhile, the audience is already in on the trick. They all know they can expect a few more tunes after the performer has initially gone off stage and said “goodnight.” They know to wait and hold up lighters and clap and bang and whistle and then cheer loudly when the artist reappears, as though they’d made it happen. And despite the charade, the premeditated encore still exists. My dad’s so successful he has 3 predetermined encores penned into his set list (but don’t tell him I told ya).

Well….I didn’t have anything left on my set list and already had two boxes of CDs under my rough-rocker-chick arms but I put them down, picked up my Gibson, and played a solo version of “In My Mind.” And that, my friends ABSOLUTELY MADE MY NIGHT.