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

Kenny & the Short Twizzler

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.

Sal’s drawing of 2403 Pine Street

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?

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.

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?” 

Screenshot

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.

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.

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.

Boulder, CO – “I Hired The Wrong Drummer” – June 20, 2001

I want to say it was optimism that drove me to hire Steve (not his real name) to be our new drummer.  But in truth it was more likely desperation.  We’d been auditioning potential drummers for a week straight.  They came in batches of three and hauled their 20-piece kits into Delucchi’s garage.  Most knew our songs but couldn’t hold down the and Kenny shook his head as they trod past him in their backward facing baseball caps and sports jerseys. 

Auditioning drummers is not like auditioning a guitar player or a keyboardist or even a bass player.  Drummer’s come with kits as heavy as rinos and as labor intensive to put together as Ikea kitchenettes.  Auditioning three drummers is an all-day affair and once one has proved his mettle, next comes auditioning their personality—are they someone we want to share a sardine-sized space with for months on end?

Being in a band (especially one that travels in a van, playing mid-sized venues) is like being in a non-sexual polyamorous marriage—tenuous and hard to manage.  It requires patience, forgiveness, empathy, generosity, lots of cooperation, consideration and love.  There is no “I” in “B A N D.”  This was one of the bigger things I had to overlook when hiring Steve.  But, unfortunately, it wasn’t the only thing.  Steve couldn’t count off.  This is drumming 101 and should have been enough of a reason to pass him up.  “1, 2, 3.  4, 5, 6” he’d swing into a song in 4/4.  This would have been impressive were it intentional.  But it was NOT intentional and a major red flag.

However, once into a song, Steve was good.  Better than good.  He was talented and tasty.  Everyone agreed, and Kenny said he was willing to do the count-offs for Steve.  So we hired’em and test-drove him at “The Double Diamond” gig in Aspen on the 14th.

It wasn’t great.  Steve lagged on the upbeat songs and sped through slower tunes.  He lit up a cigarette as soon as he got in the van and complained about the pay.  He played his music so loudly in his headphones it actually drowned out what we were listening to on the sterio. And after a performance, which we were sure he’d apologize for and promise to get better after, he, instead had the gall to leave us to break down his drum kit so he could catch up with some friends.  In an impromptu meeting in Steve’s absence it was unanimous, Steve was a lemon.  But Kenny, insisted we not throw out the baby with the bath water.

“It’ll be fine,” he said “Let me work with him.  We’ve got the CD release party in two days at Tulagi’s.  We’re not going to find another drummer before then. Put together a rehearsal tomorrow, and I’ll work with him.”

“OK,” I agreed, “But can someone get in touch with Dean Oldencott, in the meantime?  He’s great and said he might be available to go on the road this summer.”

I got banned from band practice on Friday.  Though I’d asked him to bring a metronome to rehearsal and memorize the structure of the songs, Steve had failed to do either.  It’s a rare thing for me to lose my temper but after running the first three songs at flagging tempos and no clue when the chorus’ were coming, I yelled at Steve.  “I asked you to bring a metronome!”

“Ok, ok, Sal.  Take a beat,” said Kenny, unsarcastically.

“I hope I hired the right drummer,” I said skeptically as Kenny ushered me out of the room so they could regain Steve’s confidence and get some work done.  I love Kenny.  Soucy too, has been exceedingly compassionate with me recently and I appreciate it.  My nerves are fried since I broke things off with Jack.   

I got the first batch of Shotgun CDs back this week and they look great.  Perhaps too great.  Shotgun doesn’t look like the demo it’s meant to be but rather more like a highly polished and produced album.  I hope our audience will understand it’s only a first draft of songs we hope to get feedback on before re-recording professionally.    

Our release party at Tulagis on Saturday night was a great success but Steve was not, and after he’d loaded his last cymbal into his car and taken his pay, I ushered him aside and let him know, “This is probably not going to work out.”  He knew it was coming.  He had to.  He shook my hand and evaporated into our past.  Dean Oldencott will tour with us this summer.

Thank God!

Wheatland, WY – “Stranded at the Armory” (A Story Told in Polaroids)- April 23, 2001

The Evan and Jaron gigs were ill-advised and now, I’m sick as a dog.  But it was a relief to have a legitimate excuse to cut the tour short—2,896 miles short to be exact.  Soucy and I were supposed to play 6 more gigs with the twins but thanks to my illness and a freak blizzard, we’re back in Boulder.  Being sick in Boulder is much more simpatico than being sick in the middle of Wheatland Wyoming, off exit eighty-something with a road closed both in front and behind us.

But let me back up:

Soucy and I drove to Seattle on a blustery, crisp Easter Sunday to start our 10-gig opening act tour with Evan & Jaron—“Crazy for this Girl,” (their radio hit from Dawson’s Creek). Though we’d have to do our own driving and though it only paid $100 a show, I figured it’d be good exposure and an opportunity to get in front of a different audience.  Unfortunately, Evan & Jaron’s fans are thousands of screaming 12-year-old girls. Each night a different batch of glittery eyed girls came with the sole objective of bounceing up and down and fawning over their favorite boy band and each night, I was holding them up.  To save money, we’d lined up a constellation of couches spanning states through which Evan and Jaron’s tour would take us. When, after the show in Seattle, I found myself at a friend of a friend’s place sleeping between a ridgeback, a retriever, and a pit bull with a tickle in the back of my throat, I thought things couldn’t get much worse … but they could.

Portland was a better show and in Salt Lake City we even managed to sell a single CD! (to a mother of one of the 12-year-olds).  In Utah, I told Evan I might have to bail after Denver due to my increasingly severe hacking cough and fever.  Besides being sick, driving 3,000 miles on deserted highways late at night to keep up with the twin’s cushy tour bus wasn’t safe for Soucy and me.

In the morning after the SLC show,  we grabbed a cheese scone and headed East on I-80.  We were making good time until we reached Sinclair.  There, a cop dressed in neon green was parked in front of a “ROAD CLOSED” sign. He waved us to stop. “Blizzard up ahead,” He explained.

“What are our options?” I asked with my stomach clenched, “We need to get to Denver by 5 o’clock.” The neon officer looked to the sky in consideration.

“You can go back to Rawlins, take 287 North to Casper which’ll link ya’up with I-25. It’s only a couple ‘u hours out of the way.”

“How long if we wait here for the road to open?” I asked hopefully. 

“Couple a days,” he said without a grin. We headed toward Rawlins.

I-287 was like an ice rink.  The wind blew sideways and tall trucks with wide loads threatened to tip onto us.  Soucy and I drove in silence, preserving every ounce of concentration for the road ahead.  Making sound check in Denver was definitely not worth our lives.  By the time Soucy took the wheel in Casper, the conditions had worsened and as we approached Wheatland, you could barely see 10 feet in front of you. But it’s a good thing we had 10 feet of visibility or Soucy may not have stopped at the barricade that denied us access into Colorado for now a second time. The highway was closed both to the South and to the North of us. All that was left for us was to find accommodations for the night and call the twins to explain why we were unable to make the gig.

In Wheatland, there’s a Best Western, a Motel 6, a Wheatland Inn, a Parker Lodge and something called, Vimbo’s Motel and Restaurant but not one vacancy between the five of them. The woman behind the counter at Vimbo’s (needless to say, our last resort) said she’d heard the Armory was opening at 7:00 “They’re flying in the National Guard.  They’ll be handing out cots and blankets then — women and children first.” She said strangling the last of her orange soda from a striped straw. As we walked back to the car at 5:30, Soucy tried to lift my flagging spirits.  “Let’s go bowling,” he said, “We passed a place back there on the left.”

Vimbo’s on a sunnier day

The bowling alley was packed.  Local teens paraded thin mustaches passed tables of prepubescent girls who wore tight ponytails and smoked unfiltered cigarettes through candy-glossed lips. We walked across a meadow of dirty green shag carpet to the front counter and ordered some onion rings, french fries, and a pitcher of Budweiser. I’d only bowled once before but Soucy said “I’m sorry Sal, I’m not gonna take it easy on ya.  I was on my high school bowling team so I’m pretty good,” he bragged.  When he won by only one point – 126 to 127, He said I must be a natural.

While we sat in a booth drinking our flat, watery Bud the blizzard raged outside. That’s when Mike Urosky entered our lives.

Mike Urosky

I’d seen him earlier, at Vimbo’s, also stranded, also looking for shelter, also denied. “That Armory,” he said breathlessly as he passed and recognized us, “It’s PACKED. I guess they opened their doors at 3:00 this afternoon and you’d better get over there if you want to get a spot. They’re out’a cots. I got one’a the last ones. But you’ll at least get some space on the floor.” Panic-struck Soucy and I abandoned our onion rings. “I’ll lead you guys over if you want to follow me,” Mike generously offered.

The armory, indeed, was packed. Children, in booty-clad pajamas, chased each other around parent’s legs. People, who normally would not mix—a heavily pierced and combat boot-wearing giant, an Amish elderly couple, a stranded monk, a glamorous lady with an alagator bag—all sat uncomfortably in folding chairs, guarding their coveted cots.   I held my breath as I fumbled with other desperate hands, through a box of bedding,  looking for the least threadbare of the olive green cardboard blankets on offer.

Mike’s nice teal eiderdown covered cot

There were no cots left as Mike had warned — just naked splotches of cold cement floor. Soucy put our blankets on the ground near Mike’s cot, which was covered with an teal eiderdown he’d retreived from his overstuffed car. He was in the process of moving from Lake Tahoe to New York to be a chef at a four-star restaurant. Turned out he was a drummer too, had his whole kit packed into the back of his car. He was traveling solo and had no dining company so we offered up ours.

Candy

Another girl, Candy, who was on duty at the barracks (which coincidentally turned out to be home to none other than the National Guard’s 67th Army Band) got off work to come to dinner with us. She was 24, a clarinet player and the boys (Soucy and Mike) sang all they could remember of the lyrics to The Car’s hit “Candy-O,” as we drove to Cassie’s Restaurant and Bar where elk, deer, and caribou heads watched us from spruce covered walls and where we all became lifelong friends — for the night.

Soucy, Sal, Mike & Candy in front of the 67th National Guard Army Band Drum Kit

Candy was also really cute and Soucy made yummy sounds at her from across the table over his teriyaki chicken until she told us about the horrible divorce she was in the middle of with a man who’d been cheating on her since they’d married at age 19.

Severe situations called for severe measures so we all piled in my Rav4 and drove down to the local drive-through liquor store/bar/tavern/grill place and continued to anesthetize ourselves. We shot pool. We played every Zeppelin tune on the jukebox and then all the Hendrix ones until we closed the joint at Midnight.

When we returned to the muddy, wind-washed parking lot of the National Guard’s Armory, Mike, remembered he was carrying approximately $6,000 worth of rare red wines in the trunk of his car to the restaurant he was relocating for. “They shouldn’t miss this,” he said, grabbing a $60 dollar bottle from a case and de-corking it.  With our backs to the freezing wind and our eyes tearing and turned toward the northern sky, we took turns swigging from the brown bottle.

“It has a really nice rich oaky character with subtle hints of cherries and currants,” joked Soucy, smacking his lips together after a swig, making light of our current situation. The idea of returning to the bald cement patch of floor, the cardboard blanket, and the 200 other sleeping bodies was unthinkable and we did everything we could to erase our inevitable destiny from our minds.

The tickle I’d felt in the back of my throat was turning into something truly compromising and Doc Soucy insisted we end our Evan and Jaron adventure so I could get home and get looked at.  I knew he was right.  We knew eventually, we’d have to go inside and try to fall asleep.  But we wanted to be good and tired and drunk before attempting it. 

Tidal waves of snores hit us when we entered the armory. The sound echoed off the gymnasium walls — It felt sad and contagious. Blind and drunk, we navigated through a maze of sleeping bodies, inadvertently stepping on the edges of people’s blankets and stumbling over their stray luggage.   Soucy curled up in a bass drum, Mike, who’d gallantly given me his cot, found a thin, inflatable yellow raft and slept on that.

The Nice Guy Who Gave Soucy His Yellow Raft to Sleep On.

Our dreams couldn’t have been any more surreal than our reality. We tossed and turned all night, and finally, when dawn broke, we woke to Reveille and combat boots and fatigues swished by our partially cracked eyelids. What a night. We were exhausted but WE’D MADE IT!!!!

The roads were back open this morning and the snow had stopped.  We thanked Mike and Candy for their company and called Evan & Jaron to break up with them.  I’m glad to be home.  Sick, but home.

Sal & Soucy, Sick but Home

Boulder, CO – “Putting the Band Back Together” – April 11, 2001

“You’ve Got a friend” is playing in the café I’m writing in.  The soothing chords of dad’s guitar seem to bounce like light off the honey shelacked floor boards.  Hearing either of my parents on the radio always feels like a sign that I’m on the right path somehow.  There are six other people in the cafe this morning and each of them is humming or all out singing along to my dad, unaware of my relation.  How amazing it is to know what an impact my little ol’ daddy and mommy have had on the world.  It’s amazingly heartwrming to know, as he sings “You just call out my name,” that I am one of the few people he’d actually come running for.  The thought is particularly potent and a tear comes to my eye as I type.  I am, indeed, in need of a friend this morning.

In the middle of mixing Shotgun yesterday, I got a call from Kyle saying he never wanted to go on tour again, that he wanted to raise a family, and that he was sorry.  I managed to remain calm and accept the news as something that could be for the best, but by evening I was panicked.  With our May tour only three weeks away, I called Johnathan Shank, our agent, to see if we could postpone it.  This was a big ask.  I know what goes into booking a tour. It’s a nightmare having to juggle routing, negotiate offers and hold available dates. I’ve booked enough gigs to easily want to give up %10 of every show to never have to do it again.  I held the phone and cringed as I relayed the news to Jonathan of Kyle’s departure and the need to find another drummer before our spring dates.

“Give me a second,” Johnathan said, cool as a cucumber.  I held my breath as he shuffled papers on what I imagined to be his very messy desk.  “I had an offer for you to open for Even & Jaron solo for their tour starting on the 15th but turned it down as it ran into your first week of dates.”

“Who are Even & Jarod?”

“Jaron,” Shank corrected.  “They’re a pair of twin orthodox Jewish brothers — had a couple hits from soundtracks — Runaway Bride and Dawson’s Creek last year, and they have a new song on a John Cusack movie coming out this summer.  You want it as a buffer, and I’ll rebook your spring tour for summer?”

“God damn Jonathan, you’re good.  But, that means starting in four days, right?  What are the logistics?”

“Starts in Seattle. It doesn’t pay well — $100 bucks a gig, you’d barely make enough to cover gas and lodging.  It would mean playing solo and you’d have to drive yourself between gigs.  Evan and Jaron don’t play on Friday nights, they observe the Sabbath and no soundchecks before sundown on Saturdays.  You’d pretty much be playing two shows on the weekends with an occasional midweek gig for a month through May 15th.”

“Man, that sounds totally shity.  Can I bring Soucy?”

“Yeah, probably.”

“Ok, book it and send me deets on the first gig. I’ll see who has couches I can crash on.”

“Done,” said Jonathan and hung up the phone.  What a pro. 

My next call was to Soucy to get him on board and by the end of the night, I’d put our mixing schedule on the fast track and asked the rest of the band to start fishing around for drummers to audition mid-May.  This morning, before I came to this cafe to write, I took my little purple Rav 4 in for a check-up and threw together some set list ideas. 

This could be good, I thought to myself as “You’ve got a Friend,” concluded.  I’m on the right pathMaybe we’ll find an even better drummer. Maybe we’ll make gas money in CD salesMaybe Evan & Jaron’s audience will become our audience.  Maybe Evan and Jaron will hook us up with their soundtrack agents and we can get a song in a movie.  Maybe—uh oh Fire and Rain just came on.  How funny. They must have dad on shuffle. 

Maybe that’s MORE of a sign I’m on the right track!!