Boulder – Page 4 – Sally Taylor

Boulder, CO – “Nisa” – March 16, 1999

Nisa’s been my best friend since I was 7. We shared the same babysitter, Valarie Nuick, who wore vanilla bean essential oil, spoke softly and seemed to swallow her laughter before it escaped her lips. She was young and fun and sometimes let us tag along to her retail job. She worked at “The Song of the Reed,” a magical clothing store known on Martha’s Vineyard for importing Afghani jewelry and Middle Eastern textiles.

On weekends Val would lug us into the store. She’d unbolt a door built into the stairwell, hand us two dull knives, and leave us to work breaking down boxes for a quarter an hour while she lit Nag Champa and put Jackson Brown on the tape deck. Nisa was older than me by two years and the most glorious creature I’d ever seen. Her skin appeared to emit flecks of gold. I, on the other hand, was scrawny with gangly legs that threatened to tangle in the wind and cornsilk hair that disobeyed hairbrushes. Nisa was beautiful the way goddesses and queens are beautiful. She carried herself above the rest, looking out on the world ambivalently while braiding her heart in thorns and barbed wire. Oh, how I dreamed of getting past her defenses and scoring the privilege of knowing her heart.

Slowly, one box at a time, I gained her confidence. Under the bare blub, under the “Song of the Reed” stairwell, we found occasions for laughter. We discovered we were both boy-crazy and confided our crushes to one another. After flattening boxes, we played dress-up, admiring ourselves in floor-length mirrors wearing headscarves and beaded kaftans. We got drunk on incense.

Before we could drive, Nisa and I would ride my tiny white pony bareback through the woods to meet up with her boyfriend. “Gusty,” who was 30, spicy and infuriated at being made to trot two tittering teenagers around, often succeeded in bucking one or both of us off. Barefoot, I’d wait outside Nisa’s boyfriend’s house to keep a lookout for grown-ups while she got to first base.

Later, we dated two brothers, the eldest of “The Blackdog” family. Robbie and Jamie Douglas were windsurfers. When Nisa got her licence we’d drive to meet them on the shore in her beefed-up black jeep. We’d stop at Dairy Queen and splurge on XXL rainbow sprinkle ice cream cones which would stick to our hair in the wind while we watched our brothers skip back and forth over the waves. We daydreamed about marrying them and becoming sisters one day. Jamie is the one who “takes to downtown, brown suburban in the rain,” in Sign of Rain.”

Nisa came to all my Boggies shows. She raided the island’s thrift stores and found ways of making polyester sexy. And when I told her I was moving west, starting my own band and going on the road she said “When should I be there?”

“You’ll come out on the road with me?!?! Really?”

“Of course! I’ll sell your merch for you and beat the boys away.”

“Well, come on then.”

She’s been with us since March 1^st. Having Nisa in the van is like having cotton candy for breakfast. It’s fun, delicious, and slightly naughty. Reunited we’re immediately 7 again, back under those stairs at “Song of the Reed,” getting bucked off my pony into puddles, picking rainbow sprinkles out of each other’s hair and daydreaming about what we’ll be when we grow up. I am so blessed to have scored the privilege of knowing her heart. I am so privileged to have her along on for the ride that is this life.

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Boulder, Co – “Let’s Get This Rodeo On The Roadeo”- March 1, 1999

This morning, my band (MY BAND!!!!) congregated like a murder of crows on my lawn at 6th & Pine to pack Moby for our very first national tour!

I’ve felt tucked into the borders of Colorado as though the state were a bed with confining sheets. While this tour has us warming up in Colorado, playing now-familiar venues and occasionally returning us to our homes in Boulder to water plants and sleep in our own beds, I feel gitty about escaping the confines of Colorado’s borders and exploring the wider nation.

I was beside myself with excitement as I skipped down my driveway to meet Kenny, Brian and the two Chris’ in my new green felted clogs. In the sparse days leading to departure, I’d managed to get all our instruments insured and (by the skin of my teeth, Kipp’s invaluable wisdom, and his fully decked out tool chest) remove two of Moby’s back seats to replace them with a ‘gear cage.’

“This cage will prevent your gear from decapitating you whenever you break at a stop light,” said a nonchalant Kipp who, having managed bands for the last 10 years, should know.

We played Tetris with equipment. “This is a one-time thing,” apologized Delluchi after the first hour of finagling guitar cases, bass amps, and suitcases. “But it’s imperative we figure out which instruments fit by size, weight, and fragility and then, after every gig, we’ll repack the van exactly the same way every time.” Chris Delluchi our soundman and tour manager is a road veteran and when he says “jump” I ask “How high?” But he’s never stern. He’s a muppet of a man, with Pantene bouncing shoulder-length hair and the town-given title of “nicest guy in the universe,” or so says 9 out of 10 people.

Once Chris was happy with our Tetris-configured boot, he gave us a nod and a whistle and like obedient show dogs we leapt in the van with our tails wagging.

Riding shotgun, I stared at the postcard I’d snail-mailed to a scant but burgeoning list of fans, addresses for whom I’d started collecting last month at shows on Kipp’s recommendation. I felt bad about taking Kipp for granted the last few weeks as I realized I couldn’t have done 1/2 of this without him.

The truth is, my boyfriend Kipp Stroden, more than anyone or anything in the world (including my Mom or Dad, all the music business books I’ve devoured, and a lifetime of experience playing in indie bands) has taught me more about the ins and outs of the indie music business and made the possibility of my being a solo touring artist a reality.

I have been a shitty girlfriend.

On the postcard was an image of me hitching a ride down a country road with a list of West Coast tour dates overlayed in black, routing us through Colorado, California, Oregon and Washington State.

Was I ready for this? You bet I was.

‘I hardly know these guys I’m traveling with.’ I thought to myself. ‘Am I crazy setting off on an month-long adventure with four strangers who might snore and fart and have mommy issues and bad breath not to mention might try to murder me in my sleep?’ But it was too late.

But Here is what I know so far about my band…

Kenny reads constantly. He brings a handleless grocery bag brimming with paperback, tattered, bodice rippers everywhere he goes. He inhales one after the other; you seldom catch him unglued to a page.

Brian is constantly making up new drum beats on his “Red Box” (which we playfully refer to as his “girlfriend” because he loves it so much). He’s always trying to get one of us to listen to his newest sample.

The jury is still out on Chris Soucy as we only just hired him two weeks ago. But so far, I find him meticulous. He’s very exact, always on time, always on the beat and he hates chord progressions that are not in the same key (I’m hoping to break him of that).

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Boulder, CO – “Losing MORE of my Band” – February 4, 1999

Dang!…I lost another guitar player yesterday and a soundman to boot.

I met up with Greg Mcrae at “Robb’s Music,” the store I visited when I first moved to town to tare “LEAD SINGER WANTED” tags off local band fliers when I was still living in my car. Together, Greg and I ambled to “Sandy’s” for coffee. He was predictably heavy, like an overcast sky and I was anxious and overcompensating and filling silences with uninteresting antidotes.

The truth I was trying to dance around is that Greg, while a great sound engineer and a stand-up guy and, frankly, a total trouper for filling in for Jeremy since his departure, is not a great guitar player. Honestly, he’d be the first to admit it. But it didn’t lessen the blow when I asked him last week if he’d be willing to continue with us next tour as our sound man instead of guitarist. I understood his disappointment entirely and felt terrible I’d leaned so heavily on him the last couple of months only to banish him from the spotlight. I’m sure he felt the transition was a demotion and his sideway glances confirmed my suspicion.

Sandy’s was alive with busy waitresses whiping their hands on soiled aprons and taking orders with sharp pencils and pursed lips. Caffeinated teaspoons clattered like dull swards in caffeinated beverages. Claiming a booth, I showed Greg a list of shows and venues booked for our first West Coast tour starting in March. He slouched against the hard, orange, pleather seat and in a harsh, detergent-like voice said, “$350 a week?!?”

“Yeah, I mean, I’m losing money on the tour,” I chewed on my words and rolled a bit of napkin between my fingers to abate my anxiety. I didn’t mention I’d already asked around town about the going rate for a touring sound engineer and everyone reassured me my offer was a great deal).

“These venues suck,” he didn’t look up from the sheet. With a smudge for a pair of lips and a sigh of resignation, I said, “That’s what we’ve got.”

“I mean, I might be more interested if these were better-sounding rooms but these’ll just suck.” He punctuated the last word like a frog catching a fly.

“You know man,” I said, hoping I sounded more sympathetic than pathetic, “I don’t want you to do it if you’re not psyched. I mean, the last thing I want on the road is someone who doesn’t want to be there.”

“–The truth is,” he cut me off, “I’m thinking about getting out of the music business altogether. I think I might try to get a real job while I still can.” He squinted at the inked tour dates like they were tea leaves that might tell his future.

We sat in silence for a sip or two before he put the paper down.

“But maybe I’ll change my mind, who knows.”

He stood up and chucked a buck on the linoleum. My racing mind straddled two tracks. The first track had me convinced: “I’m done. I’m going to have to cancel this tour. I can’t find a guitarist AND a soundman in less than an month.” But the other track reassured me, “This is a blessing in disguise. All of this is happening for a reason.”

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Boulder, CO – “My Stomach Aches for my Mama” – December 17, 1998

I’m feeling sick to my stomach. Perhaps it’s because of the severe intestinal flu that sent me to the ER for an anti-nausea IV in the middle of the night on Monday. More likely it’s from the confounding questions my new booking agent, Cassy Burbeck needs answers to before he can start booking a national tour for me. Casey wants to know: What’s my budget? What’s on my rider? Who’s in my band? What is my stage plot (what even is a stage plot?) Will we be ready in time for the Lillith Fair? Where do I see myself in 6 months? A year? A decade? I can’t imagine where I’ll be in 6 days let alone 6 months. But I need a booking agent. Booking myself is just the pits! Venues stiff me and won’t call back to confirm the show beforehand. Having booked my shows for three months now, I know exactly how much I’d pay not to have to do this job anymore, and when Casey says the going rate for agents is 10% of all gigs, that seems more than fair to me.

But my stomach still hurts, even after reconciling with my choice to hire Casey and answer all his scary questions and when I ask my stomach to tell me what’s at the root of its dis-ease an image pops up in my mind of my mama. Earlier in the week, she was driving in her car, just minding her own business and was delighted when one of her songs came on the radio. As she retold the story to me later in the evening on the phone, I imagined her bopping along to “You’re so Vain,” or “Jesse” or “Coming Around Again” as she threaded her way home, over backroads lined with puckerbrush and winter white slush on Martha’s Vineyard.

At the end of her song, the DJ took a random caller who said “I saw Carly Simon at the anti-impeachment rally the other day and she looked awful. I tell ya, I used to dig her when she was hanging around with James Taylor but she’s gotten OLD man.” My mama recounted the insouciant caller with a New York accent.

“Yeah, her skin’s all wrinkly.” agreed the DJ.

“I guess that’s what happens when ya get old.” the caller theorized, “Your skin starts fallin’ off the bone.” They both laughed. My mama cried all day. I would too. “It’s not fair mama.” I told her, “You’re sooooo beautiful! You’re timeless. You’re so talented. You’re a legend!” and I thought ‘why am I going into this profession?!?!

As I hung up I just kept telling myself ‘It’ll be OK. The work I’ve done on myself will spare me the worst of my ego’s weaponry down the line.’ But more than anything, I worry about getting hijacked by the spotlight and imprisoned by the applause. Here are some exercises I promise myself to do to avoid the consequences of my future successes and failures.

I’ll make fun of myself.
I’ll make a point of enjoying other’s successes.
I’ll separate my self-worth from my music’s value to others.
I’ll never be jealous or bitter.
I’ll never do anything just because it’ll “look good,” or “boost my image.”
I’ll believe in everyone I surround myself with.
I’ll stay curious and humble and trust my decisions.
I won’t trust anyone.

I hope it’s enough. I’m sorry mama. It’s not fair. My stomach aches for you.

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Boulder, CO – “Opening for Little Feet” – Fox Theater – December 13, 1998

I woke up on a sunburnt, brown, valore couch belonging to Charlie, a pal of a pal of a pal of Kipps who put us up after a late night turned into an early morning. A river bent itself around the small timber-frame shack like a boa constrictor. I noticed other lumps sleeping on other surfaces around the bright livingroom and registered them as musicians from various bands passing through town. Their instruments lay naked in various semi-precarious possitions. A guitarist was actually using his ax as a pillow. I picked at an unreasonable amount of dog hair in the blanket covering me, before realizing it actually was the dog’s blanket. A golden retriever stared at me with hunched ears. I imagined the inquisitive expression he wore pertained to my insensitivity having robbed him of his comforter overnight.

We opened for Little Feet at the Fox last night and the audience drank us up like a sponge. Valiant fans shushed and shooed stray voices that arose to inadvertently distract them from earview. They thought I was funny too and they laughed in tandem as I told only semi-funny jokes and danced around in gold and green shimmering stage lights. I wasn’t even nervous. But there’s nothing like a horrendous gig to make all subsequent gigs feel freeing and nothing could have been as horrendous as the gig in Telluride.

As I repositioned my sleep-kinked body to make room for the disgruntled dog, Charlie appeared in blue boxers and a head full of electrified hair. Coffee in hand and lashes pasted shut he stole the space I’d just freed for his pup and muttered “I like you’re CD more than Alanis Morrissette’s” then, promptly fell asleep to open-mouth chainsaw the air with snoring. The other bodies sang along.

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Boulder, CO – Leggo My Ego – May 29, 1998

Things have been crazy and now I HATE my album. I never want to hear any of these songs ever again after this damn thing is over.

I’ve been singing out of tune for DAYS! It’s driving me crazy and I drove home tonight listening to music I couldn’t bear to sing along with least I’d have to hear my own voice.

Sometimes I have a shitty day. I haven’t slept well or eaten enough or I’ve eaten too much or not exercised. These are the days I worried about to Fausta back in her hippy therapy shack on Martha’s Vineyard.

It’s these days when my soul feels rubbed raw and every voice in my head is yelling “What do you think you’re doing? You are SHIT at this! Your songs suck. Your voice sucks. You can’t play guitar for shit and you look like ass.” During these self-abusive sessions, I look to anything that will drown the voices out. Sometimes a drink puts the fire out. Sometimes I just have to go to bed. But when I can’t sleep, I turn to applause to repair the cuts and bruises I inflict on myself. The battery is relentless and can go on for days.

Sleep is the healthiest of my crutches but it doesn’t always work. Last night, for instance, I woke up with the fullest brain of assholes I’ve ever experienced. “You can’t be a musician.” They said, “You suck and your songs suck.” “You can’t perform.” “What were you thinking recording a demo?”

Sometimes I feel so small that if my body were just a 1/2 a pound lighter I’d fall through the cracks in the sidewalk. In these moments I say to myself “I’m nothing. I am nothing. I am a housewife. I am Betty Crocker and where’s my little tiny cooking set?”

And then I feel sudden bouts of relief. The sort that alo vera brings to burns, the sort that tingles like mint jelly on lamb chops, the sort that nibbles like patient waves at the crust of a shoreline. But then the dis-ease begins again and I want to scream and fill canyons with echos. Instead, I silently cry and scratch my face until the pain subsides.

I had to wake Kipp and beg him to hold me “Just talk me down.” I begged, my breathless tears nearly strangling me as he rocked me back to sleep.

Booze and applause are decidedly the more detrimental of my crutches. And, while alcoholism runs in my family and is a risky rod to bait, an addiction to applause would surely take me down quicker than a career in booze. Drinking applause when you need it is different from accepting it as an unnecessary gift. It wakes my roaring ego, that dangerous and skilled villain, who speaks to me in my own voice and locks me out of my own soul.

How I’ll stay away from ego:

I’ll make fun of myself.
I’ll make a point of enjoying other success.
I’ll love myself regardless of whether others enjoy my music.
I’ll never be jealous or bitter. I’ll never do anything just because it might “look good” or “boost my image” but I will believe in everyone I surround myself with and I will believe in all my decisions.

I feel 8 months pregnant with this record. It’s too late to turn back now and yet I’m scared as shit to give birth to it and set it free into the world. How will it be received? Who will love it? Does it matter?

I just want perform to my very best, sing with all my might, and do it to an absorbent crowd.

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Boulder, CO – “Time’s Ticking” – May 18, 1998

On Tuesday, Wendy and I got together in the morning to lay down guitar tracks. Unfortunately, I ruined the session with my terrible mood. I’d taken antihistamines to counter my hay fever and they made me bristly, snappy, and slightly agro. We left the studio at noon having accomplished little. We agreed to take a beat and reassemble for a nighttime session at 6 pm.

My best pal Kate suggested we go to the batting cages to get let off some steam. What a gift it is to have a friend like Kate. We hit balls and raced go-carts and watched horses trample the dry earth into dirt and dust.

Afterward, we went clock shopping, not for a device by which to tell time, but for an instrument that gave the right “tick.” I wanted a real clock “tocking” the time in place of a metronome in my song “The Goodbye.” Kate and I must have looked very funny holding our ears up to different clocks and I assume most people thought I was mad when I loudly requested silence from an entire shop before bending down to listen to the intonations of a specific coo coo. But finally, out of exhaustion, I opted for a cheep $5.95 pharmacy wind-up alarm clock. It ticked in ¾ time but somehow managed to work for the song in 4/4. You can hear it here.

Brian McRae (drummer) and Greg (stand up bassist) laid down tracks in the evening and even though everyone thought “The GoodBye” and “When We’re Together” were my weakest tunes, I advocated for them to be on the record. It made me think that maybe I’m beginning to believe in myself.

We were at the studio until the wee hours of morning. Each time we hit record, we had to remember to also shut off the house fans, close the door, and hit the buzzing dimmable lights to ensure complete background silence. In those moments of dark and silence, lit by candles and smiles, we held our breath hoping for a steady performance, one that wouldn’t need to be redone or patched. We sipped shitty 3.2 gas station beer and by 5 am we were stumbling out into a newly broken dawn. Bass tracks were complete on “The GoodBye,” “When We’re Together,” “Small Town,” “In My Mind” and “Red Room.”

I know I change my mind about it every day but I think this demo/record will turn out to be grand. And if it DOES suck, it won’t be because of the musicians.

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Boulder, CO – The Break-Up – May 13, 1998

I broke up with Doppler Circus. The boys were surprised. I was surprised they were surprised. They told me I owed them $489 for the Red Door demo tapes and rehearsal space for 3 months. I cut a check and left them, jaws agape, in the rat-shit-infested garage I found them in. I went straight from the rehearsal space to the second-hand store across the street and bought myself a white slip and cowboy hat with a radiator burn in the brim. I plan to wear both for my photoshoot on Wednesday.

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Boulder, CO – “A Short One” – May 6th 1998

I’m going out to sky trails today to lay down drum tracks, then rehearse with Mary Sister Reload/Not Eric/Tiny Yellow Ducks/Not My Fucking Band.

Tomorrow is bass tracks and Jeremy Lichter is coming out from the East Coast to lay down guitar tracks but before then I have to write two papers and study for my Anthro exam on Friday and somehow I’ve got to transfer all my credits to my college back east to get my diploma.

Frankly, I don’t even care if I graduate anymore.

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Boulder, CO – Wendy Woo – April 27, 1998

Wendy picked me up at “The Other Place” coffee shop in North Boulder. It was grey but not raining and I’d done an hour’s worth of vocal exercises, taken 2 Sudafed, a hit of “Singer’s Saving Grace” throat spray and drank almost a gallon of water before our meeting. I wanted to be prepared to sing well.

She joined me in my little purple Rav and we listened to my newest songs on the tape deck. Usually, I tense up listening to myself but with Wendy it’s different. She soothes my nerves. She was excited by the songs and said she wanted to produce the demo herself if I’d let her.

I was so honored and excited. I grew up distrusting women’s intentions but here. In the mountains, on the way to my first professional solo recording session, I felt embraced by this muse, this goddess of a woman who believed in me. Who believes in my music. I was nervous about recording my songs. To birth them into something solid… a CD that will encase them for eternity like a tomb. But when I opened my mouth to the microphone…. It was a relief.

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