Carly Simon – Sally Taylor

Block Island, RI – “Heros” – Captain Nick’s – August 11, 2002

It’s 2:30 am. I’m with four 21-year-old guys with shaved heads trying to break into my third-floor hotel room with a knife and an expired credit card. One of the boys is kneeling on the floor with a dinner knife wedged into the door jam. Another is pushing with all his might while the third and the fourth are balanced precariously on adjacent windowsills banging on a small rectangular window over-the-door. The four of them are arguing over who gets to break into James Taylor’s daughter’s room.

Though I’m not in any danger (these guys are employees of another hotel on the island) I’m, never the less glad Dean made me pack that bottle of pepper spray for the road. How on earth did I end up in this situation?

The day started tamely enough. I woke up on Martha’s Vineyard in my childhood bedroom, surrounded by dolls on shelves and James Dean posters on walls. I’d flown in the night before, leaving the band and Moby back in Quincy, MA. When I left, they were busy indulging in the accidental discovery of a new “culinary masterpiece”: pretzels dunked in flat beer (don’t ask).

I was scheduled to record a rendition of “Anticipation” for a Heinz Ketchup commercial with my mom, brother, and cousin and but hadn’t quite sorted how I’d make it to Block Island for that evening’s show.

Enter my hero, Uncle Liv. Liv, licensed pilot extraordinaire, offered me a ride to my gig in his two-seat single-prop airplane. He took the long way, flying along shores lit up in the fading pinks and ruset golds of sunset. I tell you, there’s no better feeling than owning the skies—or, in my case, having an uncle who does.

The band greeted us at the airstrip. They’d walked over from sound checking the club, Captain Nick’s, which was only a spitting distance away.

Liv, the ultimate showman, grinned at the group and asked, “Want to watch me take off?”

“Sure, Uncle Liv!” they hollered like a bunch of excited kids.

Liv wadded himself into something resembling a discarded memo and wedged himself back into his seat. Leaning out the window, he shouted some music business advice, inaudible over the puttering of the engine. We waved as he took off to the West, into the sunset, as all heroes do.

I picked up my blue guitar case and slipped off my shoes. Together, we walked straight from the tarmac onto the stage and, with sandy toes and all, launched into our first set. The vibe of the club was electric. Though we’d never played Block Island, Captain Nick’s was packed and people knew our songs and sang along with them — a surreal and heartwarming experience.

After the set, I lingered at the club while the rest of the band headed out with some locals to a bar. While not intentional, it’s fair to say I’ve been avoiding the guys since I made my peace about turning. How do I tell them I’m quitting my own band? What if they ask what that means for them and I don’t have an answer. I’d warnet a guess that I haven’t made direct eye contact with any of them since the gig at The Iron Horse. I sense, in my back molars, that they know the fat lady has sung and I secretly hope they’d rather not talk about it yet, either.

Around 1 a.m. at the club, it hit me—I had no idea where we were staying. No key. No cell phone. No band. But I was just tipsy enough to believe I might stumble upon the right place eventually if I cased enough parking lots looking for Moby. Outside, on an empty Ocean Ave, I stared up at the silver full moon. It looked like a porthole in a giant black ship. It shone as if someone shot a hole in the skin of the universe and tomorrow was draining into the night from the wound.

I wandered dimly lit paths from one potential hotel to another, softly calling, “Soucy? Delucchi?” in increasingly desperate tones. Suddenly a young hotel attendant with matching stubble on his head and upper lip appeared, possibly summoned by my lunacy.

“I’m sorry,” I said as he approached “I’m a little lost –”
“Oh, hey, Sally Taylor,” he said, ““I saw your show tonight—you were great.” (Ah, the benefits of playing on a small island).

“Thanks,” I replied. “I’ve, uh… lost my band and don’t have a key to my room.”

“And what room are you all in?”

“Well, I don’t exactly know.” I admitted, “We might not even be in this hotel.” Even tipsy, I realized how ridiculous I sounded.

He raised an eyebrow and invited me to the staff barracks, where a full-blown employee party was underway. The floors were a sticky mix of sand and spilled beer, faces glowed green under harsh halogen lights, and everyone, having attended the show, treated me like family. That’s how, at 1:30 a.m., I found myself at the mercy of four slightly stoned, collegiate, superheroes attempting to break me into a locked room at a hotel I was rumored to be staying.

“If I only had a rope,” murmured the guy holding the knife to the door. “I could swing around the outside to the window.”

“Where’s Spiderman when you need him?” I laughed.

Then someone else chimed in, “Wait, I know a guy with a ladder. We could put it on the awning.”

Though clearly a bad idea, the-ladder-on-the-slender-awning plan seemed like a winning solution and we trotted down to the parking lot. There, just pulling in, sparkling like my knight shining armor, was Moby. She navigated the lot in seeming slow motion—an eternal second anchoring time to a moment. My band of heroes stepped out of Moby’s big white belly. They readjusted their belts, stretched their backs and casually waved upon seeing me with a sea of boys as though it were just another day at the office. Delucchi presented me with a roomkey along with a bouquet of flowers someone left for me at the club. My band couldn’t have known what a sight for sore eyes they were. They couldn’t have known I’d been through a legendary odyssey.

The world is full of unsung heros. Folks like my uncle Liv, the Block Island bellboys, the audience that sang along to my songs and of course, my band of musical brothers. I wish I had time to write each of you a song to memorialize your heroics but this road tale will have to do. My time as a traveling minstrel grows short and besides, I’m much too tired to stay awake for another second.

Thank you to all you heroes who’ve saved this damsel in distress tonight and for the last five years along the road. Only some of you know who you are.

« All Gigs »

Great Barrington, MA – “Catching Two Parents, With One Gig” – Club Helsinki – July 14, 2001

Club Helsinki is one of my favorite spots to play. It’s small, as intimate as a bedroom, yet boasts theater-quality sound. Its walls are a sea of mosaiced mirrors extending onto furniture and ceilings like crashing waves, winking when the stage lights hit them.

Stephen Kellogg showed up around dinner time (he graciously agreed to open for us again). The food at Club Helsinki, far from your average band fare, was colorful, and exotic and after gorging ourselves on it, we crawled, bellies full, into the bowels of the Club. Under the stage the exposed beams hung low. Pipes protruded from walls at awkward angles like mannequin arms and roots from plants above, leaked through the ceiling. There were pickles stored next to candy canes and bottle rockets stacked next to pork rinds.

Stephen, was wearing a brown corduroy outfit and was tollerant as I ribbed him by refering to as a leisure suit. I dared him to introduce himself, then his brown outfit (as though it were part of his musical accompaniment). We stashed ourselves behind the stage door to see if he’d go through with it but when I poked my eye through a straw-thin crack between hinges, I saw my mama walk in to the club!

I rushed into her arms and embraced her vanilla scented body with such enthusiasm, I nearly knocked her over. “What are you doing here?” I whispered in an attempt to minimize distracting from Stephen’s act. “I came to see you!” She gleamed. I was over the moon. Stephen’s short set didn’t afford us much time to catch up. But I called her up on stage to sing “Convince Me.”

After the show she crawled into the belly of a backstage with us. She climbed down the rickety ladder under the stage in her tall red boots like some sort of sexy santa. She lavished love, gifts and praise on all of us and lifted my spirits to the moon with her joyful smile.

I don’t even think people understand how much I love my mama. Seeing her sent me into a storm of unfastened laughter. Her presence alone could have fueled my spirit for weeks. How could I have wished for anything more? And yet, there was more to come.

At 1 AM the band piled back into Moby and head towards Cromwell Connecticut. When the phone rang, it was my dad. I wasn’t surprised, he often calls me late at night from one backstage or another. We take for granted we’ll both be finishing work as the night tilts into the next day.

“Hey Pop, where you at?” “I just got done with a gig at Jones Beach. Got a couple’a days off so I’m headed up to the Berkshires to see Kimmy and the kids. Where’ you at my girl?”
“Uh, where are we Delucchi?” Delluchi handed back a map and I read it by the intermittent street lights”highway 91, headed toward Connecticut.”
“That’s south right?”
“Sure is.”
“I’m on 91 headed north! Lets meet at an exit so’s I can smack eyes on ya. What exit you at now?”
“Amazing,” I said, We’re still in Massachusetts.”
“I’m at exit 24. Call me when you get to the Connecticut state line.”
The next 20 miles were spent in radio contact, relaying what exits we were passing, calling back and forth strategically to make sure we didn’t pass like two ships in the night.

At 2:13am, exit 46 off highway 91. We pulled into a Mobil station. Dad was still a couple exits south so we dashed into the gas station for supplies. We bought a jumbo bag of chips and a slew of ultra processed dips and fake cheeses that escort all good late night snacks (some Tums too) and waited outside for my pop to show.

He pulled up in a shiny tour bus that made Moby look like a tonka toy. He looked great despite all the dates he’d been playing and was a sight for sore eyes. We stood around, kicking the curb in the empty parking. We crunched on chips and traded road tales with my ol’ man.

It’s a great thing to be able to meet up at a gas station in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night with your pop who’s got the same screwed up sleeping schedule as you, just to chill, admire the moon, chew on some pastels or hostess cup cakes, and maybe even risk a cup’a joe. And it’s a better thing to get the opportunity to catch up with not one but both of your troubadour parents as you trace the same highways they helped pave.

« All Gigs »

Boulder, CO – “This is The Last Time I’m Falling in Love” – Trilogy Wine Bar – June 30, 2001

“I’ve never seen so many capers in my life,” said Soucy, staring at the top shelf of Trilogy’s pantry/greenroom sagging under the tremendous weight of condiments in bulk. Trilogy has no official backstage, something I discovered the first time I played here with my Brother (Read about that gig here). A year and change later, little has changed. The venue still houses bands in their overstuffed pantry with it’s jars of fava beans and salsa. It’s not bad really. We sit on cartons of fruit and barrels of wine and snack on garbanzo beans and pickled beets. We tune our guitars and rehearse harmonies while dodging the bare bulb that hangs low between us.

I’m particularly buoyant this night and the boys want to know why. I’m ashamed to say it, but I’m in love. No, no really in love. Not obsessive compulsive Sam love, or spring fling Jack love but real to GOD, I want to get married in love — with Dean Bragonier. How did this happen? the boys groan as if I’d managed to fall into an open manhole and not for the first time. Their disappointment makes me giggle. They’re convinced my heart is accident-prone as I explain the circumstances surrounding what they consider another mishap and I consider true love.

Here's The Story:

I flew to Georgia to play a show with my Mom on Amelia Island.  I had a day-and-a-half layover in Martha’s Vineyard on the way back.  It was a warm summer night and my bass player, Adam, from my old disco band, “The Boogies,” asked me to join him for the opening of a new restaurant called “Balance.”  So, in a striped aqua blouse and a brightly colored hat that I borrowed from my mama, I danced glitteringly into the town of Oak Bluffs. 

I saw him the second I walked in.  The handsome, no-named stranger I’d admired throughout my teens.  The one I frequently oogled at end-of-the-dirt-road-parties we both washed up at at the end-of-the-night on summer break.  The one who occasionally smiled an unreasonably broad grin my way but never spoke to me.  The one who lifeguarded on the nude beach I went to as a 16 and 17 year old naked girl.  The one who now, as a dashing young man of 27, I was ready to meet.  I kept track of him loosely as I went about the party, catching up with old friends.  It wasn't too hard.  He was tall and seemed to glow with an inner radiance.

When I noticed he was keeping track of me too, I thought I could relax my harnessed gaze when suddenly he was gone -- Nowhere to be seen.  With a single night on the island I wasn’t going to let my chance slip away.  I strolled outside to “get some fresh air” where I spied Adam and his girlfriend under a street lamp having a smoke.  I sauntered toward them, using their company as an excuse to scan the area for him without being painfully obvious.  When he was nowhere to be seen, I sighed, and decided it was not meant to be.

“I’m gonna head home,” I told Adam when from behind I heard,

“Do you think I could get a lift from you?  My ride left without me.”

I turned to see Dean standing just inches from my face.  His smile illuminated like a strand of brilliant diamonds.  I caught my breath.  I could see my future in the umber of his eyes.

At this point, the band rolls their collective eyes. They’re so over it. I continue.

“Of course,” I said, I may have stuttered.  “Where do you live?” I asked.

“It’s on your way,” he assured me.  Interesting, I thought, so he knows where I live. 

“That’s not interesting,” interjected Soucy, “that’s just frightening.”  I ignored him and went on.

We floated to my parked car and made small talk on the drive.  I was sure a kiss was in my future when he said, “You can just drop me off here on the side of the road. I can walk from here.”  I was stunned, a little embarrassed and slightly confused.  Was his request for a lift really just that?  The need for a ride? 

“Don’t be silly,” I retorted, “I don’t mind taking you to your door.”

“Thanks,” he seemed somewhat surprised, and I wondered how I’d so badly misread his cues.  “It’s this right,” he pointed to a paved turnoff.  His crushed clamshell driveway glowed in the moonlight.  My motor running, he opened the passenger side and stepped out of the car.  This was it.  He was going to wave goodnight to me and go inside without me!!!! What the hell?!?! I thought angrily.

“Thanks for the ride Sally,” he said, then hesitated before closing the door.  “I’d love to have a drink with you sometime if you’re not too busy,” he said.  The world froze around us, the moon sat still on the dark ocean and a smile crested like a wave in slow motion across my lips and at the very bottom of the deepest most luscious breath I’ve ever taken I said,

“What about now?” 

We were inseparable for days.

The band groans again.

“No, not like that, we just were intoxicated in each other’s company. He really is The One, guys. This is me, falling in love for the last time.”

This does nothing to quell the band’s disbelief in my stupidity and they all but throw up their arms when I say, “Dean’s embrace is where I surrender.”

“Naw, Sally!” Kenny says. “Not again,” Soucy drops the neck of his guitar. Delucchi looks at me disgusted, like he’s rehearsing the act of picking up the pieces of my broken heart again and Dean Oldencott (our new drummer) looks anxious, unsure of who or what to believe.

To the band, I’m the girl who cried “love” like the boy cried “wolf” and they’re sick of my adrenaline junkie, buggy-corded dives into relationship time and time again. There’s no convincing them that this time it’s for real, so I leave it at that and dictate a set list which the boys scribble down in purple ink on the back of their garbanzo-stained napkins.

“Nisa, SOS, Sign-o-Rain, When We’re Together, Wait…” then we go out and crush it, and Dean Oldencott is fabulous and the whole world falls into place like the last piece of a complicated puzzle.

Mark my word people, This is the last time I’m falling in love.

« All Gigs »

Mohegan Sun Casino, CT – “Money in the Key of C major” -The Wolf Den – January 26, 2001

Ka-Ching, Ka-Ching, Ka-Ching.

The hopeful chime of slot machines in C major reverberates endlessly through the casino, a surreal symphony we cannot escape. It’s a sound so constant, so consuming, it feels less like background noise and more like the digestive tract of the building itself.

When we step into the backstage dressing room, it feels like an entirely different world. Frankly? It’s nicer than our hotel room. Soucy jokes, with a glint of sincerity, about spending the night on the saffron-crushed velvet couches. The room is decadence personified—fruit plates, cheese platters, gardenia-scented candles, bottles of red wine, freshly juiced drinks, and water are neatly arranged. Outside the door, a gray plaque bears my name, an official touch that makes me pause. This is the backstage treatment I’ve always dreamed about, yet never allowed myself to think I deserved.

Carmen appears with her radiant smile and bouncy black curls, ushering us to sound check. She’s the heart of this whole operation, we quickly realize. Behind the stage, a movie screen looms, ready to project towering images of me singing later tonight. For now, it loops an ethereal montage of wolves bounding through snow, howling under moonlight. It’s fitting—the venue is The Wolf Den Theater at the Mohegan Sun—and through the entranceways, animated wolves bark, wag their tails, and silently bray alongside the relentless slot machine tune.

The legendary casino din, locked in its perpetual C major, is so overwhelming that it drowns everything else out. Even ourselves. The sound engineer, immune after years, mentions how it unnerved Herbie Hancock during his visit. Apparently, Hancock abandoned his second set entirely, crawling inside the grand piano to pluck C major progressions straight from the strings—a unique jam session with the casino’s mechanical orchestra.

Back in the dressing room, I’m unwrapping dips and testing miniature pastries (cheesecake gets a solid “yum”) when Carmen pops back in. “Your skirt is a little ripped—do you mind if I mend it?” she asks.

“Are you kidding? That would be amazing!” I reply, stepping out of it and handing it to her. “This skirt is special. My mom gave it to me in high school—it was hers when she was my age. No matter how many times I patch it, it falls apart again.” I laugh as she pulls out a tiny sewing kit like a magic wand. The skirt is my Velveteen Rabbit, its wear and tear proof of the love it’s carried over decades. My own attempts at darning, often with waxless dental floss (a habit I’ve inherited from my dad) have been rudimentary at best. The fabric is so fragile that even a small gust of wind threatens its integrity, but I can’t bear to retire it. Carmen, who has already pressed and hung Soucy’s and my wardrobe, works like a magician. It’s impossible not to adore her. By now, I think we’re officially her biggest fans.

The truth? Soucy and I are nervous. It’s been months since we last performed, especially a duo acoustic set. After sound check, we rehearse downstairs in the green room. I repeatedly dress, undress, and redress myself—for something as small as a solo show, it oddly feels like a big deal. The nervous energy bubbles over, and we decide to gamble away the $17 we’d won the night before. A lighthearted moment before the real show begins.

When it’s finally time, The Wolf Den crowd greets us warmly. They’re unfazed by the constant casino chaos spilling through the wolf-guarded archways. The space, public and open, thrums with an unpredictable energy, like the heaving, stormy churning of a deep sea. Yet somehow, the performance is fun—alive, even. The audience is forgiving, even enthusiastic, and for a while, we’re all swept up in something larger than the growling slot machines and the barking digital wolves.

It’s nights like these that remind me why I love this. The music, the people, the unexpected moments stitched together like the patches on my mom’s old skirt. Flawed, fragile, and endlessly meaningful..

« All Gigs »

Buffalo, NY – “Heir Force” – October 30, 2000

The People article came out today. “Heir Force,” the headline reads. A photo of me, arms stretched like an airplane cruising at altitude, was taken against the canvas of my mother’s gazebo on Martha’s Vineyard this spring. While the tagline is regrettably cheesy as all get out, the piece is flattering and praises the independent path I’ve chosen to take in music. In many ways, the it’s exactly what I’d hoped for — public recognition of my musical capabilities propelled under my own steam and on my own terms. But the headline makes it painfully obvious I remain in the shadow of two musical giants and ride the pages of People magazine, not on my own merits, but on Heir Force One. Folding the rag in half, I decide the piece is both a victory and an embarrassment and choose to focus on the victory. Next, I grab the boxing nun and challenge Kenny to a match. I need to let out a little steam.

I found the puppets- – “boxing nun,” “boxing rabbi” and “boxing devil,” at a gas station back in Albany and they’ve become the band’s go-to entertainment during long drives. Our boxing matches are not fun in themselves but the band’s sordid and inappropriate commentary make for great comedy. I admit it, I’m the least sportsmanlike of our brood when it comes to boxing and if puppets could bite, mine definitely would. Kyle’s commentary on my fights are my favorite:

“… Usually, before long, Sally resorts to illegal head butting, hair pulling, and grabbing the other puppet’s muumuus for which the ref, time and time again has to reprimand her. He will not hesitate to take a point away if such behavior continues Sally!!!!”

The show at the Tralf was decent enough. My voice held and Tom’s desil leaking 80’s Mercedes Benz managed to get us to soundcheck on time. After the shock of watching my lyrex’s pornographic debute at the throat doctor’s office, Tom drove me back to Buffalo, but half an hour into the ride the car started smelling funny. Worried it might be leaking carbon monoxide into the main cabin we stopped at my pop’s place in the Berkshires to check it out.

My dad’s no car expert, but he jumped under Tom’s hood like a well-oiled mechanic. After careful analysis, he decided it could be remedied with some dental floss (his goto tool for almost any project).

His fiancee, Kim, and I made soup and veggie burgers for our burly dental floss-wielding technicians. Pop and Tom returned, covered in oil, their faces blackened with assurances the carbon monoxide situation was abated. But as we waved goodbye and got back on the highway, I was more nervous about the repair job than the possibility of carbon monoxide poisoning. But we managed to survive the rest of the ride and as we pulled up to The Tralf I was starting to wonder whether dental floss might be the cure for all the world’s woes.

—

« All Gigs »

York, PA – “My Panties For a Harley Jacket” – The Women’s Expo – October 7, 2000

“I traded my underwear for a Harley Davidson jacket.”

“You did WHAT?!” screeched my mom over the phone.

“Don’t worry, I wasn’t wearing them.”

“Excuse me what?!” Apparently my wearing them wasn’t mom’s main concern. “Back up. Where are you? tell me what you’re talking about?!?”

“Soucy and I flew in for a one-off at a woman’s expo in Pennsylvania and it turned out to be a Harley convention with booths and food and tons of people in grey long beards and – ”

“O K A Y ?” she was still confused.

“And this guy named Michael drove me onto the stage on the back of his motorcycle with my hair all flowing out behind me. It was wild mama.”

“Y A A A,”

“And I complimented Michael on his cool leather jacket when he dropped me at my mic stand. Did you know York, PA is where the manufacture Harleys?”

“So how did you end up losing your panties?!”

“After the show the promoters, Michael and a huge crew of his rider friends and their girlfriends all helped me sell CDs. Then they wanted me to sign their denim shirts and leather hats which of course I did, and then they insisted I pose with them on their bikes – ”

“Sally!” sigh, “please get to the point.”

“So, when we were done, fifteen of them took me aside as a group and said, “can we get your underwear?”

“They just out and asked you?!”

“Ya.”

“And you said YES?!?!?!”

“NO!!! I said no.” Pause “But then they said they’d trade me for Michael’s leather jacket and I said ‘sure.’”

“You said sure!?”

“They said they wanted ‘um dirty.”

“WHAT?!?!?!”

“Ya. Isn’t that freaky? Especially the women in the group, they insisted. So I said I was just going to excuse myself to slip out of them and instead, I grabbed a clean pair out of my gig bag, threw them to the wolves and Soucy and I headed out the door.”

“Sally Taylor!”

“The jacket is really awesome mama.”

“SALLY TAYLOR!”

« All Gigs »

Malden, MO – “Look for the Ring, Sal!” The Malden Youth Museum – September 30, 2000

An hour outside of St. Louis, at a pit stop, I realized it was missing—my wallet. The boys helped me tear apart the van. We searched every nook and cranny, but deep down, I knew where it was. Panic bubbled inside me. “It’s back in the motel guys.“ Memories of my most recently lost wallet (two tours ago) flashed through my mind, especially the endless line at the Boulder DMV.

Under the relentless Missouri sun at noon, my suitcase splayed on the gas-stained pavement like a makeshift garage sale, I pleaded with the lady at the St. Louis Motel to “Please!!!” search the room. At first, she insisted she couldn’t. She was tied to the front desk as the only staff on duty. But whether she was swayed by the desperation in my voice or the cash offer, she eventually took pity on me. Moments later, she returned to the phone. “It was all rolled up in the sheets,” she said and promised to send my belongings to our next stop for the $100 bill she was extracting from my belongings.

We rolled into Malden, MO at five, a town of 5,000 people and home to the Malden Youth Museum. I never dreampt I’d someday headle a youth museum but it turns out to be a half decent venue. Between soundcheck and show, Mitch and Patsy, our promoters, guided us through their exhibits, and we became kids again, reveling in the nostalgia—blowing bubbles, playing with vintage action figures and, laughing until our sides hurt.

I was a good first show of the tour. We got to shake off the rust and even tried some new tunes. During set break, I signed CDs in front of a dolphin-shaped ice sculpture that unapologetically driped onto a tray of chocolate-covered strawberries. The Malden Youth Museum is not your typical music scene, but that’s what makes it fun. Who wants normal, anyway? It’s so mundane.

I remember taking my first serious high school boyfriend home to meet my mom on a weekend break when I was 17. He was already anxious when she opened the door to shake his hand, so when she boldly asked, “So Sacha, what are you addicted to?” he stammered, “No… no, nothing, Ms. Simon,” She gave him a distrustful pause, “Nothing, Sacha?” “No, no,” he declared, chest puffed with pride “clean as a whistle.” To which my mom frowned, “How boring,” she said and walked away.

It wasn’t that she wanted my boyfriend to be an addict; she just craved a bit of imperfection, something human and unique, something not normal. In our family, “normal” wasn’t healthy. It implied the obfuscation of humanity, and that certainly wasn’t right, or so the thinking went in my home growing up.

During our second set, just when I thought playing a show in a youth museum wasn’t odd enough, a random blonde named Stephanie, leapt on stage, poured a full bottle of beer into Kyle’s mouth as he drummed and danced with Soucy for the better part “Stuck in the Middle.” I thought she was flirting with him, so during our encore, I whispered to Doc Soucy that he needn’t extend his guitar solo—he’d already clearly impressed someone. “Who?” he asked, intrigued. “Stephanie,” I replied rolling my eyes—like it wasn’t obvious. But, my mistake. Turns out, Stephanie was married and Doc Soucy looked dejected as he climbed into the van.

“Look for the ring, Sal! Look for the ring!!” he chided.

Sorry, Soucy.

« All Gigs »

Boulder, CO – “Vanity Fair”- Between Tours – August 30, 2000

After the John Cafferty show I flew to Martha’s Vineyard for a family photo shoot with Annie Lebowitz for Vanity Fair. I know, this is a huge honor and how dare I mention all this privilege in one sentence. It’s disgusting—an embarrassment of riches — and I should hate myself for normalizing it and I do, believe me, but it gets worse. In the following days, People and US magazine sent reporters to the island to do stories on me—Just ME!!! and I got all caught up in my ego’s sparkly spiderweb. The attention made me drunk and blind and disgustingly ambivalent about it all. Make-up artists curled my eyelashes, lighting specialists lit angles I didn’t know I had and cameras snapped mechanical bites off my soul.

But as the fog of attention lifted and I made my way back to Colorado on the 25th, I felt a brutal hangover from drinking so much false love. I was worried about how easily I’d given myself to the adrenaline and glitter of being celebrated. Didn’t I know better than to get high off that kind of affection? Hadn’t I gone to therapy for a year, for god sake, to ensure I wouldn’t get hooked on applause and yet there I’d been—no resistance whatsoever—guzzling for the cheap buzz People and US and Annie and Vanity Fair offered. I wondered, as I wandered past first class, to my coach seat in row 16B, if my recent heartache had something to do with how readily I’d welcome the drug of artificial affection.

Thankfully, Boulder brought me right back down to size. Rehearsing for a week in a rundown, grungy garage warehouse sandwiched between a homeless shelter and “The Bus Stop” (Boulder’s local titty bar) will bust even the most resilient of egos.

Tonight was our last practice before we leave for the West Coast tomorrow. The warehouses were quiet when I arrived at 7:30 but within the hour, 20 bands would fill North Boulder with a soup of colorful sound—Thrash, Bluegrass, Punk, Rock and Reggae would all blend in the humid air outside our open garage doors until the neighborhood was a brick of impenetrable noise. There would be bad covers of “Brown-eyed Girl,” bad covers of “Blinded Me with Science,” and bad covers of “Fire and Rain.”

While I strung my guitar, musicians skulked like skinny, crooked shadows in the slick, wet parking lot — smoking cigarettes and waiting for their drummers to show up.
Some of them actually live out here in the warehouses — those who can’t live off their gig money or tour too much to justify paying rent on a real apartment. Kyle, our own drummer, used to be one of them. He showed us where he’d made his bed in the very space we were practicing in. “Unit #50 costs $35 bucks a night whether you’re rehearsing or sleeping,” he told us.

Even though it was raining, we left the door open, like the rest of the bands, to avoid the musty, dank, moldy stench that grows on you if you hang around one of these spaces too long. The fan was on and I came up with the brilliant idea to spray my gas station imitation Drakkar into the spinning fan blades to make the room smell better, but when I spritzed the fan, the imitation Drakkar flew directly back at me, into my hair and eyes. The guys howled at my idiocy and I laughed along with them.

We rehearsed for a couple of hours just to polish intros and outro’s and then, loaded up the van. We leave for Salt Lake City in the morning. As I helped Delucchi shove the last guitar into the boot under a yellow street light I thought back to Martha’s Vineyard just days ago — how fast I’d gone from feeling like the bell of the ball to just another struggling musician in a van. I hugged my guys goodnight and drove home to get one last good night’s sleep. I crawled like a hermit crab into my bed and dreamed of the road ahead. It’s good to have my feet on the ground again.

« All Gigs »

A Day Off – June 3

I Thought I’d give you a day off to catch up on some of the gigs you might have missed up ta this point. We’re headed west on Monday.

The one about finding my pet hedgehog in a pile of trash…

The one about playing with my pop…

The time I turned a man into a bubble bath…

And one of the most recent and heartbreaking…

Enjoy and I’ll see you on the West Coast!

« All Gigs »

St Louis, MO – “Disaster” – Cicero’s – May 31, 2000

The Vineyard was just what I needed and while I felt a pang of anxiety when the boys pulled away, leaving me at the airport, I was glad to miss three days of Missouri, “Roller Coster Haven,” and Pabst Blue Ribbon.

On The Vineyard, my mama and I drank chai tea and curled up on her couch. Between her velvet throw pillows, she triaged my shredded heart and we laughed between my tears. She taught me her beauty secrets, “always put a streak of highlighter down the bridge of your nose to make it look slender” and, “use your taupe eyebrow pencil as a lip liner.” She toured me through old photo albums and we listened to sad songs and I wrote a few of my own. Mama absorbed my tears and brushed the hair from my forehead while I told her what a fool I’d been to fall for Sam.

At the end of Memorial Day, when I came downstairs with my overnight bag and a guitar case full of new songs, my mama was awake. Her hair was piled into a little spiky nest atop her sweet head. She greeted me in the kitchen, in her soft robe, a spatula in one hand and a plate of her famous shredded apple Swedish pancakes in the other. We ate with our hands. She poured me a giant glass of grapefruit juice and sang to me, my own lyrics to remind me just how strong and capable I am of getting through this. I hugged her and told her (because it’s the truth) that she’s the absolute best mommy in the world.

On the plane to meet up with the boys, I listened to one of the new songs I wrote and tinkered with the lyrics. It’s called Disaster.

Disaster

I broke my own heart
For the good of my pride
For my own piece of mind and
Left my soul deprived
Now there’s sleepless and sky and
my memories to ride and
A picture of you left on my bedtable side

You’re a distraction to my lonelieness
While I’m in ink jotted
On your “To Do” list
But there’s love in your words
And there’ll be one last kiss
Goodbye and I’ll miss you and
Whatever this is

Now out of this picture, you smile in my face and
The image of you bellow me, I’ll erase
Now I’m a disaster and you’re a disgrace
How funny that this should be “love”

There’s something about this pain
That makes me feel happy
Happy to feel anyting at all
I’ll listen to sad albums and
Cry all day long to
Get you out of my system
One more track then
I’ll move on

Now out of this picture, you smile in my face and
The immage of you bellow me I’ll erase
Now I’m a disaster and you’re a disgrace
How funny that this should be “love”

Missouri was a scorching 95° when I flew in to meet back up with the band. I shaved my legs in the airport sink (sorry, I know that’s gross) and slipped into some stage clothes in a stall feeling like some B-list superhero. I hoped the slip dress mom let me borrow would be appropriate attire for the heat but when I arrived at the club, the air conditioners were cranked to sub-Antarctica, and traversing through two clashing climates for load in made me convinced I was catching a cold.

I remember one summer when Ben and I were kids, my dad took us out on the road and there weren’t enough bunk beds on the bus to accommodate both the band and two little kids. My dad set up a couple of cots on the floor for us and being 6 and 9 we didn’t much mind camping on the floor of the bus. However, the AC was on full blast and my brother’s cot was directly in front of one of the vents. One morning, after a particularly long overnight drive from Pittsburgh to Illinois we woke to find half of my brother’s face frozen and as the day continued, it wasn’t thawing. The poor bugger couldn’t blink let alone take a sip of water without it dribbling out the left side of his mouth. Turns out, my brother had Bell’s Palsy. He spent the rest of the summer with one eye patch over his eye which I tried to make him believe made him look like a cool pirate.

The show went all right. Cicero’s is sort of a jam band gig. The walls are plastered with posters announcing coming bands named: “The Kind,” and “The Shwag,” etc. I don’t mean to stereotype the place. It was clean, (intensely) air-conditioned, had ultra-friendly employees, and filled up pretty nicely for a Wednesday night.

The best part of the show for me was catching up with the band in the green room (literally just a bathroom with black walls and a handwritten note on the door that read, ”Not a Public Restroom.”) Inside the “Not a Public Restroom,” of a green room we elbowed our way around empty gear cases crowding in with us like extra players waiting for show time. Kyle sat on the toilet and warmed up his wrists against an empty drum case, “Thrum thrum thrum.” While I washed my face I listened to Kenny’s excited retelling of each and every roller coaster they rode in my absence. Delucchi laughed at Kenny’s “wooshing” reenactment noises, reliving the experience through Kenny’s vivid retelling.

I was grateful to secondhand smoke their memories, to be getting ready to play another show, to be Sam-free going on one week now, and most of all, grateful (after 5-weeks out) to see Boulder on the horizon.

« All Gigs »