Dean Bragonier – Sally Taylor

Nashville TN – “The End Of The Road” – The Sutler Saloon – August 15, 2002

The rain in Nashville started yesterday. It came in torrents, accompanied by clapping thunder and stuttering lightning. The band ducked their heads beneath their skinny arms and yesterday’s news and raced my flip-flopping heels to a candy-striped pink and white awning. Waiting for an attendant to admit us, I felt the hot rain bounce off the Nashville sidewalk and stick to my bare legs.

Inside the bridal salon, it was warm and dry. Belinda met us at the door — a manicured woman with an army of body-shaping undergarments doing their best to battle the bulge. She had a beehive updo and white plush towels straight from the dryer. We unhitched our shoulders from our ears and wiped the storm residue from memory.

Belinda toured us through her wedding inventory—the whites and the creams, the sequined and the silks, the taffeta and tiaras. The boys ogled the garments, seemingly as excited as I was. When I suggested they each pick their favorite gown for me to try on, I was delighted by their enthusiasm — especially coming off the heels of a particularly hard conversation before a particularly hard gig the night before.

The guys seem to have come to terms with the uncertainty of our future as a band and, instead of rebelling against the ceremony that might destroy us once and for all, seemed to be relishing in its pomp and production. Kenny picked out a sexy sequined number. Dino entreated me to try on a traditional lacey thing with long sleeves and a turtleneck and Soucy and Delucchi both selected modest, simple dresses with responsible price tags.

It wasn’t lost on me, the love went into their choices. Back in the dressing room, standing before the four gowns they’d picked, it hit me—each reflected a different facet of my personality as seen from the spotlight. Together they knit a composite of who I am from stage right (Soucy), left (Kenny), back (Dino) and center (Delucchi). As Belinda zipped, buttoned, and cinched me into each gown’s tight embrace, I was reminded that my band has always had my back, sides, and every angle in between.

The boys made themselves comfortable on the chez lounges, indulging in clementines and pastel macaroons laid out for the occasion. The four of them enthusiastically applauded whenever I appeared from behind the velvety curtain wearing some display of white, fluffy brilliance.

They were never critical but held up fingers to indicate the strength of their preferences for each dress on a sliding 1-5 scale. At the end of the day, our favorites came down to two: Kenny’s pick, a beaded-fitted Reem Acra gown (whose price tag made me gasp and question whether I’d look just as good in a white sheet), and Soucy’s choice, an Angel Sanchez dress that’s probably more fitting for the wedding venue (my dad’s property on Martha’s Vineyard). We left with swatches of fabric and order forms for both gowns in consideration.

On our way out of town, I was grateful to have anything other than the regretful events of the night before to talk about.

The Sutler Saloon, the site of our last gig of the tour, had been lackluster to say the least. When we arrived at dinner time, a band was already on stage performing. seeing as we wouldn’t get a sound check, Dino, Soucy, and I left Delucchi to suss out the venue’s sound situation, and ventured to a nearby pool hall. 1,000 years of smoking had stained the walls sepia and etched a scent into the carpet so strong, it became hard to think above the stench. We played “Cut Throat.” Soucy won.

When we returned to the club, Delucchi was manning the door. He was livid. Over the din of the opening act, he yelled:
“Did Jonathan [our booking agent] talk to you about this?”
“No.” I yelled back “What’s up?”

“This is F____ed up. The deal is, WE’VE got to collect the money at the door. Then, at the end of the night, we owe the club $50 bucks for the use of their sound system!” My mouth was agape. He continued, “And on top of that, we have to give this opening act 30% of our take.” I looked around at the twenty or some-odd patrons in the roadhouse saloon and my heart collapsed into my deflated chest.

For half an hour, I sat beside Delucchi helping him collect our cover charge. Drifters stumbled in like seaweed on high tide only to retreat at the cash request. Some people even tried to bargain down the ten-dollar ticket price. “Not negotiable,” said Delucchi, who shook with silent rage. The ball game was on over the bar: Astro’s vs. Cubs, and just as many people watched the game as the opening act. I ordered a glass of Chardonnay, which came out in a mug and tasted like sweet‘n low flavored grape juice.

Leaving the door to man itself, I pulled Delucchi into the musty green room to join the rest of the band. A single flickering bulb hung in the middle of the olive-green room like a failing sun between us. We stared at one another—planets across a solar system, wondering how we’d stay together if and when the sun went out.

“Guys, this is not working,” I said. The gravity of the moment was intense. They’d known this was coming. “I’m so…tired.” I said.

“We’re all tired. Honestly, this has been an exhausting run” Soucy consoled, “Things’ll pick up again when we go out next.”

“I don’t think so Soucy,” I lamented “Things aren’t getting better. Look at where we are.” A beer maid appeared and quickly left again, dropping an empty keg rattling at our feet.

“We were never in this for the cash and prizes Sal. This is about the love of music, getting to play every night, together,” said Kenny, “It’ll be OK.”

My career flashed before my eyes, the good the bad and the ugly—a montage of backlit bars, sticky floors, packing and repacking the van, backbreaking load-ins and outs, contagious laughter, creaky motel beds, 3.5% gas station beer, and all-night drives. I thought of my house back in Boulder, the one with my cats in it, my soft toed moccasin slippers, and my sleeping, soon-to-be husband. I thought about the home-cooked breakfasts Dean makes with dill and cheddar that I was missing, the garden I wanted to plant before I left, and the simple pleasure of waking up and going back to sleep in the same bed every night next to the same man.

This life, on the road — kissing strangers, single-serving hotel rooms, gas station candy corn breakfasts, living out of suitcases, zero privacy, and playing for peanuts—these things used to symbolize freedom. Now, they signify avoidance, immaturity and not wanting to grow up. Never sleeping in the same bed once meant never having to make a bed, now it means itchy pillowcases and lonely sheets. Feeling the wind in my face used to mean owning my future now, it means not having a history.

I want something different than when I started out. Just making a difference to musicians who might be inspired to try an alternative route to musical success isn’t enough any more (even if I thought I was making a difference and I don’t think I am). I want clothes in drawers and roots in the ground and someone to grow old with and yes, I want these things even if it means having to take responsibility for my dirty dishes, the monotony of day-to-day living, and the failure of a dream.

“I don’t think I can do it anymore.” I said, bowing my head. The flickering light seemed to die on cue and we took to the stage. Whether the guys knew I meant what I said or whether they were sure I’d change my mind between sets, I don’t know.

I didn’t bother dressing for the show. I wore my overalls and called home to Dean from the stage to tell him I was coming home—I was choosing love.

The show went as predicted. Half the crowd was there to watch The Astros battle The Cubs and the other half was there to watch us battle the sports fans. I almost didn’t bother hauling out merch at the end of the night, but Kenny silently took my hand, put a sharpie in it, and led me to a wobbly table next to the exit. He sat me down next to a cardboard brick of CDs, rubbed my shoulders like a coach prepping a fighter for a final round in the ring and left me to a small but tight line that formed around the bar. I was delighted to sell more CDs than expected. Folks waited patiently while I stripped plastic wrap, extracted album inserts and signed my loping signature for them. I catered to photo requests and obliged customized messages. Before I knew it, the tailend of the line was before me.

Framed in neon lights and beer fermented, smoky spiderwebs stood a family: a mother, a father, a girl of ten and her baby brother, asleep in his father’s arms. The girl’s face lit up under my attention, her eyes grew wide and she stammered, “You’re my favorite singer.” I laughed in delight as her mother rubbed her head and elaborated, “This is Esme’s second concert. Her first was at 3^rd and Lindsley the last time you played Nashville.”

“Well, I’m honored.” I said, looking into Esme’s electrified face and extracting a CD from her hand. Hovering over it with Sharpie, I asked, “Can I sign this to you Esme?”

“Can she mom?”

“Of course,” her mama said and then to me, “Can you sign it ‘To Esme, Keep singing?”
“I’d be so happy to,” I said. As I signed my name with a heart, I asked, “Do you want to be a singer when you grow up?” and she responded with stars in her eyes,

“I want to be just like you.”

My heart skipped a beat. I clutched my chest and retrieved my last custom Sally Taylor guitar pick from my overalls. Kneeling beside her, I put the pick into her small hand as if I was handing off a baton in a relay race. “This is for you,” I said, “Always follow your heart.”

With a wave of my hand and a nod of my head, I picked up my blue guitar case and thanked the family for literally saving the tour for me.

Maybe I’ll inspire artists to follow their hearts after all; I thought as I joined the band in our trusty steed Moby.

We’re exhausted. It’s time to go home— West into the sunset.

This

the

end

the

road.

Stay tuned for a final wrap-up and interview with each member of the band…

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Northampton, MA – “The Beginning of The End” – The Iron Horse – August 5, 2002

Dean has been on the road all weekend and today marks the sorrowful date of his departure. “Honey,” he whispers from the pillow, “how’d you get to the other end of the bed?” In my half-conscious state I answer what seems obvious:

“Walking… with… the prehistoric beasts.”

Before we fell asleep, we’d been watching a program called Prehistoric Beasts on the Discovery channel. Now, in my groggy state, I wonder to myself, how they gained entrance to my dreams and provoked me to do a full 180° in the sheets.

2 AM

Springfield Marriott

Room #1430

Here I am, at the foot of a single bed, lying beside my beloved who is a little concerned, but mostly impressed, by my night time gymnastics. I suppose my positioning must be less surprising to me than to Dean, who’s been snuggling my ankles and calves for the last hour. Dean laughs and hugs me to him as I giggle girlishly and realign my body with his.

“Get a room…” hollers Soucy from the adjacent bed and we giggle harder and snuggle up closer. Soucy slips easily back to dreaming but Dean and I don’t bother. We cling to the slippery moments passing between now and his flight in a couple hours. I miss him already. From each other’s arms, we watch the ceiling grow bright from headlights on passing cars below. When I think of anything besides how to kidnap him and make him stay, I think about the show last night and how wretched it was. The Iron Horse was one big fail.

We’d spent the previous night at my pop’s after playing Club Helsinki in Great Barrington. The band, dad, Dean and I had stayed up late, like teenagers, eating potato chips, chocolate chip cookies and drinking hot kava tea. We discussed wedding plans and tried to keep our laughter down to a minimum so as not to wake his babies or pooches.

The next morning, my pop made an extra effort to spend time with me and rode with us in our crowded van to the Iron Horse. Even though we’d advanced the gig a month ago, when we got to Northampton, the marquee read Tonight! Dan Hicks and His Hot Licks. Unbeknownst to us, we’d been demoted to their opening act and would be paid accordingly. There’d be no room for the band on stage, so it would just be Soucy and me. To add insult to injury, because The Hot Licks had forgotten pieces of their drum kit, they asked Dino if they could borrow his and requested he set it up for them.

I felt embarrassed in front of my pop. He took me for a coffee up the street. I explained how this tour has been death by a thousand cuts.

“This’ll happen at every level along the way, my Sal,” he told me. “Occasional humiliation is just part of the business,” he explained. At the café, two cappuccinos teetered in saucers against our uneven-legged table. I stared up at him with glistening eyes, as he listed off some examples of particularly bitter humble pie he’d eaten recently. I was grateful for his sympathy and camaraderie and relieved he didn’t think being demoted to opening act was a reflection of my value as a musician.

His eyes sparkled as he repeated what he said when I first told him I was considering a career in music, “I wouldn’t wish this career on my worst enemy, but if you want a career in music, you’re talent is worthy of having it. You’ve really got what it takes my girl.”

Boulder, CO – Mom & Dad React to my Demo – April 5, 1998

My heart melted under his empathy and generous reassurance. I thanked him as some tears escaped my lids.

“I was really bowled over when I asked you to record those harmonies on Traveling Star and Baby Buffalo. You were a total pro in the studio, Sal. You picked up those parts immediately and knew just how to sing’um on mic to blend with my vocals. You’ve really become a great musician, my gal. You’ve paid your dues and earned your stripes. What impresses me most is that you’ve learned how to do all this by yourself, without your mom’s or my help. You’ve made 3 albums all on your own, put a band together and toured probably more than I have over the past 5 years and you did it on your own terms—without a record company behind you. I’m so proud, my Sal.” His adulation made me tear up and I made a little puddle on the table in front of me, leaning over my hands so as not to embarrass him in front of customers who’d already recognized him and were straining to overhear our conversation.

Dad wrote out the parts he wanted me to sing

“I really wanted to make a difference, dad. I wanted to inspire new musicians to know they can make it on their own — that they don’t need a label — that they can learn the ropes as they go and build a career and own their own terms. They can find success and shape—”

“—You have done that Sal. You don’t know how many young artists might have already seen your shows, read your road journals, heard your music on the radio or will hear your music in the future and think to themselves — I can do that too! You don’t get to know who you have touched or will inspire with your music and message. You just have to know that you inspire me. Your integrity and fire and ingenuity inspire me and I know I’m not alone in that feeling.” I felt so held and loved and seen. My heart swelled. I drew a constellation of stars with my tear drops on the table, knitting them into an abstract child’s game of Connect the Dots on the smooth black surface. Could I admit this out loud? I wondered.

“I’m just not sure I want it anymore, dad,” my admission was tiny when it finally escaped my lips. “It’s really hard to have a relationship from out here,” I said.

“Tell me about it,” he laughed.

“I don’t want to fuck things up with Dean. If I’m getting married, I want it to be forever. I want to be in 100% and I just don’t think I can do that if I’m going on the road all the time.” Dad nodded and took a deep breath. He pressed his lips together into a thin, straight line and exhaled through it. He knew exactly what I meant. “But my band—”

“—They’re your family,” he finished my sentence, “I know.” He pet my hand lovingly.

“I can’t imagine letting them go.”

“They’ll be ok Sal,” he reassured me. “You just take your time and figure out what you want. Your band’ll support you no matter what and so will Dean if you decide to stay on this musical path. Dean knew who he was marrying when he asked you.” He nodded his head toward the door. It was show time. The sounds of the coffee house returned, like I’d been in the depth of an ocean and was just returning to the surface.

Dad walked me back to the club like he was taking me to my first day of kindergarten. Dean was waiting for me under the marquee with a hug. He took my hand, the one with the ring on it, and led me straight to the stage. I brushed the tears from my face with the back of my hand and with the strength and vulnerability a career in music demeans, I stepped into the spotlight. I picked up my guitar and started into Tomboy Bride. How is it that I am lonely, surrounded by these faces? I thought. I felt the guitar purr on my belly like a cat and the cool metal of the mic pressed up against my lips. I felt the eyes of the audience and wondered if maybe there was a young musician out there, somewhere in the crowd, who I was inspiring to chart their own musical journey. I felt my song fill me to spilling, and when I came to the chorus, I looked out and saw my band, my fiance and my Dad, all in separate parts of the audience, singing along. When the song was done. So was I. This is it, I thought, it’s the beginning of the end of the road.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Signing off… confused.

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St. Louis, MO – “HELP ME!” – Off-Broadway – July 20, 2002

Hi Sal? It’s Soucy. I’m locked out. You’re probably asleep with earplugs in, and it sounds like you left the TV on—pretty loud, I might add. But I’m knocking,” (knock knock knock) “and I guess I’ll just… knock some more.” (knock knock knock)

That was the message I woke up to this morning (the 21st) at 11 AM. It was followed by another, far less composed:

“Sally, H E L P… They won’t let me in. The front desk has no record of me being allowed in the room, and it’s 2:30, and I am sooooo tired. I just went for a sandwich, took the wrong key, and now I can’t get back in. H E L P M E!”

As I was processing all of this, Soucy strolled into the room, looking remarkably fresh and clean despite his ordeal.

“How’d you finally get in?” I asked, trying to suppress the smirk tugging at my lips. He was, after all, right—I had completely passed out with earplugs and CNN blaring.

Supposedly, Soucy had to describe the contents of our room in painful detail to convince the night guard he actually belonged there. His pièce de résistance? Holding up the cover of Apt #6s and explaining he was in the band. Only then was he allowed in.

“Didn’t sleep great,” he said, his voice nonchalant as he bounced onto the edge of the bed with an apple turnover and flicked on the TV.

The night before had been great—a packed lineup featuring three bands, including South Carolina’s Blue Dogs. The space was incredible, — brick walls, cathedral ceilings, and an old-school theater vibe that felt equal parts vaudeville and magic.

And then, as if scripted, in walked Beatle Bob.

If you’ve never heard of the infamous music journalist Beatle Bob, he’s the kind of legend they should write folk songs about—or at least include in a future Muppet Show reboot. Rumor has it, the man goes to over 400 shows a year, dancing enthusiastically at every single one, all while owning exactly two jackets: one maroon (which he was rocking that night) and the other, apparently pink (possibly with a gold collar).

“You know you’ve got something special when Beatle Bob shows up,” the soundman said with a knowing nod.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel a little nervous; after all, this was our first proper gig in almost a year. But climbing on stage felt familiar, like slipping into an old, broken-in pair of shoes.

Rusty? Oh, absolutely. Tight? Not even close. But you know what? The crowd didn’t seem to mind and Beatle Bob twirled and grooved to every single tune we played.

On stage, everything felt right again—the lights, the mic, the music, and even the chaos of a 2 AM hotel lockout. I didn’t know how I’d feel climbing back in the saddle and I’m happy to report the answer is — I feel good, strong, confident, back in the game.

That said, I miss Dean. It’s hard to justify being away from him even after a great first gig. I think my future as a musician will be determined by this tour. I know now, after a six month hiatus, what success truly means to me and I that I’ll know what it looks like when I see it. I don’t mention anything to the band but they must intuit the fate of our group hangs by a fingernail after my recent engagement. I owe them everything to try to make it work. They are my brothers from another mother, my comrades in arms, my closest confidants, my steadfast allies. It means almost as much as my health and sanity to remain loyal to them.

Almost.

I am the Little Engine That Could. “I think I can, I think I can, I think I can…”

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

Leaving for tour- I already miss Dean and it’s only been an hour. Poor thing was exhausted last night after a week of celebrating our engagement with our exuberant Boulder friends. Still, I was pissed he fell asleep early on the eve of my leaving for tour. I stayed up packing until three — sequined stage shirts and belts with oversized buckles — to the rhythmic beat of my lover’s snores. When I was finished, I painted Dean’s toenails magenta — something to remind him of me, I thought, as I packed the nail polish remover in my luggage. When I crawled into bed beside him, I couldn’t latch into the train tracks of sleep. I was excited and nervous to be leaving on tour again.

Dean gathered me into his arms by the light of the morning. I tried to memorize the moment—the cool room against his warm body. It would be too long until we were in each other’s arms again.

Now, we’re on the highway, 60 miles away from Dean’s arms. The land is yellow and flat. It’ll be this way until we get to St. Louis. We picked up a new sound guy this morning before heading out — just a temp really, ‘til Delucchi finishes up his tour with Femi Kuti. The temporary sound guy’s name is Brian Neubauer. None of us knew him before this morning but he seems nice enough, and after brief introductions, Brian climbed into the back of Moby and fell fast asleep. Impressive.

Delucchi calls hourly like a worried mother hen. “Did Brian get in the van with you guys?” “Did you get the Fed Ex from Michelle?” “Don’t forget to pick up CDs and cash the checks in the merch box.” “and.. “don’t forget your guitar, Sal.” His concern is sweet, and I appreciate it…mainly because, frankly, I would forget my guitar without him.

As we drive further east we start to pass familiar advertising on billboards; The largest prairie dog in the world, The live 6-legged cow, and The fiercest snake alive, but we don’t stop despite my whining. Someday, I’ll get to see that snake. I swear it.

When we do stop, it’s at a Texaco to refuel and pick up Twizzlers. Outside the station, we try to figure out if we’ve been to this one before. Inside the shop there are white rabbit skins for sale; that seems familiar. And books on Christianity with titles like, “Why the Blood of Jesus is so Magical”; and well, that seems familiar too. But the Wizard of Oz mini mugs? those don’t ring a bell with any of us and the glitter poster of Dorothy? Well, that’s sort of foreign too. We decided as a band that this is our first time in this Texaco. This triggers a conversation about which US rest stops each of us likes most. You’d think we’d have more important things to talk about—Like my new engagement, where we’ve each spent the last 6 months, or how the intro to Split Decisions goes, but no.

Kenny and I decide that the Texico at The House of Sod in Gothenburg, Nebraska is our favorite place to stop, and Kenny pulls out a couple photos we took there once. He hands one to Brian, who laughs at the expressions on our faces poking through the plywood American Gothic

Kenny & Sal poking through the plywood American Gothic

200 miles further from Boulder, the van falls silent. The seat belts go click clack against the windows, The AC hums like a train soothing a weeping countryside and Dino turns on, “The Good, the Bad and the Ugly” on his computer.
“Can you see Sal?” he asks.
“Yeah, but should I be watching?” I ask. “I’m the one “I’m driving.”
“Nah, probably not,” Admits Dino. The van is silent again when the whistling intro begins. Dino freezes screens long enough for me to dart a look, just so I can decipher the ‘good’ from the ‘bad’ and the ‘ugly.’ Otherwise, my personal viewing consists of the flat road ahead, corn to my left and cattle to my right.

As the sun sets behind us, we drive into the shadows arriving at our hometel, only twelve or so hours after we left Colorado’s rocky mountains. The rooms are clean but they only have one bed and a fold-out, leaving one of us floor-bound; we draw Twizzlers to designate the unfortunate floor taker. Kenny picks the short one. Sorry Kenny

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

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

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

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

The living room without the ceiling I took down

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

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

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

Some friends we got to help us install some metal beams

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And isn’t that worth everything?

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Salt Lake City, UT – “It’s Not Your Fault Line” – September 21, 2001

This morning, we left Sun Valley, ID. There, we’d played two nights in sheds under a mountain covered in a blanket of stars.

Dad had me sing an unrehearsed “Mocking Bird,” as an encore. People seemed to dig it and, of course, I had the time of my life. That night we slept up at Dad’s manager, Gary Borman’s, house. His living room hosted a view of the mountains so wide, it felt glutenous to take it in, in a single glance.

We had a hike through giggling golden aspens. The leaves rained down like nature’s confetti and when we got back, Dad thought we had time to get another workout in before nightfall. We borrowed a couple of bikes and headed out on the a path through town. Though I’m roughly half his age, I found it challenging to keep up with him. I’m convinced my ol’ man will never get old. But it wasn’t just fitness my pop was proposing on this outing. We’ve always found difficult conversations easier when our hearts are already racing and he had some challenging news.

“I’m afraid I’ve got to let you go back to Colorado a couple days early” he said. “Jerry [road manager] is looking into changing your flights from Tuesday to Sunday if that’s alright.” The change of course was truly minimal but I felt devastated all the same. I tried to keep my composure. Was my presence a burden? Was a week with me too much to bear? Did he hate my voice? He must hate my voice. Always looking for proof of my unworthiness, I scouwered my brain for reasons why I was being dismissed from his life (and not just the measly extra 3 days he was suggesting).

Of course, I found plenty. They were waiting for me like bandits hiding out in the shadows of my hopes — “You’re not important,” “You’re not successful or beautiful or talented,” “You should be ashamed of wanting more,” “Your dad has more important things to deal with,” “He has the unconditional love of so many people, why do you think your love is special?” “You’re a burden,” “You’re selfish,” “You were never worthy of his love, why do you think your parents got divorced?” “You’re the first batch of pancakes, the ones that get thrown out.” These corrosive beliefs jumped on me, hijacking my dreams. Of course, they were a gross overreaction to a visit cut short. But childhood fears are tricky. They’re always waiting in the wings for an invitation to spoil a vulnerable moment.

I held my tears, grateful dad was riding ahead of me and couldn’t see the expression on my face. “Ok pop. How come?” I tried to sound casual.

“Oh, well, Kim and the boys are coming out, and I think I’ll just be too preoccupied,” he said, “I should probably focus on being a dad right now I’m afraid.” I knew he meant to add ‘of two new babies’ but what I heard was ‘you’re no longer my daughter and I need you to get out of the way of my new, better life.’ I took it in stride, already resigned to my insecurities.

“Ya, Ok Dad. I understand.” I swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and gave myself into self loathing. Dean was already in Thailand for work. I wasn’t going home to his strong arms and I felt lonely. I felt depressed, damp and suddenly I realized how cold I felt. Perhaps it was the chill in my heart freezing me from within or perhaps it was my sports bra. I’d grabbed it, still damp from the wash before we left for our ride.

The sun was sinking down. Dad offered to buy me a sweatshirt but we only had 19 bucks between the two of us and decided we’d better just to get back before it got much colder. But by the time we returned, I had all the telltale signs of hypothermia—nausea, dehydration, and dizziness. I spent the rest of the night shivering in a 102° hot tub under the mothering supervision of Mrs. Ann Borman, and her friend Barbara Rose.

My pop did his guitar nails in the room with me while I rested — a ritual involving super glue, a plastic hotel key card, fiberglass, and a nail file. He whistled while he worked and hugged me between dryings. I know how much my dad loves me—really I do. His hugs felt like apologies for not having more to give. But I know all this is not his fault and I know it’s not Kim’s fault or the new twin’s fault or the road’s fault or even my fault. This is the fault that lies in our family line — a fault inherited from ancestors who didn’t know their sense of rejection and unworthiness it wasn’t their fault. And I know what my job is, if I can muster the strength to do it in this lifetime. It’s to politely decline the fault for myself and gracefully forgo the opportunity to pass it along.

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

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

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

Here's The Story:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What about now?” 

We were inseparable for days.

The band groans again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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