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.
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.
Dinner at Cassie’s Restaurant and BarCandy & SoucySal playing the JukeboxSoucy playing the Jukebox
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.
Drinking Mike’s Fine Wine in the Armory Parking Lot
“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.
“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 path. Maybe we’ll find an even better drummer. Maybe we’ll make gas money in CD sales. Maybe 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!!
Jack and I drove to Estes Park over the weekend. Elk meandered down Main Street as casually as tourist trying to decide what restaurant to try. Jack and I were late for our appointment at Real West Old Time Photos and I was worried we wouldn’t make it before the studio closed —we were the last appointment of the day. Sandy, a buxsom blond, costumed in chaps and spurs greeted us with a smile and locked the door behind us with a click. She helped me into the authentic, lacy turn-of-the-century wedding gown she’d mentioned when I’d called to make the appointment last week. Her energy was contagious, and I couldn’t help but beam as I glanced at my reflection.
I wanted a sepia photo of a shotgun wedding for the back cover of the CD and was overjoyed my new boyfriend, Jack, was game to play the role of my groom. He looked handsome in the trench coat and suspenders on loan and stood by my side holding a shotgun. He set his face in mock resignation like he’d drawn the short straw on “husband” to me, his knocked up girlfriend. I grabbed a cowboy hat to fashion a makeshift baby bump, shoving it snugly under my dress. The hat tilted comically as I adjusted it, and by the time we stood posed in front of the camera, we both found it hard to maintain a stoic façade due to laughter as the hat fell again and again.
We moved into the studio a few days later, on March 11th. I was edgy — worried about recording again and this time, without a producer—just us, the instruments, and a raw vision. It was both exhilarating and daunting. Having two albums under my belt helped ease some of my anxiety; I knew what the next month would look like. There’d be calendars to coordinate, budgets to tighten, instruments to lug back and forth, and every little detail, from album design to mastering, demanding attention. With only seven days to track, there was no room for error.
I came prepared. The eligible songs had all been charted, and instrumentation was planned down to the last beat. On the first two days, Mike and Paul, our engineers, worked on laying down Kyle and Kenny’s drum and bass tracks while I spent hours on the phone, calling in favors from my circle of session player friends. They arrived intermitently, like the soundtrack to a snowfall, their smiling faces popped into the studio, hats and scarves wet from the spring snowstorm. Their footsteps made wet puddles across the floorboards as they dragged in keyboards, cellos, and various percussion instruments tucked under arms. They warmed up their instruments with the same enthusiasm they warmed themselves. They laid down expensive sounding parts only ever asking for bus money or dinner as payment.
While the band waited for their turn between takes, I perched at the edge of the control board, sketching rough ideas for CD artwork. I was interested in using all the versions of “Shotgun” we’d come up with during our band meeting — fascinated by how much one thing can mean. Everything connects. Everything is everything. I meditated on that while my pencil traced shapes on my note pad.
Different versions of “Shotgun”—Gun, Wedding, Bucket Seat, Beer Guzzling.
I dragged out early drafts of Tomboy Bride for layout for reference:
And as the day drew long, I wrote a new tune called Justin Tyme:
By the time we finished tracking in the late evening, the notes were crisp, yet the atmosphere in the studio hummed, warm like spring crocuses just under the snow. As I took Hannah, the cello player, out to dinner across the street I could envision the album in my hand—a project, not created in a single stroke of genius; but a tapestry, woven by everyone who laughed, played, and added their flavorful twist to the mix. Together, we weren’t just creating an album—we were crafting a memory, one track, one artwork idea, one laugh at a time.
Back in Boulder after attending my dad and Kim’s wedding in Boston, I called a band meeting in my living room. We hadn’t seen each other as a group since December and everyone except Soucy and I looked well-rested.
“My plants are dead,” I said shaking one in my outstretched hand.“Even the succulents,” I continued somewhat exasperated placing the skeleton of a jade on the table. “I don’t know about you guys, but I need a break from the road.” The rest of the band shuffled uncomfortably in their seats, unsure of what to say. No one could deny that our last tour had been emotionally challenging and it was no wonder why. In 2000 alone we’d wracked up over 180 shows and whittled each other down to our very last nerve.
“There’s no doubt in my mind it’s paid off to tour so rigorously. We’re playing bigger venues, getting better pay and better interviews but It’s too much. I’m exhausted.”
“So what’s the plan?” asked Delucchi, always on the lookout for the solution. I took a deep breath.
“The plan is to sleep for the next week. Then make a record and book a tour in May to promote it.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” said Kenny “You want me to hang out with my wife?!? She’s gonna divorce me in less than a month if she has to actually live with me.” I was grateful for the comic relief.
“Why do we need another record? 6S is only a year old,” Soucy pointed out.
“I know, but we need new material to sell at shows. Our fans aren’t going to buy the same ol’ albums again and again. We’ve got a ton of new tunes—”
“Thanks Sam,” Soucy rolled his eyes at me.
“—And the plan is to record the whole thing in a week. It’ll be a demo* with a mail insert offering fans the opportunity to get involved in our music. We’ll let them vote on their favorite tunes, offer production ideas and feel part of the whole record-making process. After we tour with the demo for a year or so, we can gather everyone’s ideas and make a professional version of the songs and retire the demo. It’ll be like a special limited edition. What do you think?”
“Why don’t we just make the professional version now?” asked Soucy.
“I still haven’t recouped what I spent on the last album. I can’t justify spending more than 10G on a new record.” The plan excited to me—something that would give us a chance to regrow our roots at home, get some well needed rest all while ensuring the band gets paid without breaking the bank. So I was dismayed to see their heads bobbing unenthusiastically in response.
“I booked a studio downtown called Fourth Stage for the week of March 11th. We’ll call the demo Shotgun—as in shotgun wedding to represent the record as a fast and furious effort.”
“Like shotgunning a beer,” said Kenny.
“Like sitting shotgun,” suggested Soucy.
“Who’s goanna produce it?” asked Delucchi.
“No one — I will. Mike Gworek is gonna engineer it.” Kyle Commerford hadn’t said a word all meeting so when everyone agreed to my proposal except him, he announced he had big news.
“Traci’s pregnant,” he said “I’m having a baby. To be honest, I’m not sure I can commit to recording in March and I’ll definitely need to take August and September off. I’ll let you know. But whatever you need to do, I’ll understand.”
Left to right: Kenny Castro, Sally, Chris Delucchi, Chris Soucy, Kyle Comerford
While we were obviously excited about Traci’s pregnancy and the prospect of a baby Drumerford, the prospect of an alteration in the band lineup was daunting at best. I couldn’t bring myself to contemplate the idea of having to find and rehearse a new drummer so I let the matter be a problem for another day and the band meeting concluded with slaps on the father-to-be’s back and a march down to the local pub to celebrate.
In the most recent issue of 5280, Denver’s most prestigious magazine, I somehow ended up on “Denver’s most eligible bachelors” list and have been getting endless shit for it from all my friends as well as endless attention from random strangers. Yesterday, someone I’d never met sent me flowers and the guy who delivered them asked me out on a date! It was surreal. But I’ve started dating a handsome young waiter, we’ll call him Jack, who happens to share Sam’s last name (an annoying coincidence) and works at my favorite restaurant Jax downtown. Though my heart is still closed for renovations, I’ll opened it a crack for Jack.
*Footnote:
Demo: A music demo is a recording of a song or group of songs that is usually not ready for public release. It’s a rough draft or sample that showcases the core elements of a series of songs and gives listeners an idea of what the final product will sound like.
We’re finally done recording at Timber Trails (YAY/Thank GOD) and Mike and I have moved our recorded tracks East. We’ve been invited to mix* our album in Whitney Houston’s home studio in Mendham, New Jersey. So far there’s no sight or sign of “The Voice,” and El Blanco thinks there’s little chance we’ll run into her over the next three weeks. “It’s probably better that way,” I tell him, “I’d no doubt embarrass us both with my fawning all over her.” The grounds are impeccable. The studio walls are a rich purple and the luxurious leather sofas are white as snow. We spent the morning moving into our new studio (much relieved to be out of Chris Wright’s, Timber Trails) and the afternoon preparing to mix.
Preparation for mixing involves a laborious process of inventorying each track, adjusting settings, checking tones, and notching pesky frequencies.* A loud 2K feedback rings out of the monitors.
I imagine this is what an ant’s amplified death cry sounds like. The ring stops temporarily before piercing the air again … and again … and again until that damn ring has found a home in my left ear.
It’s the sound of silver It’s traffic It’s the sensation of biting into an overly frozen raspberry popsicle with your back teeth It’s tinsel It’s nasal spray It’s too much coffee It’s the sound of exes echoing complaints years after their last fight It’s annoying.
As a means of defense, I have a full bottle of Bach Rescue Remedy in my purse (now half empty), essential oils, chocolate, a picture of my brother, my knitting, and most importantly, earplugs.
Footnotes:
Mixing: Mixing a record happens once all parts (drums, bass, guitar, strings, horns, vocals, etc.) are recorded. It is the process of balancing various elements of each song to ensure they complement each other. It includes balancing levels, panning, EQing, adding effects, automation, and creating cohesion to shape the final sound and prepare the album for mastering (the final polish before distribution).
Notching Frequencies: Eliminating unwanted frequencies that can muddy the mix or cause issues. This process includes identifying and reducing frequencies that may cause problems, such as feedback, resonance, or muddiness. This fine-tuning ensures clarity and a cleaner sound.
I’m coming down with something. My nose is runny to match the watering of my eyes and the pounding of my head. It was a mistake to think I could fly to New York Monday and then back the next day to lay down horns without compromising my immune system. But there was no way in HELL I was going to miss my pop getting inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame.
Paul McCartney did the induction honors. He was lighthearted and loose. He talked about the start of The Beatle’s record label “Apple,” back in the 60s and how after looking for some talent to put on it, came across a recording of some “haunting” guy who could really sing and play the guitar. They signed James Taylor immediately as one of their first artists. Paul handed the mic off to my dad with a hug. Pop was dressed n black looking not unlike the award he was presented.
Handsome, humble and hysterical my dad held his shiny, new chrome statue in hand. He thanked everyone from his mother to his tour bus company for helping him receive the honor and then, looking severely at the weapon-like statue in his hand said, “I only hope one of these doesn’t fall into the hands of someone desperate enough to use it.” He was a champ and it was a thrill and honor to watch him along with my brother, grandmother and his “snookums” and fiancé Kim, be recognized and embraced by his musical community.
But now, I’m sick and for the past 4 hours (no exaggeration) we’ve been trying to move a horn section on “Fall For Me,” into place. My ears don’t work right anymore. There comes a point in listening to a track where I can predict where flaws are coming and mentally prepare my brain to adjust my ears so that I don’t hear the blemishes. It’s a very odd and frustrating phenomenon. While there isn’t a specific term for it, the concept relates to how brains anticipate musical patterns. The ear develops expectations based on a song’s structure, and when something deviates from that structure (like a mistake), experienced listeners can (intentionally or unintentionally) anticipate it and adjust their focus. I might leave the studio tonight thinking everything sounds perfect, only to return tomorrow to find an entire vocal track racing, or pitchy or missing a lyric. It’s infuriating.
Time does not pass; it just piles up on itself like dirty laundry. It’s 9:45 when I glance at the clock. Then, after what seems like 20 minutes I look again and it’s only 9:47. Two slender minutes have passed and I’m glaring at time as though my intimidating expression might speed the second hand around the racetrack perimeter of my watch face.
I’m in no immediate rush. The rush is not against the minutes but against the months and so I push on fragile seconds to get home, to get to the studio, to get to the next song, to get the artwork done, to get to the plane, to get to New York next Monday, to get this album mixed down, to get this album mastered, to get it pressed, and packaged, to get the band rehearsed and out on the road and promote it. And so I rush it all toward an uncertain future, as though my intimidating expression might speed the second hand around the racetrack perimeter of my watch face.
And now it’s 9:50 and I’m still sick but also still grateful I got to see my dad inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. You’re a badass dad.
There is a draft in my heart. I try to shutter the door against it but the cold gets in. I am pregnant with a sorrow that tosses in my belly, kicking to be born into song. I go through Kipp withdrawals 6-7 times a day. Sometimes they manifest when I’m feeling lonely and instinctively want to call him to tell him something funny or ask his advice about something I’m unsure of. I miss him at bedtime. I miss him in his kitchen at Timber Trails making breakfast and matte. I miss him at night, out on the town dancing his unique straight-arm dance. Most of all, I miss the man who was my best friend—the one I shared my time, secrets, fears, joys, body, dreams, and life with for the past two years. Now, he’s gone, and I hide in the studio, away from the ghost of Kipp who still lingers in my home. Ugg, my home with its unmade bed, unwatered plants, sleepless nights, and screaming phone. Ugg, my kitchen with its haunted faucet that drips, drips, drips into my subconscious, blending with an assortment of hums, mumbles, and sighs.
To make the situation more confusing, in the midst of losing Kipp as my boyfriend, my brother has decided to take him on as his manager. I have no idea how to navigate this situation.
Thank God for my mama. She’s been there for me through all of this. All my instability, regrets, fears, anger, and insecurities. Last night, she stayed on the phone with me until my tears sealed my eyes shut, then lullabied me into a stream of dreams. She managed to give minimal advice—just comfort, which is all I really wanted, not a cure. Definitely not a cure. A cure would require energy I just don’t have right now. This morning as the dull winter light haunted my room, she called just in time to distract me from my impending woes. She told me she’d found photos of herself in the studio from when she was pregnant with me. One of them had a speech bubble she’d written at the time that prophetically read, “Hey mom, let me out, I’ve gotta sing my song.” She read me old-school reports from when I was six as I drove north up Broadway, and stayed on the phone making me laugh until the mountains around the studio ate our cell reception.
In the newfound silence, I was consumed again by my grief. Boulder was white—like frozen breath, blank sheets on the bed, Clorox, sheep, sightless eyes that cannot sleep. There was nothing outside except white, as though someone in charge made a typo in the morning and ended up whiting out the entire day.
I grabbed my guitar from the trunk and walked, coffee in hand, through the narrow parking area towards the studio. I was looking down at my mug to make sure I didn’t spill when I walked straight into a 13-foot pole saw tied to the roof of Chris Wright’s midsize Mitsubishi. For anyone unfamiliar with this style of tree-trimming device, it’s a combination of a scythe and saw attached to a long pole used to reach high limbs. These tools are notoriously sharp in order to accommodate the user’s lack of leverage from the ground. The blade struck me right between the eyes and before I made it through the door I could feel blood pouring down the bridge of my nose, cascading down my chin and dripping into my mouth. Soucy put ice on it and some lavender oil. Chris Wright arrived as Soucy was patching me up. He was in striped pajama bottoms slurping milk from a bowl of Captain Crunch, and between bites mumbled something about “gotta watch where you’re going.” It’s official; I hate Chris Wright.
We’re working on vocals for “Without Me,” which seems appropriate. It’s a song about how lonely and hollow it feels to be loved when you’re disassociated and without yourself.
I know there is a day outside A night or a starless dawn I’ve seen her out there smiling Just off the front porch lawn She’s sitting up impatiently In her best wedding gown She’s waiting for the spring to come And though she has no voice for song
I feel she enjoys listening And sometimes hums along.
There was a party at the studio Saturday night. It was warm on the terrace overlooking the lit-up treasure chest of downtown. The city lights were corrugated by heat waves pouring from the mouth of the studio’s open doors. People, in silhouette, spilled onto the veranda to smoke cancer sticks and make out with strangers.
Everyone I knew was there though it wasn’t my party. There’s no way in HELL I’d throw a party in the studio. The chance of someone spilling a drink on a computer, moving a knob on the soundboard or tripping over a power cable, guitar, or storage drive was way toooooo great. But no one was asking me. This was Chris Wright’s studio and according to him, he was “damn well going to have a party at his house if he damn well pleased.” Apparently, he didn’t mind putting our work in jeopardy and I vowed this album would be the last I recorded at Sky Trails Studio.
Partygoers were adorned in the latest Urban Outfitters had to offer. Girls entered the house giggling then grimaced as they noticed the other bodies wearing their same sequined dresses. Luckily, though my publicist Ariel and I, had been to Urban Outfitters earlier, looking for what the invitation called for (Whimsical Attire) we found nothing inspiring and instead, opted for hoodies and sweatpants as a form of silent rebellion against the party. Frankly, I was only going to keep an eye on the equipment and to make sure no one walked with our instruments.
“NO DRINKS PAST THIS POINT” read the sign outside the control room and I breathed a sigh of relief. Chris had promised he’d post this for me and I felt grateful. But inside… were drinks! and people listening to our rough takes with Chris Wright at the helm pushing all the soundboard buttons and twisting Michael’s carefully adjusted knobs. Drunk people were playing my guitar while their dogs jumped all over the strings. IN THE CONTROL ROOM and I felt completely out of control.
But it had been a long, successful day leading up to this point —the kind of day that has the power to take your mind off a broken heart. The kind that affords you the luxury of brushing off a blatant slight. I’d woke to a message from Kyle Comerford agreeing to be our new drummer. This was a huge relief after a long, arduous search. Kyle is a gem, our first pick from a lineup of 10 players we auditioned. He’ll pick up from Brian once the record is done. Tom Rush called later in the morning to invite me to tour this summer with his production company “Club 47” which is a huge opportunity. And in the afternoon, I’d recorded some songs for The Farrelly Brother’s new movie, Me Myself and Irene, at a studio downtown. I was honored that my buddy Pete Farrelly wanted me on his production and at his request, recorded a handful of Steely Dan songs and a Beverly Breemer’s tune called “Don’t Say You Don’t Remember.” I’m not sure any of them are good enough to make it onto the movie but recording with Soucy in a different studio for a different project was a great distraction from my heartache.
Sally & Soucy’s version of Steely Dan’s Any World That I’m Welcome To (never released)Sally & Soucy’s version of Steely Dan’s Razor Boy (never released)
Despite the many glorious, uplifting events of the day, the party made me tired. My exhaustion was fueled by Chris Wright’s blatant disrespect for Michael’s and my hard work, drinks teetering on the soundboard, dogs humping my guitar, and the sad, soundless strum in my chest of missing Kipp. As people began to fade into chemically induced slumbers, Ariel and I faded too — down the switchbacks in the snowy driveway, down through the stoic, sentinel pines, and back into the melted, gold puddle of lights shining brightly against the horizon.
Gretchen Wigan, a massage therapist who does intuitive touch on both Kipp and me, was working on my legs Wednesday when she mentioned, “I’m picking up relationship energy really strongly in your ankles.” Her room was a womb – dark, warm and soothing. A candle flickered in the corner. She continued, “If you stay in this relationship, you’re gonna lose yourself.” The statement was bold and rang true from my feet to my head. The words she gave breath to were already beating in my heart (and apparently my ankles) when she said them.
I’ve been folding my life into his for the better part of two years despite knowing, days after we hooked up while on an ecstasy trip in Crested Bute’s backcountry, we were probably wrong for one another. But by then, I already adored him—his humor, his strength, his heart, his sense of adventure, and his generosity and it wasn’t just the ecstasy talking. Of course, he was out of my wheelhouse. I’d never dated someone so blatantly alpha — so macho, bold, and self-assured. Perhaps, I remember thinking at the time, I should go against my instincts and date against my grain. Maybe the guys I’m intrinsically attracted to have all been wrong for me because I have a bad picker. But nearly two years in, the love was bleached out of our relationship and my insecurities had magnified tenfold. Though Kipp is a glorious soul, the light he shines on my character highlights my brokenness and I grow more and more convinced I’m lucky to have someone like Kipp who’ll even put up with my wretchedness. Of course, I don’t blame him solely for my insecurities. The smoldering embers of my unworthiness were with me way before Kipp came on the scene. I only mean that his presence amplifies my self-doubt and leaves me feeling hopeless.
And now my ankles were screaming for Gretchen to say what my heart already knew. It was time for this to be over. He wore a faceless expression on his bald head. “Come here,” I beamed with a smile across a universe of emotions. I held him when I said, “Maybe we should think seriously about whether we want to stay together.” He knew this was coming. It had been a cold slap through the phone when I’d asked if I could come over to talk about the health of our relationship.
“I’m sure I want to stay together, “Kipp said robotically, his mouth muffled in the crook of my elbow. I swallowed hard and spoke from my ankles when I finally owned my long-resisted truth, “Then, I guess, I mean, I guess I need to think seriously about whether I want to stay with you.” It was painful and I don’t know which bothered me more—that I was burning a bridge I’d help build, or hurting someone I loved deeply and truly.
“It seems to me,” I continued, “That we’re driving each other crazy and have been for a while. It’s hard to know whether we’re growing from the pain we’re causing one another, or just chipping away at what’s essential in each other. You know?” He didn’t know.
I drove away through the canyon through tears, to the studio where the hours trickled by. The slow ones itched. The fast ones bled. I couldn’t mention the breakup to the rest of the band. Some of them are Kipps housemates and at best it would only be a distraction— one we couldn’t afford at the rate we’re tracking. I floated amongst my bandmates like gristle in an otherwise healthy soup. Back in my office of a bathtub, I found the misery that loves company, very lonely inside of me.
We worked on vocals the rest of the day. We’d been working on them all week. The one exception was when Maceo Parker (James Brown’s saxophone player) came to the studio on Super Bowl Sunday to lay down tracks on “Dvoren” and “Forty Years.” What an honor! I knit him a hat to say thank you when he refused any other form of payment. He promptly regifted it to his manager Natasha.
After 10 hours of working on the vocal track for, “For Kim,” Michael and I agreed we needed a break from sound and went to town for dinner. As we drove through the dark canyon, shadows of pines raced out of the way of our headlights. Up ahead in the valley, airplanes looked like fireflies dancing over Denver’s International Airport.
Mike and I sat across from one another in a dark booth over Vietnamese food trying to explain why recording has been moving at a snail’s pace. The album release date* (April 15th) is a mere two months away, and from the corner booth at Chez Thuy, that time frame seems ridiculously ambitious if not straight-up hilarious. The budget, well we’ve long since gone over that. But how is it, working 12-hour days – 7 days a week, we’re not further along by now? I don’t mention that I think Michael’s chewing habits are a metaphor for the pace of our production as he digs into a plate of banh xeo. We’re both exhausted and on top of that, I’m sad.
Back at the studio with fresh ears and a full belly, I find myself back in my bathtub, trying to psych myself up to sing another take of “For Kim” when my heart wants to shatter. I don’t know whether to call Kipp or let it lie. I recline in the empty, porcelain tub asking my Magic 8 Ball for answers. It’s reply? “Ask again later” and “Better not tell you now.”
FOOTNOTES:
*Release date- The projected date of an album release after all the elements have been completed: 1. Preproduction 2. Recording 3. Mixing 4. Album Artwork 5. PR campaign 6. Mastering 7. Booking the promotional tour 8. Pressing the CD 9. Sending merchandise to retail
