Colorado – Sally Taylor

Boston, MA – “Ben’s First Show” – August 2, 2002

There are blue cotton panties on my front lawn. I don’t know how they got there or how long they’ve been there just that I don’t want to touch them to throw them away and apparently neither does Dean or anyone else for that matter because day after day, they’re there.

This morning when I’ve showered and packed, I look out the window to see the band is there; Soucy, Castro, and Dino all huddled around the panties in my yard and they’re all crinkle-faced and wondering aloud who’s panties are they? Where did they come from? Where are they going? And why? It’s disturbing to them when I tell them I don’t know and so we all just hover over them with our suitcases by our sides until Amanda, my assistant, comes to pick us up for our flight. But on the ride to the airport, they’re all anyone can talk about and the blue panties on my yellow lawn set the tone for the day.

At the airport, the woman behind the counter insists she doesn’t have us on any flight to Boston via St Louis despite the confirmation letter I show her from hotwire.com saying we’re all set to go. However, she does find us on a plane to Chicago that’s going onto Boston and we take what we can get.

In Chicago, I get a strawberry banana smoothie and shop around in a bookstore deciding on “Choke,” a title by Chuck Palahniuk the author of “Fight Club.” It’s dark and cynical and apocalyptic and I like it ‘cause I’m really none of those things.

I love mulling about in bookstores—surgically opening covers, staring into spines and marrow because, who knows what you’ll find? Love, pain, sex, tears, a different time, a different space, a different version of yourself, a different set of problems from which to escape your own.

Soucy at the famous *Make Way For Ducklings* statue in the Boston Gardens

When we arrive in Boston we immediately set off to find my brother. Tonight is his first live show (with his band) and I am thrilled I get to be here for it. The venue is called TT the Bears. We’re not exactly sure where it is but Soucy’s thinks he’s been there (albeit in 1983) and remembers it being in close proximity to Harvard in Cambridge. So with luggage in hand, we turn ourselves over to The T, Boston’s subway system. The Blue Line connects to the Orange Line which links us up with the Red Line heading outbound by which time Soucy admits to not remembering if it really is out this way at all and we all sigh and I call Kipp on Soucy’s phone.

Kipp, as you may recall from my early days on the road, was once my boyfriend, now, my brother’s manager. While there is still only love between us, I haven’t seen or spoken to him since I got engaged. I expect it may be a bit awkward when he answers, but he sounds genuinely excited to see me and directs us to get off the Red Line at “Central.”

But at “Central,” we’re lost again. We drop our bags outside a used record shop playing Hoagie Carmichael loudly through a scratchy olive megaphone and Soucy goes down into the store to ask directions. We look like we’re running a yard sale with our luggage splayed out — computers, guitar cases and shedded clothing on the sidewalk. A drunk man waddles by mumbling nothings. Girls point at store windows talking loudly about shoes they covet. A cigarettes smokes, abandoned on a curb.

When we finally arrive at the club Ben lifts me up to give me a hug and slings me around in the air. He looks great, lean and handsome underneath his baggy cloths and hat. There’s a great turnout at the venue and plays his heart out for all the pretty girls who’ve already dedicated their hearts to him after the first song. He’s GREAT. He’s confident and his band is tight and full of unstoppable talent.

After his set, I help him sell his new CD, “Famous Amongst the Barns,” and I brag about singing harmonies on some of the songs. It’s the first night they’re available and they’re going like hotcakes. I buy one too.

We stick around the club for a while listening to the next band but we’re not all that jazzed about them and when Delucchi shows up, fresh in from LA off the Femmi Kuti tour, we rejoice in our band being whole again. I don’t think I can convey how important Delucchi is to our band. Having Brian for a substitute soundman one the first leg has only amplified my appreciation for Delucchi — his work ethic, positivity, patience, organization, not to mention his willingness to drive at all hours of the night.

We retrieve our bags from Ben’s van, congratulate him on a fantastic first night and bolt, promising to reunite for an early breakfast that never ends up happening. Back onto the conveyor belt of subways that lead to our hotel in Woburn. Here we reunite with Moby, right where we parked him when we’d flown back to Colorado for some mountain gigs last week.

In the room, I throw Ben’s CD in for a spin . The guys are excited to hear the tunes I sang harmonies on, but to my dismay, all of my vocals have been scrapped. I’m not even mentioned next to my Mom and Pops’ names on the ‘additional artist’ fold-out.

I’m feeling pretty embarassed and dejected when Delucchi yells up from the ground floor to let me know “Moby’s dead.” A light was left on while we were away, and we need a jump before morning. I’m on hold with AAA when I get a message from Dean that he doesn’t think he can make it out this weekend. I feel deflated and tired and it sends me into a tailspin of self-loathing. This is no way to start a second leg of a tour. I kick myself for letting myself get so down and it’s 2:30 before AAA shows up.

I open a can of lentil soup and eat it out of the can with stone wheat thins I find in the trunk. There’s no AC and I fall asleep, above the covers, reading “Choke” and feeling the way those blue cotton panties must feel on my lawn.

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Boulder, CO – “Our House” – July 30, 2002

I’m two days shy of flying back East to finish up the tour. The idea of heading back into Moby’s upholstered arm(rest)s is bittersweet when contrasted against this week spent in my fiance’s real live arms. Dean was a sight for sore eyes, standing at the door waiting for me, heart open and steady as I stumbled into his embrace, exhausted and battered, like a soldier returning from war.

2403 Pine Street, our house — bought together and renovated with our own hands, has grown and transformed in my absence. Our shelves have new dishes, our bed has sheets. Dean, ever thoughtful, outdid himself and by restoring my parent’s dining room table, reviving its 1975 charm in a way that made it glow with my musical, childhood memories. For my homecoming, he adorned every corner with little miracles—lights hanging delicately, plants thriving, and our bedroom turned into a haven of love. Candles flickering like an orchestra of warmth and hope.

We’ve barely left that room. The world slips away, and our time together is reduced to only the simplest needs—food, the occasional breath of fresh air, some light stretching, and three shows in the mountains.

Dean came with me to all of them. The first two were smooth enough, but Aspen was a total mess. The venue was chaos—two soundmen were in a full-blown standoff when we arrived, and from above, torrential rain poured as if to drown the town off the map. But all storms have their silver linings. My grandma Trudy surprised me by showing up smelling like tea rose (her signature scent), and despite everything, we sold $700 worth of CDs. Take that rain!

It’s interesting, even though the first half of this tour has been uglier than most, there’s been a shift in the energy at shows. I can see our crowd size growing, our show tightening, and my career blooming and growing roots. I know we have something special and that people are catching on and it’s exciting. But it doesn’t change the fact that being away from Dean physically hurts.

Where I once used to dream of a life on the road, basking in its freedom and adventure. Now I dream of a life at home—here, in Boulder, in Our House, which like the one in the CSN song, is a very very very fine house, with two cats in the yard…

and the steady rhythm of daily routines, and a man who loves me. Being away feels…off, like I’m stretching myself too far—a rubber band set to snap.

But what would I be working toward if it weren’t music? Would I pursue Dean’s and my landmine victim rehabilitation innitiatives in The Tranquility Project? Write music for others? Open that raw food restaurant I keep imagining Dean and I running? Or maybe breathe life into Consenses, a new idea that’s been begging that I build a multidisciplinary art collective in town?

The possibilities might be endless if I could bring myself to imagine stepping away from the path I’ve charted—but the tracks I’ve laid are my own. I’m invested in them. I routed them. I forged and carved them and lay them into the dry earth —a road less traveled in the well worn map of music. I’ve committed myself to this lifestyle, to this band. I bought Moby to take us where I believed we were all heading —The idea of jumping tracks feels utterly impossible.

And after all, to be fair, the road isn’t all bad. It’s just… hard and awful.

Maybe surrounded by Moby’s arm(rest)s are exactly where I need to be, at least for now. It’s only two more weeks after this, and Dean will be flying out to see me next weekend. I’ll hold onto that thought, wrap myself in it like armor, and just keep going as I have been for five years now.

I’ll have to see how I feel by the end of this leg.

Signing off… confused.

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New York City – “Greetings, From My Hairy Nuts” – Sotheby’s Auction House – July 24, 2002

After tonight’s gig in New York, we have a whole week off in Colorado. I can’t overemphasize how excited I am to see my fiance! But it’s too early to get worked up. Though our flight home is less than 24 hours away, we still have four states to visit before take-off.

The day kicked off in New Jersey, where Soucy woke me with breakfast in bed? Suspicious. He hovered over me with a lukewarm coffee and a bagel, ever so slightly smudged with cream cheese. He gave a little throat clearing, eh hem, and gently grazed my shoulder with the underside of his paper plate. Soucy is nice, but never this nice. I stumbled in the sheets to insinuate my reluctance to get up.

“Come on, Sal,” he announced with unreasonable charm. “It’s Raptor Trust day!”

Ah. Now it all made sense. The Raptor Trust, if you aren’t already aware, is a bird rehabilitation sanctuary in New Jersey. It’s operated by Soucy’s parents and is the childhood home of my continental breakfast carrying guitarist. I should have remembered it was bird day!

As we slid through the backroads of Soucy’s hometown, he pointed to places of interest like an enthusiastic tour guide — his best friend in fifth-grade’s home, unrequited loves parents’ house, favorite stoner hangouts, and the pièce de résistance, the site of his first french kiss.

Unfortunately, our Soucy tour made me late for my interview with Paper Magazine, and I spent the first hour of my visit, glued to a phone in the Soucy’s living room.

When I finally emerged, I joined the band on the continuation of the Soucy tour around The Raptor Trust grounds. Chris proudly showed us the inner workings of his family’s organization. He demonstrated how to feed baby birds with tiny instruments inserted into cup like, screaming mouths. He explained the process of freezing rodents to make yummy rat pops for hungry adult raptors.

Soucy samples the rat pops at The Raptor Trust

I got to hold a barred owl and a beautiful eagle with an injured wing. But to stay on top of our busy schedule, our bird handling would have to be cut short.

Bidding a grateful adieu to Mr. and Mrs. Soucy, we cruised over the bridge and down the FDR toward New York City. Our destination? Sotheby’s. Yes, that’s right, that Sotheby’s.

Was playing a set at Sotheby’s even a thing? Turns out, not really—we found ourselves in the middle of some big opening event for a new Miguel Calderon exhibit. Load in included riding up in a freight elevator next to a $5 million Andy Warhol portrait. Our green room was crammed with precious artwork worth billions and we decided against making ourselves to comfortable, least the couch turn out to be a Thomas Molesworth or the drink tray, something once belonging to Louis Xiv.

After a brief sound check I decided to amble around the newly hung gallery. The artwork was quite shocking (which is really saying something. I am not easily shocked). Off to stage left was an series called “Greetings from my Hairy Nuts” featuring Miguel’s balls against scenic postcard backdrops — tiny paper mâché action figures vacationing, diving, and fishing on the artist’s hairy nuts. Off stage right was a series of photographs showcasing a wannabe gangster shooting taxidermied safari animals with a Magnum.

Our makeshift stage was in the main hall and when I took the mic, I pretended I was only there to auction off some of the instruments (insisting the players came with them). The audience seemed to enjoy my bit and played along. Sotheby’s was soon packed with music enthusiasts, two of whom came from 6 hours away in Syracuse just to see us. They shouted and sang along to all my songs (even the words I forgot). The whole event was a surreal experience — more dream than reality, and over too soon. Once again, we were rushing to stay ahead of our unreasonably tight schedule.

This last bit was going to be the tricky part—the dismount if you will. I’d made reservations at The Spring Hill Suites in New London, and figured we could get there by midnight to kack out for a while before heading onto Boston for the flight. But there was construction traffic and cars dripped through the interstate like water through a leaky faucet. Dino took the first shift and I, in shotgun, fell asleep to the lull of classical music over crackly FM airwaves.

I woke up at 1:55 alarmed. Dino was doing 90 with his chest pressed against the steering wheel, elbows jutting left and right. There was loud static coming from the radio, which was, intermittently playing Mozart and Brian shouted up from the back “How you doing there Dino.”

Dino’s eyes were wild and wide “I dunno man. I’m getting tired. I might need to stretch a little.” We pulled over and Dino proceeded to do some impressive yoga on the side of the road to wake himself up. Luckily New London was only the next exit and we snagged three hours of sleep, before climbing back onto the road at 5 AM.

I took the morning shift, navigating toward the sunrise and Boston while Kenny, finger tacking a map, hollered directions from the back.

At the airport, we cobbled together a breakfast of dry biscuits, suspiciously yellow eggs, and undercooked, fatty bacon before collapsing at the gate. Dino and I claimed an unmanned secondary screening table for a kip while the rest of the band sprawled beneath it on the floor. As I fell asleep, I could hear Soucy distressing about the things he’d forgotten in the van and when I woke up it was to getting kicked out of the area by a frizzy-haired, secondary screening woman with an intimidating frisking wand.

The flight itself was a collective knockout—we were all sleep-deprived, drained, and high fiving our legendary capacity to make an exceptionally chaotic, tight schedule work out.

Colorado, here we come.

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Boulder, CO to St. Louis, MO – “The Good, the Bad and the Ugly” – July 19, 2002

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

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Boulder, CO – “Making a Home” – February 15, 2002

the sky is tinted salmon and the mountains are black and crooked. It’s not my idea to be up at 6:00 and I look through squinted eyes at my beloved, who’s just hit ‘snooze’ in hopes of finishing something important he’d started back in a dream.

I slip into Carharts and shiver my way into the dark hallway of our new house. This is the first time I’ve lived with a boyfriend, let alone owned a home with one and it’s both thrilling and daunting. I’ve always loved living alone, enjoying the freedom of hanging pictures where ever I please and the comfort of knowing a slice of chocolate cake will still be in the fridge where I left it in the morning. So far, the joy of waking up next to my love every morning and the thrill of collaborating on making a home with him outweigh any downsides but I’m not sure how I’ll handle losing some of my independence. I feel slightly like a wild horse tamed. 2403 Pine Street is a fixer-upper in downtown Boulder and Dean assures me we can make it great.

The past three months have been spent renovating and we’ve been doing most of the work ourselves. So far we’ve put in some windows, hardwood floors and demo-ed our ceiling (which I did, single-handedly by crawling through the heating vent and slamming the roof down with my heal). Not that we’re nearly done! Dean and I have a giant poster board with a never ending list of things we need to do before Christmas, or Sally’s birthday, or Valentines day or summer.

The living room without the ceiling I took down

I can see the list from where I’m standing. It’s shoved under a leg of the scaffolding covered in sawdust and insulation but I only have to glance at the blue indelible ink on the page to know that it’s “SAND & STAIN” day. Dean surfaces behind me while I’m making coffee in the French press. He kisses my shoulder. “Chop Chop let’s get workin’,” He says. We’ve got to finish prepping the one hundred and eight 10’x6” planks we hand-selected to line our newly exposed cathedral ceiling.

I stretch my high-end facemask over my nose and mouth—a gift from Dean to protect my lungs from the sawdust. I’m in charge of the 220 sandpaper and the Black & Decker power sander while Dean takes on the more cumbersome Porter Cable.

The sun rises behind us warming the thick canvas of our coats but never really getting to the core of the winter inside our bones. Once the sanding’s done, we’ll wet the planks, dry the planks, prime the planks, stain the planks, and polyurethane the planks (twice). Of course, we won’t get it all done today.

Some friends we got to help us install some metal beams

Dean has taught me so much about renovation. He has a knack for seeing a house’s full potential and bringing it to fruition. He’s not afraid to take on a “project” and I turn out not to be at all shabby at this whole house-building thing either. In fact, despite the 6:00 wake-up call, I like working outdoors, with my hands, with power tools. It’s meditative, mindful, creative, and a great workout. I definitely recommend it.

My blue guitar case is in the corner and like our “To-do list,” it’s also covered in dust. I walk by it every time I leave the house. It makes me sad. I imagine I can hear it singing to itself inside its case, just trying to keep itself company in the dark. I don’t dare take it out now for fear it might get demolished along with the rest of the house. It’s OK. I know it’s writing melodies in there without me, for me to sing to so I’m not worried. It’s weird to be consumed by something so completely different than music. But it feels good too. Like a vacation. Like a moment of silence. I could get used to this life off the road.

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Boulder, CO – “Making it OK” – Sept 25, 2001

Colorado — This is truly home. Here, my house is vast—the sky is my ceiling and the mountains, my walls. Even alone, as I find myself this morning – with Dean in Thailand, dad chasing highways, mom and Ben on Martha’s Vineyard and the band scattered who-knows-where — I feel held. Anchored. There’s something about this place that quiets the noise and brings me back to center.

I clutch a mason jar filled with scalding lemon tea, warming my hands against the cool morning air. The familiar trail to Sanitas calls. It’s a trail tucked into the folds of the front range. It etches its way through green fields, across a perfect stream up into the jagged beauty of purple rock formations that jut from the earth like a stegosaurus’ spine or a pair of prayerful hands. When I reach the top, Boulder stretches below—a snapshot of the life I’ve built yet rarely stop to live in. My heart pounds against the thin, crisp air, and in this moment, I feel whole and peaceful for the first time in ages.

I try to remember who I was before I started touring and what that person really wants. My sense of success has gotten undeniably skewed —a casualty of the hypnotic heatwaves that ripple off endless highways, of chasing milestones that always seem just out of reach— more CDs sold, more gigs booked, better venues, better pay. On the flight home from Reno, I had an epiphany so sharp it felt like a slap to the face: “Making it” doesn’t necessarily mean “making it OK.”

That realization brought me here, to the summit of my world in Boulder, where I’ve come to reassess what success really looks like—and to ask myself whether music still plays a role in it.

Soucy, Kenny & Brian McRae late night waiting for a hotel room key outside Moby at 2am

Apparent right away is how much success means connection for me. I think of the camaraderie that comes with life on the road—the sardine-can closeness of five people crammed into a van, sharing the bittersweet humilities of small-scale touring. The struggle, the inside jokes, the laughter forged by shared challenges. Those moments are what I truly cherish about the lifestyle. But the reality of small-scale touring comes at a cost, and those costs are mounting.

There’s a pressure that looms over every musician (perhaps me more than most with two famous musical parents)—a silent expectation to climb a one-way, invisible ladder. Clubs. Theaters. Amphitheaters. Arenas. Stadiums. Each step upward validates your “success,” not just for the outside world but for your bandmates too, who’ve paid their dues and deserve more than cramped vans, bad pay and nameless motels. This trajectory weighs heavy on me, warping my definition of success and feeding the insecurity of who I think I should be in the minds of others.

And then there’s the financial reality. Every dollar earned is a dollar spent, getting us back on the road, and keeping the vision alive. It’s draining and disheartening to have invested so much into this pursuit to only now be nearing the break-even point.

Then there’s the physical toll of touring —drinking too much, staying up all night, risking our lives with all-night drives, and eating crap food. This lifestyle is starting to feel at odds with my desire to live past 40. The grind is wearing me down, threatening to leave me burnt out before I get a chance to burn bright.

But perhaps the greatest cost of a life spent on the road is love. I know what the life of a musician does to love. It contorts it, pulls at it, feasts on it, and leaves it dead on the side of the highway like road kill, and that’s not the worst of it.

Having fallen in love with the man I dream of marrying one day, I find myself at a crossroads— love vs. music. Apart from the harm I know my career can do to a relationship, there’s the glaring ache at the thought of being away from him—to miss out on mornings in bed, late-night talks, and the simple joy of being present—feels unbearable.

How can I reconcile this growing desire for a grounded, shared life with the transient, thankless, punishing chaos of a life spent on the road?

In addition to all of this, the world outside my small bubble feels heavier, too. The twin towers have fallen. The country is at war. These collective tragedies make the urgency for connection feel even more pronounced while simultaneously making my world of music feel small, almost trivial by contrast. Paradoxically, the life I’ve built to connect with others—through music—has often left me feeling disconnected. From family. From love. And most importantly from myself.

Standing here in Colorado’s stillness, I can see the shape of a truer, more robust version of success. One that isn’t built on arbitrary milestones, ticket sales, or venue upgrades. It’s about fostering authentic connections—whether through shared laughter on tour or quiet moments with loved ones. It’s about being rooted in who I am rather than chasing who I think I need to be for others.

Does music still play a role in that vision? Maybe. Maybe not in the way it has in the past. Perhaps it’s time to explore what music looks like when it’s not tied to hustle or survival. Maybe music could return to being a source of joy rather than a measure of achievement.

What I do know is that ownership of my life and my choices feels more critical than ever. To find balance. To breathe. To connect. Here, in Colorado, under the vast ceiling of sky and within these steadfast mountain walls, I feel like I’m finally beginning to understand what success could really look like. It’s not “making it.” It’s making it OK—making it right for me.

And isn’t that worth everything?

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Colorado to Montana – “The Twin Towers” – Going on the Road with My Ol’ Man – September 18, 2001

I’m traveling West to meet up with my pop for a week of shows. Our reunion couldn’t come at a better time. I need family connection right now.

DIA is empty and what else can be expected? The Twin Towers in New York have crumbled to the ground and nothing will ever be the same—especially travel by air. The way my fellow travelers hold their breath makes the bleak day outside seem unbearable, impenetrable, steely, and cruel. Everyone looks scared to fly. You can see tragedy etched into all of our expressions—the echo of towers on fire and falling, the asbestos-filled plumes of smoke, the screams of New Yorkers searching hospitals and armories for their loved ones—gone. These scenes and others are sashed in the storage lockers of our our eyes.

As I wait my turn to go through a metal detector, I recall when I first heard the news a week ago today. I’d been Rain-X-ing my car on September 11th—cursing myself for not following the directions on the bottle. There was a permanent fog on my windshield that no amount of elbow grease seemed to erase. While I scouered the semi-translucent haze on my window, my neighbor, Joyce Beene, drove by and rolled down her window, “Is your family alright?” she shouted across my yard.

“I think so. Why?” I hollered back.

“Have you seen the news?”

“We don’t have a TV,” I replied. The bright day filtered through the pines forcing me to squint a little to see her.

“You’d better come over and see what’s happening. Two planes crashed into twin towers in New York.” In shock, I raced upstairs to get Dean. Together, we hobbled over barefoot through the woods to Joyce’s house.

Nothing could have prepared us for what we saw—both towers in flames, holes in their sides, people jumping off rooftops to their death. John, Joyce’s husband, who’d shot an elk earlier in the morning, was cleaning it in the kitchen. He appeared now and then to inspect the TV and pink pools of water followed him on the floor. The blood clotting on his hands and smeared on his face only added to the carnage unfolding on the screen.

We were glued to The Beene’s couch for the next two days, returning home only briefly to make food or take a hike to cleanse ourselves of what we’d seen. We slept, knotted in one another’s arms as though we might lose each other in dreams. The country was traumatized and we along with it. The twins had come down but it was the whole world was falling apart around them. What would become of us? Nothing was clear except my love for Dean, his for me and the certainty that we could be each other’s strength through the chaos.

Once through the metal detector at DIA, I turn out to be one of ten people flagged for a random search. I’m escorted to a small room where there are men with badges and tight polyester midnight blue pants wearing semi-automatic weapons and I can’t tell whether I feel more or less safe in their presence. The woman in front of me packed a clothing steamer in her carry on. She had, to both our chagrin, also thrown her alarm clock in with it, making her otherwise innocuous red luggage look suspiciously bomb like. Suddenly, there are dogs and more men with more weapons and a very embarrassed woman and another hour tick tick ticking away…

My therapist warned me to keep an eye on my depression. “Your PTSD predisposes you to the sadness of this time in our national history,” she’d said as I was leaving our last appointment. I told her I’d keep my finger on the pulse but assured her I’m made of pretty tough stuff.

The plane, like the terminal, is eerily empty, and we’re requested to ignore our seat assignments and proceed to the back of the plane to balance out the unexplained extenuating weight in the cargo space below.

My dad’s not at the terminal when I arrive. There are new restrictions around airport pick-ups at gates. Instead, he sends a car to escort me to the hotel in Bozeman. It’s been a while since we last saw each other. He’s had twins since then. I’m not sure how we’ll find one another. But when I see him, all quiet and reserved and glad to see me in his glasses and green sweatpants outside room #181, I feel the drought of fear subside. We hug and catch up on the edge of his bed in the gray rayon, halogen-lit room.

When there’s nothing left to say, we trudge down the hall and do a load of laundry in the coin op. Between cycles, we catch a makeshift workout in his room. This form of fitness has been a James Taylor Tour signature for as long as I can remember. We create designated stations utilizing door jams for lat pull-downs, furniture for bench presses, balcony ledges for calf raises and bath towels for floor mats. Dad excitedly retrieves something called “The Ab Slider,” from his bag. It’s a rarity to have a piece of legitimate gym equipment in our make-shift routine. He explains that it’s something he found on a late-night infomercial and demonstrates its uses before letting me try.

It’s great to be with my dad—to be on his road with his touring patterns and rituals. His familiar fitness breathing pattern is a balm for my nerves and we forget to talk about the state of the nation or the state of our family, and find ourselves back in the state of our small lives — talking about small problems and joys and memories and something called “Total Tiger,” another infomercial product dad’s dying to get.

It’s in these small conversations about small things, we find a way to connect — to forget that the world’s crumbling down around us, forget to be scared and threatened and tragic — and instead find ways to pick up the pieces, forge new memories and be grateful for what’s left.

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Mohegan Sun Casino, CT – LA – “What if I Quit?” – The Wolf Den – August 29, 2001

A laptop, bottle of water, tape recorder, cashmere cardigan, a couple’a pens, a guitar tuner, day timer, wallet, cell phone, couple’a battery chargers, a packet of throat lozenges, and a glossy red lipstick. These are the contents of my overnight bag. It’s the curse of the chronic over-packers, that the one time we actually need 1/2 of what we bring, it’s the one time we decide to travel light.

I was nursing a hangover after a particularly raucous late-night, after-show party at The Wolf Den when the phone rang. I almost didn’t answer. I was captivated by a Gilligan’s Island episode on the hotel TV — The one right after The Minnow gets wrecked, and the crew realizes they’re goanna have to build some huts. Pretty exciting stuff.

I inched my hand toward the phone on the nightstand, eyes still glued on Ginger, who was using her hips and lips to inspire Gilligan to lend her some tools for her hut. It was my publicist, Ariel, with a “simple” request. She said, “Could I get you to just pop out to LA today for the Vanity Fair photo shoot you’ve been postponing because you have a hot new beau you’d rather be in bed with?”

Shit. Busted. I knew I shouldn’t have picked up. She was right, I was dodging my musical obligations left and right, and suddenly, I felt very guilty and sad. After all, I’d promised Dean I’d link up with him in Colorado today. He was already there waiting for me, tucked away in my little A-frame house outside of Golden. The image of his warm body nesting in my sheets nearly wrecked me.

“I wish I could R, but I didn’t bring anything with me—just the clothes on my back. Not even a toothbrush and frankly, I’m a hungover mess, not a pretty picture.” I tried my best to weasel my way out of the shoot. But Ariel, the super publicist she is, was not taking no for an answer.

“What’s your shoe size, dress size, bra size?” “What products do you use in your hair?” “What’s your moisturizer brand?” “How much do you weigh?” “How tall are you?” “You’ll be on the 11:45 United flight to Chicago and the 2:20 to LA. Have fun.” She said and hung up.

No excuses with that girl. Very impressive, I must say…. Damn! I hung up feeling dejected and wondered how on earth I had the hutzpah to be disappointed by a Vanity Fair shoot?

Sal & Dean with some cute kids (no relation)

In truth, ever since I met Dean, I’ve been seriously reconsidering my life on the road. I’m painfully aware, as the child of two musicians, of what touring does to relationships and I’m not sure I’m willing to do that sort of damage to this one.

But these are huge considerations, ones with serious ramifications. After all, I’ve worked my ass off these past five years paying my dues, learning the ins and outs of the music industry, running a record label and honing my craft on stage. But of of even greater concern to me are the consequences that extend beyond my own self-interests. My band—They’ve sacrificed everything for me—money, security, comfort and much much more. They’ve hitched their star to my wagon, and I owe them more than my life. How could I ever let them down? What would happen if I just gave this all up? And for what? For love?!?! Am I insane?!?!?!?!

Maybe I’m just burned out. I mean, of course, I’m burned out. We’ve been going at this non-stop since 1998. Write, write, write, Make an album, rehearse, get out on the road, eat crappy food, stay in crappy hotels, drink, drink, drink, drive, drive, drive, play, play, play, repeat.

But is all this hard work even paying off? If I’m honest, I’m not where I hoped we’d be by now—3 albums in, 500+ shows down, $80,000 in debt, People, Us, CNN, Oprah, Vanity Fair be damned. Where am I? Where do I want to be? I need some time to think, retrieve myself, peel my road-kill of a soul off the blacktop and figure some shit out. Luckily, my ol’ man has asked me to join him for a stack of shows starting in a few weeks and perhaps getting some time away from everything will give me a little perspective.

So now I’m on flight #115 to LA, through Chicago, and over CO where my true love waits for me.The flight’s uneventful. Even the movie goes nowhere —A Woody Alan, Helen Hunt and a Jewel Thief affair I can’t concentrate on so I read the rough draft of the Vanity Fair article this shoot is for. I’ll be part of The 2002 Music Issue —something called the Fanfare section under the banner of “Sons & Daughters.” Even though I escape some of the more grotesque indictments, the article as a whole, is about how pathetic we all are—all us sons and daughters of—how ungrateful and lazy and fucked up and doped out we are “but they couldn’t help it and shouldn’t be blamed. They’re innocent victims of the rock n roll machine.” It’s a whole bunch of crap and I feel dirty for having read it and dirtier for flying over the one thing that feels true and important to me to shoot for an article that makes me look like a right scab.

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Bellview, CO – “Wanona & The Last Gig Before the Road” – Mishawaka – July 1, 2001

“That’s one v e g g i e b u r g e r,” wrote the heavily tatted waitress with the bull ring through her septum, “and f o u r b u f f a l o b u r g e r s,” she continued, “Just so you know, we’re changing the kitchen over from breakfast to lunch so it might be a while,” she smiled cheerfully, chucking a blond dreadlock over her shoulder like a errant snake.
“How long’s a while?” asked Dino (our new drummer).
“’bout 45 minutes to an hour or so,” She said noncommittally. I was starving and I said we’d eat anything they had on hand. She said she’d bring us some chips.

A basket full of red, blue, and gold corn chips arrived ten minutes later. No salsa, no dip, no guac. just some yellow-grey mustard in a squeeze bottle. We passed the mustard around the table like a chip condiment — not disgusting, but not good either. That’s when we noticed the birds — Two huge, white tropical cockatoos, one of which was perched dangerously close to my chip. I didn’t see it until it pooped on my shoulder and everyone laughed and pointed with glee at my misfortune.

“Oh, really cool,” I said sarcastically, wiping away the gooey mess from my overalls. From there on out ‘Wanona’ and I were not friends. Our relationship didn’t improve any when the food finally came. She dive-bombed my veggie burger. Missing, she fell directly into my lap along with the branch she failed to release before attacking me. A bouquet of leaves were still clutched in her tinny talons as she stared up at me like a crying baby doll. When I screamed and jumped to my feet the still-determined, Wanona, waddled aggressively toward me and the burger I held in my hand. Again, the restaurant lit up with hysterical laughter at my bad luck.

We’d just finished eating when Soucy’s tummy started to rumble, and an hour later, when Delucchi came with his familiar, “Five minutes folks. Five minutes,” we found a not-so-fresh Soucy, his face white, framed by the loud pink of the green room toilet bowl. Soucy’s poor little knees had raspberries on them from where they rested against the unwashed linoleum floor, and his eyes were bloodshot from dry heaving long after he’d evacuated the buffalo burger.

But Soucy is a pro. He rallied and, though a song late, made it to the stage, with a new shirt and newfound determination. Mishawaka is a great place to play. The stage is outside and it’s back hangs over a raging river. Kayakers and rafters stopped by, treading water to catch a verse or two before flowing the rest of the way down the cold, white frothing water. It couldn’t have been a nicer day for a show and I basked in the sunshine that filtered through the lazy trees until Wanona found me and dive bombed me again, this time going for the tea I was sipping between songs. “This bird hates me!” I said into the mic, as the audience roared and I picked a feather out of my drink.

At set break, Soucy headed back to the bathroom, but after a his second tour ‘driving the porcelain bus,’ he played again and even played well despite the sour and pinched expression on his face. What a champ! Dino once again proved himself to be the skilled drummer we’d been praying for and a formidable friend and we feel prepared to finally take Shotgun on the road.

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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.

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