We’re down to our last ten gigs guys! I just wanted to take this opportunity to thank all of you for coming along for the ride. You’re comments have kept me going and I love all of you.
This is just a reminder that you have to put someone’s first name, last initial in the comment box below and get that person tosign up for the daily gig (the link: https://sallytaylor.com/writer/#tales), to be eligible to get ME (hand knit me) when the tour ends. Deadline for sign-ups is Valentine’s Day so… instead of “Will you be mine?” I’m gonna ask you this….
I woke up on the floor in a St Louis Marriott this morning. Michelle, from our booking agent’s office, who’d agreed to book our hotels this tour—must’ve mistaken us for a band of four because everywhere we’ve been thus far has been one bed short. I called ahead to New York to confirm our reservation for tomorrow and low and behold, we were only booked one room between the five of us. Each little discouragement these days feels like another excuse to never tour again. Each slight feels one punch closer to my career’s TKO and every sigh feels like a silent resignation.
We arrived at Zanies Too around 6 pm. It was in a strip mall next to a five-and-dime store which shone yellow from within. Soucy poked his head in the club and said, “This place is disgusting.” That’s Soucy though. He says what’s on his mind whenever no matter what feelings he slices and dices. But we had to agree with him. The club was in a red light district so there was quite the crowd milling about the parking lot. The bouncer opened a screeching metal door, “You the band?” he shouted. “Ya,” we answered. “Ya don’ wanna stay out there too long. Been a lot’a shootings this week.” With that, he let the door slam.
The bar was swarming with some dozen bar flies who stared at us through glazed, unseeing eyes. The in-house sound guy was somewhere between hungover and drunk—Jägermeister by the smell of him, and our green room was a storage closet. I walked to the front of the house to check out the gear. Some guy was sweeping last night’s butts off the stage.
Barbara (a God-sent barmaid) fed us some pizza and Cokes and slowly we began to let our guards down. But then Brian (you’ll remember our temporary sound guy— the one who would rather be on Leftover Salmon’s tour bus than in our van) came to tell us there’d been a mistake in the booking and we’d been scheduled to play three (count ’em, THREE) 60-minute sets in this smoky-ass bar. This wouldn’t get us back on the road until 1AM (when I’d be heading back to make my bed on a hotel floor). I felt sick and went to look for some Tums.
It seemed like years before we actually got on stage to play, but once there, we surrounded ourselves in a little protective bubble — a forcefield where we imagined nothing could touch us — that is, until someone threw a CD and hit Kenny. “Is that all you got!?!?” the drunk, irate CD thrower yelled, and that’s when the bar brawl broke out. The bouncer yelled “Take it outside!” And nobody listened.
That was our cue to cut and run. We didn’t even stick around to get paid we just bolted.
I’ve got to say, though, the women in that place were champs! They were gutsy beyond belief and still sweet. They were like the Amazon women on Popeye’s island—the ones who brought him up and taught him how to be strong and good. They were gems amongst the trash of Zains Too and I have huge respect for them.
Thank you gals, for saving us. We most likely won’t be seeing you again.
I’m starting to feel depressed. Brian, the sound guy (ya know, the one we picked up while Delucchi is finishing up a tour) is busy talking about “Leftover Salmon,” (the band, not the fish). He’s saying how great it is to be in a tour bus with 12 bunk beds and a kitchen and a restroom and how much money they make on merch, gigs, and fly dates. While I’m climbing into the back seat of the van (to let him have the comfier middle seat I might add) I overhear him saying to the rest of the band, “I’d never take a van gig longer than a couple weeks. It’s God Damn depressing.” And what I’d like to say is, Yeah, try adding an ungrateful wet blanket to the mix and see just how much more somber it can get.
Couldn’t find LOS’s bus but here is Ben Rector showing you exactly what Brian was bragging about.
Now, back on the highway, I feel the depression seeping in as I stare out the window, considering comeback lines I could’ve countered with. Because frankly, if you’re not looking for silver linings, it is depressing to be on the road — in a van packed with empty wrappers and five-hour drives between gigs and the slender wad in my back pocket that accounts for the $175 we got to play last night (which doesn’t even cover one hotel room). It’s depressing to think that the guys in my band are salivating over Brian’s description of Leftover Salmon’s cushy bus. It’s depressing to be away from my new fiancé when all I want is the comfort of his arms and I start to think how much nicer they would feel than 12 bunk beds and a toilet. It’s depressing that we’re only two gigs into our tour and last night, on stage, was sloppy.
All that makes any of this bearable is the applause and praise and that’s just plastic, smoke, vellum, not real love just a replica… a false idol. OK, I’ve got to stop this pessimism before I fall off the ledge and take the band with me. I might be the only thing that’s keeping us afloat. And after all, it’s not so terrible and it’s only a month of my time and I’m doing this to see if I still want to do this. OK, feeling better.
Hi Sal? It’s Soucy. I’m locked out. You’re probably asleep with earplugs in, and it sounds like you left the TV on—pretty loud, I might add. But I’m knocking,” (knock knock knock) “and I guess I’ll just… knock some more.” (knock knock knock)
That was the message I woke up to this morning (the 21st) at 11 AM. It was followed by another, far less composed:
“Sally, H E L P… They won’t let me in. The front desk has no record of me being allowed in the room, and it’s 2:30, and I am sooooo tired. I just went for a sandwich, took the wrong key, and now I can’t get back in. H E L P M E!”
As I was processing all of this, Soucy strolled into the room, looking remarkably fresh and clean despite his ordeal.
“How’d you finally get in?” I asked, trying to suppress the smirk tugging at my lips. He was, after all, right—I had completely passed out with earplugs and CNN blaring.
Supposedly, Soucy had to describe the contents of our room in painful detail to convince the night guard he actually belonged there. His pièce de résistance? Holding up the cover of Apt #6s and explaining he was in the band. Only then was he allowed in.
“Didn’t sleep great,” he said, his voice nonchalant as he bounced onto the edge of the bed with an apple turnover and flicked on the TV.
The night before had been great—a packed lineup featuring three bands, including South Carolina’s Blue Dogs. The space was incredible, — brick walls, cathedral ceilings, and an old-school theater vibe that felt equal parts vaudeville and magic.
And then, as if scripted, in walked Beatle Bob.
Beetle Bob
If you’ve never heard of the infamous music journalist Beatle Bob, he’s the kind of legend they should write folk songs about—or at least include in a future Muppet Show reboot. Rumor has it, the man goes to over 400 shows a year, dancing enthusiastically at every single one, all while owning exactly two jackets: one maroon (which he was rocking that night) and the other, apparently pink (possibly with a gold collar).
“You know you’ve got something special when Beatle Bob shows up,” the soundman said with a knowing nod.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel a little nervous; after all, this was our first proper gig in almost a year. But climbing on stage felt familiar, like slipping into an old, broken-in pair of shoes.
Rusty? Oh, absolutely. Tight? Not even close. But you know what? The crowd didn’t seem to mind and Beatle Bob twirled and grooved to every single tune we played.
On stage, everything felt right again—the lights, the mic, the music, and even the chaos of a 2 AM hotel lockout. I didn’t know how I’d feel climbing back in the saddle and I’m happy to report the answer is — I feel good, strong, confident, back in the game.
That said, I miss Dean. It’s hard to justify being away from him even after a great first gig. I think my future as a musician will be determined by this tour. I know now, after a six month hiatus, what success truly means to me and I that I’ll know what it looks like when I see it. I don’t mention anything to the band but they must intuit the fate of our group hangs by a fingernail after my recent engagement. I owe them everything to try to make it work. They are my brothers from another mother, my comrades in arms, my closest confidants, my steadfast allies. It means almost as much as my health and sanity to remain loyal to them.
Almost.
I am the Little Engine That Could. “I think I can, I think I can, I think I can…”
Leaving for tour- I already miss Dean and it’s only been an hour. Poor thing was exhausted last night after a week of celebrating our engagement with our exuberant Boulder friends. Still, I was pissed he fell asleep early on the eve of my leaving for tour. I stayed up packing until three — sequined stage shirts and belts with oversized buckles — to the rhythmic beat of my lover’s snores. When I was finished, I painted Dean’s toenails magenta — something to remind him of me, I thought, as I packed the nail polish remover in my luggage. When I crawled into bed beside him, I couldn’t latch into the train tracks of sleep. I was excited and nervous to be leaving on tour again.
Dean gathered me into his arms by the light of the morning. I tried to memorize the moment—the cool room against his warm body. It would be too long until we were in each other’s arms again.
Now, we’re on the highway, 60 miles away from Dean’s arms. The land is yellow and flat. It’ll be this way until we get to St. Louis. We picked up a new sound guy this morning before heading out — just a temp really, ‘til Delucchi finishes up his tour with Femi Kuti. The temporary sound guy’s name is Brian Neubauer. None of us knew him before this morning but he seems nice enough, and after brief introductions, Brian climbed into the back of Moby and fell fast asleep. Impressive.
Delucchi calls hourly like a worried mother hen. “Did Brian get in the van with you guys?” “Did you get the Fed Ex from Michelle?” “Don’t forget to pick up CDs and cash the checks in the merch box.” “and.. “don’t forget your guitar, Sal.” His concern is sweet, and I appreciate it…mainly because, frankly, I would forget my guitar without him.
As we drive further east we start to pass familiar advertising on billboards; The largest prairie dog in the world,The live 6-legged cow, and The fiercest snake alive, but we don’t stop despite my whining. Someday, I’ll get to see that snake. I swear it.
When we do stop, it’s at a Texaco to refuel and pick up Twizzlers. Outside the station, we try to figure out if we’ve been to this one before. Inside the shop there are white rabbit skins for sale; that seems familiar. And books on Christianity with titles like, “Why the Blood of Jesus is so Magical”; and well, that seems familiar too. But the Wizard of Oz mini mugs? those don’t ring a bell with any of us and the glitter poster of Dorothy? Well, that’s sort of foreign too. We decided as a band that this is our first time in this Texaco. This triggers a conversation about which US rest stops each of us likes most. You’d think we’d have more important things to talk about—Like my new engagement, where we’ve each spent the last 6 months, or how the intro to Split Decisions goes, but no.
Kenny and I decide that the Texico at The House of Sod in Gothenburg, Nebraska is our favorite place to stop, and Kenny pulls out a couple photos we took there once. He hands one to Brian, who laughs at the expressions on our faces poking through the plywood American Gothic
Kenny & Sal poking through the plywood American Gothic
200 miles further from Boulder, the van falls silent. The seat belts go click clack against the windows, The AC hums like a train soothing a weeping countryside and Dino turns on, “The Good, the Bad and the Ugly” on his computer. “Can you see Sal?” he asks. “Yeah, but should I be watching?” I ask. “I’m the one “I’m driving.” “Nah, probably not,” Admits Dino. The van is silent again when the whistling intro begins. Dino freezes screens long enough for me to dart a look, just so I can decipher the ‘good’ from the ‘bad’ and the ‘ugly.’ Otherwise, my personal viewing consists of the flat road ahead, corn to my left and cattle to my right.
As the sun sets behind us, we drive into the shadows arriving at our hometel, only twelve or so hours after we left Colorado’s rocky mountains. The rooms are clean but they only have one bed and a fold-out, leaving one of us floor-bound; we draw Twizzlers to designate the unfortunate floor taker. Kenny picks the short one. Sorry Kenny
Monks chant, incents unfurls lazy fingers through the air, and the hum of motorbikes bearing the weight of entire families balance on two wheels —This is Siam Reap.
We’re visiting Angkor Wat, in Cambodia — 402 acers of temples dedicated to the Hindu god Vishnu built during the 12th century. Dean and I are winding down a full day of exploration by visiting Angkor Wat’s largest most iconic temple of the 70 on site. This particular structure was designed to represent Mount Meru, the sacred mountain in Hindu and Buddhist cosmology, symbolizing the center of the universe. I like the idea of visiting the center of the universe to cap off the perfect day.
Dean and Sal got engaged in the structure on the far right
Surprisingly, there is only a trickle of people left from the day’s tourist busses, we pretty much have the place to ourselves. It’s still hot, though the sun is nearly gone, and the cool blue dusk is falling. Monks stride along precarious tiers of blue temple rock in crimson and saffron robes.
Henri Mouhot
These grounds, marking the largest religious monument in the world, were only discovered and reclaimed from the dense Cambodian jungle after a curious French explorer, Henri Mouhot, came upon them unexpectedly on his trails. I imagine him in 1860, with his curled mustache, chancing upon an abandoned temple while machete-ing swaths of ravenous jungle, out for a day of adventure. How his heart must have stumbled out of his chest when he cast his eyes upon the love and devotion that etched these intricately carved stones, with apsaras and scenes of Hindu epics whispering stories of the Khmer Empire’s grandeur.
This is The South Thousand God Library. Dean meditated on the pillar the monk is standing on and proposed to Sal under the pillar on the right.
Dean and I reverently hike the steep steps to the top of what once was an ancient library (The South Thousand God Library). There, facing west, the last strips of the sun fall warmly against our cheeks.
The monks chanting grows louder as the sun sinks and Dean suggests we meditate a while. There are two perfect pillars to set our legs into lotus position and we face the sun as it sets on the horizon. I close my eyes and rest in the moment but find it hard to settle my mind.
We weren’t even supposed to be in Cambodia 24 hours ago. As far as I knew, Dean was taking us on a Hawaiian vacation before the last leg of my summer tour. Only after I refused to repack my cute new summer outfits into a smaller bag, three hours before our flight, did he succumb to admitting what he truly had in mind.
Some of the monks chanting that night
“Honey,” he cupped my head and brushed my brow with his thumb “I need you to take a smaller bag because we’re not going to Hawaii.” My best friend, Laura was with us, helping me pack. She sat down on the bed beside me, giggling. Tasked with babysitting our two new humane society rescue cats, Tallulah Magenta Del Rio and Boris Erasmus El Guapo III, while we were away—she was in on the plan.
Tallulah Magenta Del Rio & Boris Erasmus El Guapo try to disguise themselves as clothes.
“We’re going to South East Asia,” he announced with a glint in his eye.
“WHAT?!?!” I said, disorientated. I would have believed him if he hadn’t been so damn convincing with all those Hawaiian brochures. What was I going to do with all these straw hats and string bikinis?
“Are you kidding me?!?! I can’t go to Asia,” I protested, “I don’t even know where my passport is!” I despaired.
“Oh no, you do have a passport. It was buried under a sea of photos of old boyfriends, but I found it,” he chuckled, whipping out my small navy passport, and we all laughed til our sides hurt.
Screenshot
Of course, I was overjoyed. I LOVE to travel and I’d never been to South East Asia. It was Dean’s knowledge of the culture and religion coupled with his familiarity and passion for the country that initially attracted me to him in the first place. The first night we spent together we’d been sitting on his couch after he’d invited me in for a drink. When he started talking about his adventures through Thailand and Laos, I got so excited about meeting someone who loved travel as much as I did, I’d had to stop him. “You’re going to have to quit what you’re saying,” I’d cut him off mid-sentence, “I’m going to have to kiss you now.” I’d said. That kiss had planted the seed for this moment, so the idea that he was taking me to his favorite place on the planet was mind-blowing and earth-shattering at once.
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With Laura’s help, I managed to ditch the majority of my sundresses, exchanging them for hiking shorts and t-shirts. A couple of hours later, we were on the plane that would deliver us here—to this sun-drenched moment, to this breath to this eternal place — the center of the universe, with the world at our feet.
When I start to feel the warmth of the sun fade on my face, I open my eyes. The twilight’s chased the brightness from the sky and there, beneath me, on one knee, is Dean. He’s staring up at me with a nervous smile playing on his lips, one arm extended, and a ring in his hand.
“Be my Tomboy Bride?” He asks.
And I say…
“Yes.”
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The next days were magical — a kaleidoscope of laughter, dragonflies, street food and music. We were aloft in a timeless, weightless high of colossal proportions. On our last day, our driver, Pisith, decided to show us to a local museum. A small establishment set up by a local hero, Aki Ra, who’d been an ex-child soldier, ordered by the Kamer Rouge to plant landmines in the soil.
He’d made it his mission to remove as many of the indiscriminate weapons from the area as he could in his lifetime, using proceeds from the museum. I held my heart as I walked through the inhumanity of the recent war that killed so many. At the end of our visit I came across a weathered photo album on display. Opening it, I found a girl not more than five years old with crutches and a missing leg. She looked out at me above the caption, “This girl will never be married because of her injury,” and I started to sob.
Dean came up behind me, and I turned to bury my head in my fiancé’s chest. “We’ve got to do something,” I said. The joy of my impending marriage juxtaposed against this girl, whose injury would bar her from having a similar fate, was too much for my heart to bear. We took Aki Ra’s card and promised him we’d be back.
On the plane ride home, I fiddled with my new engagement ring. “I think we should find an organization that supports landmine victims when we get back to the States and start working for them. What do you think?” I asked my soon-to-be husband. “I think we should start our own organization,” he stared out the window dreaming a bigger dream for us. By the time we approached the tarmac at La Guardia, Dean had filled at least ten cocktail napkins with steps we’d need to take to make “The Tranquility Project,” a reality.