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

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

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

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

“Who are Even & Jarod?”

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, probably.”

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

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

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

This could be good, I thought to myself as “You’ve got a Friend,” concluded.  I’m on the right 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!!

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Fourth Stage Studio, Boulder – “7 Days & A Shotgun Record” – March 14, 2001

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.

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Boulder, CO – “Re-rooting and Recording” – February 28, 2001

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.

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Day 70 – “Returning to my Childhood Home” – March 23, 2000

I’m driving back to the studio when I pass my old address, 135 Central Park West, the one with the flat my new album’s named after (#Apt. 6S). The doorman outside is unfamiliar and though I’m seriously contemplating looking for a parking spot and trying to go in, I wonder how I’d explain myself to the austere new doorman. I imagine myself approaching under the iron-clad awning in overalls and green Patagonia fleece and saying something ridiculous like, “Hi, you don’t know me, but trust me, I used to live here and I’d like to go to the 6th floor and take a little look at my old childhood stomping grounds if that’s OK.” The idea seems absurd but before I know it, I’ve parked, slipped my little red camera into my pocket, and locked the door.

The gray-blue stairs of my childhood feel narrower underfoot than I remembered. The last time I walked them they’d hosted at least a dozen voracious paparazzi trying to wrestle my image from my face. My brother and I were adept at the camera dance and knew to take cover under hoods and collars to avoid them, as though they were a sudden rainstorm.


Today there are no cameras, nothing to fear or avoid. But I feel more uncomfortable than ever confronting the tall, Slavic doorman in the lobby. “I’m making an album named after an apartment here that I grew up in, #6S,” I gulp when my intro is met with a suspicious sideways glance. “I don’t know. Would be possible to let me up for just a second? I’d love to take a picture of my old door for my liner notes. Would that be OK?” I’m sure he thinks it is not OK. But, you can’t judge a book by its cover. The new Russian doorman not only believes my story but is delighted to know I’m naming my album something relating to the building. He calls the new tenants and sure enough, I’m invited up.


As I walk the mosaiced hallways down the red strip of carpet, memories flood back. I recall practicing cartwheels with my friend Lark Previn, one of Mia Farrow’s kids, after ballet lessons. Once we’d navigated the grippy hands of the paparazzi outside, we’d uncover our jacketed heads and in long braids and peach leotards, do round-offs and back handsprings down the broad red carpet to the elevator. Lark, second eldest after Soon Yi, always accompanied me to the 6th floor so we could practice our moves a little longer in the 12-foot floor-to-ceiling mirror outside our door.

Lark & Sal

Waiting for the elevator—the same elevator I once measured my growth by the numbered buttons I could reach—I look up at the crystal chandelier still awkwardly missing gems my brother and his friends used to jump to knock down for their shiny, clear teardrop collections.


The mirror on the 6th floor still warps in the center, making me appear slimmer and taller. I ring the back doorbell and it chims its familiar (still-broken) chime, “Ding, futz,” “ding, futz.”
A small, Latina house cleaner wearing distrust across her brow lets me in even though her boss is out and she wonders out loud about the consequences of her actions. She follows me closely in her head tilted, small-stepping way as I tour my old home in what I hope is the least threatening way possible. I don’t touch walls or handles and let the cleaner reveal what she thinks prudent to show me.


My old room has been converted into an office but still has the white shelves that once housed my dolls. The back alley view from my old window with its cast iron grate looks the same as usual as does the long white built-in closet but none of this is mine. I packed up my memories long ago and I realize I am only a ghost here. Most likely, a ghost that’s making the cleaner nervous.

The photo I took that day of Apt #6S front door

I thank her and leave Apt. #6S with its view of Central Park and slimming mirror and chandelier with its missing prisms and as I thank the doorman and descend the paparazziless steps I feel a little hollow but at peace.


At the studio, Mike and I work late (till after 3:00 am). Neither of us in any shape to drive back to the city, we set up an impromptu slumber party on Whitney’s white, leather couches. We use our jackets as blankets and elbows as pillows. Morning comes too soon but we open our eyes with determination and enthusiasm for This is it. The finish line. This is our last day in the studio!

…..Of course, there’s still more to do—mastering, artwork for the CD, The creation of a press kit and launching of a PR campaign, booking a new tour to promote the album (with our BRAND NEW BOOKING AGENT JONATHAN SHANK!!!!), Getting CDs pressed and getting our new drummer rehearsed. But the album, for all intents and purposes, is finished.


I am the proud mama of 13 new bouncing baby songs. And I’m gonna let you in on a little secret. Something nobody yet knows. We’re gonna combine “How Can I” and “Bicycle” to make one long 12th track and throw in a hidden “sally as a little girl ‘pumpkin song’” in between, just to give people something fun to find if they leave the CD running too long. So now you’re in the know! Thanks for following along on this record-making journey. Enjoy…

Mixing Schedule
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Day 67 – “Naming the Album 6S” – March 20, 2000

I grew up on the Upper West Side of New York City with a sprawling view of Central Park from apartment “Success.” At least that’s what I heard my parents say when they directed the local grocer for deliveries or their fabulous, bangle-wearing friends for parties. It made sense, after all — my famous parents lived in an apartment called “Success.”  Of course, they did and, of course, my brother and I lived there with them; born into success, not owners as such, but entitled squatters.  It was only when I started writing pen pals that my understanding was shattered.

“In the return address,” my mom dictated, “you’ll write Sally Taylor, 135 C.P.W Apt #6S NYC 10023.”

“How do you spell ‘Success'” I asked.

“A-P-T period. The number 6 and the letter S,” she directed, unaware she was shattering a belief I’d held since birth. Alas, apartment “Success” was only ever apartment #6S (Floor 6, Southern facing apartment).  “Success” was as illusory as the great and powerful Wizard of OZ. #6S was The Man (woman and children who lived) Behind the Curtain; A real address with real lives and problems and joys and failures and, yes, successes too.

I’ve decided to name this second album after my birth address “Apt. #6S” to remind me where I come from; both a delicious, outrageous illusion, and a geographic address as real and permanent as its bricks and mortar.  

This CD is a dedication to making success where you live.

APT #6S will be released in early May and will be available online from this website and at shows.

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Day 64 – “Spirulina Frosting is Disgusting” – March 17, 2000

Today is El Blanco’s birthday. It’s also St. Patrick’s Day. I decided to cater to his health-conscious side and strolled up to ‘The Health Nuts’ on 99th and Broadway. After careful deliberation, I opted for a pair of shamrock green health food cookies to celebrate, in lieu of a birthday cake. The sandalwood-smelling attendant at the front of the shop was excited when I placed the cookies, alongside a stack of color therapy, chakra, rainbow sunglasses, on the counter. “These are delicious,” the shopkeep pointed at my cookies, emphasizing the ‘lich.’ “The frosting’s spirulina, sugar, and water,” she explained, throwing in some complementary candles when I mentioned they were for a birthday.

When I presented them at the studio, Mike was deeply touched. Behind the sound console, he blew out his candles and we toasted our twin cookies. His reaction to the first bite inspired excitement in me but the second that cookie hit my mouth I knew I’d made a terrible mistake. I spit it out like I’d been stung by a bee. “Yuck, yuck, yuck.” I wiped my tongue down with an ultra-compostable health food napkin as Michael laughed at me. “That thing is wretched!” I apologized. Mike, with a mouth full of green frosting, responded honestly, “I like it just fine.” “But spirulina should NEVER be dressed up as a sweet. It’s just rude!” I insisted. “That’s like putting a fish in a prom dress.” Spirulina is a foul, though healthy, sulphuric, fishy, seaweed-tasting blue-green algae that, even after being ejected from my mouth, managed to cling to my back molars aided by the rest of the cookie’s intractable health food ingredients. I slipped on a pair of my new yellow lensed color therapy glasses for ‘cheerfulness, clarity, and creativity’ and handed El Blanco the green pair for ‘Peace, and harmony’ “…and love of spirulina” I added.


We mixed throughout the stormy, rainy March day. I had yogurt for breakfast, yogurt, and applesauce for lunch, and yogurt and applesauce with honey for dinner.

“All This Time” has been stuck in my head, playing in the background of my dreams, no doubt the result of mixing it exclusively for the past two days. “Tangle… tangled… tangled up… tangled up in city lights swearing… swear… swearing,” stutters out of the speakers as Mike plays, rewinds, plays, rewinds, and slowly deconstructs each track to build the song back up to perfection.

Mixing is truly El Blanco’s superpower. He’s a wizard at it, able to sustain both a holistic vision of a song while tinkering like a skilled mechanic at the cogs of bass notes and the textures of vowels. It’s astounding to watch him work on a mix. Right now, he’s listening with squinted ears for the perfect EQ, the best reverb, and the proper shape of every syllable of every word. When he finds the right settings, he’ll ride the track* to make everything sound perfect… well, as perfect as it can sound. Mike’s the man! The birthday boy man!

Footnote:
*Ride the Track: Refers to the process of using automation to adjust the volume levels dynamically throughout a track. Riding a track ensures that certain elements of the track, such as vocals or instruments, maintain a consistent presence and balance within the mix, compensating for any natural fluctuations in volume. This approach helps achieve a more polished and professional sound.

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Day 61 – “Mixing” – March 14, 2000

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.
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Day 57- “My Dad’s a Badass” – March 10, 2000

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.

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Day 28 – “Sometimes Hums Along” – February 10, 2000

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.

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Day 24 – “Party at the Studio” – February 6, 2000

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.

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