7 am was out of the way but worth the detour to get to watch the morning bloom from the back of the van—the fog lifted its skirt to the day and a hemline of mist settled in the tops of the trees the way lint gathers at the end of a broom. It was a beautiful drive to Saratoga Springs. In the highway median, grass waved wildly like enthusiastic spectators along the Queen’s procession.

Kyle, our new drummer, is a comic genius. He’s had me laughing since day one when someone, admiring his drumkit asked what kind of skins he used and without a beat, he responded “Babies.” We ate Twizlers on the ride to Saratoga and made up pseudonyms for our future selves to check in to hotels under.

“Mine will be Sally Taylor The Second,” I said jokingly and Kyle responded his would be Sally Taylor The Second’s drummer.

“Ya know,” said Kyle, “Ice Cube uses the pseudonym O’Shea Jackson.”

“Hu,” said Kenny ripping a Twizzler from the bag, “why.”

“Because,” said Kyle “It’s his name. Despite common wisdom his mother named him ‘Ice Cube’ at birth, he’s actually O’Shea on his birth certificate.” We didn’t hear the end of his deadpan delivery because we were laughing so hard. Delucchi had to pull over onto the soft shoulder so his convulsions wouldn’t get us into an accident. While we were stopped, Kyle took the opportunity to play us his new Dan Bern CD, “Tiger Woods,” which did nothing to improve our howling laughter nor Delucchi’s driving abilities. We’d be late for sound check.

Café Lena’s floors bent and slouched here and there and its paint-flecked walls leaned in as if to tell us their secrets. Oh how I wished they could talk, would they have stories to tell — about Bob Dylan who played here in his heyday with Joan Bias and other folk founding mamas & papas. Needless to say, it’s an honor to get to count myself amongst those folking heroes and musical pioneers.

Handsome Dave wearing a green apron, greeted us with hot Lemon Zinger tea and we set up for sound check. Spring light poured like an eager audience, through Lena’s crooked-toothed windows. Before we were done checking, a crowd had arrived. They sat patiently sipping cappuccinos and mochas around old, round, wobbly tables the way Europeans sit in cafes in oil paintings.

Already on stage, we decided to forego our vocal warm-ups and costume change and simply started our set where the sound check left off. It was a spectacular evening though I got the feeling people were waiting not so much for our songs to begin as they were waiting to clap at each song’s end — like they were worried they’d miss their cue for applause. It was a little weird, but overall, nice they were so eager to show their appreciation.

After the show, John Quale from USA 1 Stop (one of our CD distributors) gave me the nicest compliment. It wasn’t about my voice or songwriting or how tight we were getting as a band. “You’ve got a very well-oiled machine,” he said “No one in this business works as hard or as efficiently as you do.” It brought tears to my eyes. There’s something about being seen for the work you do off the stage by someone else in the music business that means more than anything. For the first time in a long while I felt successful. I gave him a hug and climbed back into the van.

I awoke to someone yelling loudly in Spanish in the hallway. Hoboken, I remembered where we were almost immediately, as I reached my eyes toward a headboard clad like Elvis in white and gold. The bedsprings screeched reluctantly under my every movement. The bottom sheet, detaching from its embrace revealed an immoral, floral matrices below. The lampshades were pink and the bright jungle print comforters matched the opaque drapes. They looked like they’d just come off the set of “The Love Boat.” My mother would HATE this place, I thought to myself as I tripped toward the bathroom wearing an oversized John Forte “Poly Sci” T-shirt.

The door was unlocked and I opened it to find Delucchi staring skyward with a confused expression on his face. Looking up I discovered the ceiling was a wall-to-wall mirror. “What in the…Why?” He muttered with authentic concern as we both broke into bent-over laughter.

The show last night at Maxwell’s was pretty odd. The cellar-style venue, once known for having forever altered the face of the New York music scene, has hosted every band I can think of — Nirvana, REM, The Smashing Pumpkins, and Yo La Tengo just to name a few. A torrential thunderstorm drenched hopes of a sold-out show but, thanks to Soucy’s family-sized guest list, we had a reasonable and very enthusiastic turnout. Kenny blew his bass amp toward the end of the second set and the storm managed to flood our green room but the good news was no one got electrocuted as I’d expected. The night turned into one of those damp-to-the-bone scenes where everyone (band and audience) looked on the verge of hypothermia.

I was warned when we arrived, that Hoboken’s notorious for car break-ins. With over $100,000 dollars worth of equipment in our van I was nearly frantic to find a way to protect our gear when I suddenly had a brilliant idea. Leaving the band scratching their heads, I dashed into a corner bodega and returned with a box of Kraft Macaroni & Cheese. I threw it on the dashboard with a loud, “Ta, da.” The boys looked confused.
“Theft deterrent!” I exclaimed.
“How is Kraft Mac & Cheese theft deterrent, Sally?” asked Kenny with a, I can’t wait to hear this, expression on his face.
“Nobody’ll want to break in if they think this is the kind of grub we’re eating,” I insisted. The band burst out in laughter….

…but it worked. Thanks, Kraft Mac & Cheese.

My lids creaked open as though on rusty hinges. There was the type of crunchy, featherlight comforter I’ve come to associate with motels, over my head turning the pale light of morning into a red and gold lava lamp pattern on the starched sheets. Though still early, Philadelphia was already surfing the heatwave the forecasters had predicted. Through an open window, I could feel the heat radiating off the parking lot cement. I could hear motel residents in wife beaters sweating and swearing and retrieving things from cars and slamming trunks. There was no chance of getting a jog in without acquiring heat stroke or potentially getting stabbed so I doggedly slugged down the stairwell in my tube tops, towel in hand, sleep still staining my eyes, to the hotel gym. It was a sorry sight — a converted supplies closet with a broken upright bike, a stair stepper thingy, a pair of mismatched hand weights, and a slack-chained rowing machine I made myself sit on for 20 minutes before resorting to yoga and stretching. The History Channel was on. And snippets of useful information leaked like a faucet into my brain to mingle with the remnants of my dreams.

We have a marathon of Eastern gigs on the horizon — both a curse and a blessing. We’ve been out for a week and I’ve already lost my voice. I suppose I was asking a lot of it to work 7 nights in a row. It is officially our first day off and I’m officially on vocal rest. But honestly, the road is like a vacation compared to the last 6 months making the album. I think the best metaphor for it would be childbirth. Not that I’ve ever been pregnant (other than with song).

Birthing an Album

Conception:
First, the spirit of songs comes in the middle of the night, insisting on being brought to life. they force you out of bed, put a pen in your hand and a guitar in your lap before you know it, gestation has begun.

1st Trimester:
The songs knit themselves into your body and soul the way the sun braids gold into the ocean’s face and you start to glow all over.

2nd Trimester:
You clean out the clutter. Anything superfluous needs to go. You get rid of verses and choruses that don’t serve your baby and start to imagine what it will look like.

Birthing Class:
Lamaze is pre-production. You practice and practice and practice and breathe hard so that when the time comes, labor will be easier.

3rd Trimester:
You anxiously enter the studio. You try not to think about the possibility of birth defects, unexpected fees, or extenuating circumstances and you wonder if you’re actually up to the challenge after all. Will you love this baby? Will others? Have you picked the best producer to father it? What band members will help raise it? You question if labor will be as hard as your mama said it would and wonder if it will be delivered by its due date (oh please let it come by its due date). You question what it will cost and if your heart, soul, and pocketbook can afford it.

Labor:
By the time you get to the mixing studio you’re exhausted and ready to get this baby out of you and get on with your life, but the beauty of being pregnant, with child or song, is that you can’t just tell what’s growing inside you’ve got a flight to catch or a deadline to meet or things to do. You’ve just got to wait…. and wait and wait and wait and while you wait, you give your baby a name and you knit it a (CD) jacket.

Labor is difficult. No matter how hard you’ve planned and prepared for it, it hurts. It’s scary, full of uncertainty, and always takes longer than you’d like. But in the end, after the wait and the labor and the pain and the worry and the anxiety, you’ve got something in your hands that is as precious as your own breath. You’ve got something that truly reflects your heart and soul. You’ve got something that lives and breathes just for you, all because you took the time and love to birth it.

Maternity Leave:
Exhausted and overwhelmed, you hibernate for 3 months tending to your baby’s every need. You watch it grow before your own eyes into a shrink-wrapped and swaddled CD ready for the road.

Pre-school:
This. Touring.