James Taylor – Sally Taylor

New York City – BB King’s – “Whisky, Gin, Vodka” – August 7, 2002

My publicist and NYC host, Ariel Hyatt was supposed to help me shop for a wedding dress today but had to bail at the last minute. I was left to fend for myself in the urban jungle of Barney’s Department Store. Buying time before my bridal appointment, I wandered downstairs into the cosmetics department, a sparkling maze where women sampled lipsticks between sips of Chambord. I spotted an OPI nail polish called “Cajun Shrimp” and decided it was coming home with me.

Unfortunately, buying it felt harder than flagging down a cab in Midtown. Armed with a wad of cash, I waved it frantically to catch the attention of the beauty counter “bartender,” all while navigating the crush of shoppers. Just as I was making some progress, my cell phone rang. Suddenly I was grabbing for my purse and accidentally bumped into a brunette behind me. In the brattiest NYC accent, she said, “Watch the hands Blondie.”

The call was from a reporter with the Trentonian Times in New Jersey and I abandoned my hopes of polished toes to plug one ear and search for better reception on the first floor. I absentmindedly browsed overpriced leather bags and ridiculously soft cashmere socks, grazing their textures with my free hand as I answered his questions,

“I’m shopping for a wedding gown today…Yes, I’m getting married…Oh, how did we meet? 10 years ago on a nude beach. He was the lifeguard, I was, well, naked…. No, he wasn’t naked too… Plans for the future? ‘I’m quitting after this tour (he doesn’t believe me)… My parents? They’re fine… Growing up? Fine too.” But then the battery on my cell started to beep that low, dead-battery sound. The reporter assured me he thought he had enough for his article and let me go.

My wedding gown appointment was a disappointment and I was late by the time I met up with the band at BB King’s for sound check. A Jewish singer-songwriter’s magazine reporter was waiting when I came off stage. With all these promotional interviews, it’s clear Ariel doesn’t know I’ve made my mind up to stop touring after this run.

I joined the reporter at her table off stage left. She looked at me skeptically as I sat down. I didn’t know I’d been pitched as a Jewish songstress so when the interviewer asked what my favorite holiday was, I answered “Christmas” and we both laughed. I had to explain I’m only Jew-ish — that while my grandfather (yes, of Simon & Schuster fame) was Jewish, my mother’s mother was Afro-Cuban. The admission didn’t end the interview per se, but the reporter did put her pen and paper away and our conversation took on a more casual tone.

I’m delighted to report the show went off without a hitch—that it was, in fact fierce and powerful and I sang my guts out to a packed house. I needed a rewarding night (I didn’t realize how much) something to refuel my spirit and get me through one more week of tour. My brother’s drummer, Larry and Ben’s best friend, John Forte, met us back stage. It was bittersweet to see him — one of his last nights before he reports to prison to serve fourteen years for a mandatory drug-related sentence. I wrapped my arms around his strong back and promised we’d visit him and that we wouldn’t have any fun until he was back. I couldn’t imagine how he must be feeling.

Right to left: John Forte taking a picture of me taking a picture, Larry Ciancia and John’s brother.

The whole band trekked downtown, late night, to a club called Siberia. True to its name, the joint was in the middle of nowhere and freezing cold. There was a mega fan blowing beneath a subzero air conditioner, which had to “remain on at all times” insisted the bartender — something about smoking and ventilation codes. You’d never suspect there was a bar in this neighborhood from the street, save for a dullish pink light glowing above the black and graffitied door. I guess that’s what makes a bar appealing in the new Millennium — anonymity. In the 90’s it was long lines and hot chicks that made a joint appealing, wasn’t it?

“What can I do you for?” asked the bartender with pockmarked skin and rotted teeth.

“I’ll take a Chardonnay.”

“Whisky, gin, vodka, or you’re out of luck girlie.” He must‘ve enjoyed saying this to me, seeing as I was out of place in my peppermint pink striped pants, hair in pigtails and still probably wearing too much stage make-up. I managed to sip into a vodka tonic made with gasoline and play multiple games of pinball with my band.

When we got back to Ariel’s West Side apartment, my publicist set up a makeshift bed for me on her sofa. Somehow she’d managed to score a promotional copy of my dad’s (still unreleased) album October Road, and I couldn’t wait to hear it. She lent me her discman, a pair of headphones, and I fell asleep to Baby Buffalo (one of the songs I sang harmonies on). I felt so proud to be on such a wonderful album. It made me feel so loved and honored and well… accomplished.

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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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Reno, NV – “Unmoored & Adrift” – September 22 & 23, 2001

I’m at the Reno airport now — unmoored and adrift. Every ten seconds, a mechanical slot machine screams “WHEEL – O F – FORTUNE.” Kid’s race past luggage, parents reprimand them and blurry voices announce canceled flights and new gates. I’m going home—home to an empty house. I feel sad all over — the kind of sad that comes with flu like body aches.

It started last night, the sadness I mean, while on stage with dad. We were singing “Close Your Eyes,” (our go-to encore) when an overwhelming devastation flooded my body and I started to cry. It was just some gentile welling up at first, but when we got to the chorus, I burst out in a full-fledged sob and couldn’t finish the last line. I felt powerless, destroyed, vulnerable, lost, little and embarrassed for not being able to hold it together.

I thought about the state of America, our president declaring war. I thought about loneliness, about the people in the Twin Towers on 9/11 being lost or gone — their loved ones not knowing which. I thought about the vacuousness of the unknown, the event horizon of fear and depression. I thought about leaving my dad — not knowing when we’d see each other again. It’s always been that way, when we say goodbye It’s “hope I see you soon,” and “I love you,” without necessitating definitive dates for a reunion. But in this time of craziness and instability, I feel our “goodbye” in a way that hurts the breath out of my lungs and evacuates it like a fire alarm.

The tears lodged in my chest and in my heart and in my eyes and solidified there, in a hard-to-remove-oil-stain sort of way. I felt numb as the bus pulled away from the terminal—my dad on it. I waved at it’s blind, mirrored windows until it bent out of sight. The tears didn’t stop there. They haven’t stopped yet, and I wonder if and when they will … I sure do miss you daddy.

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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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Sun Valley, ID – “Touring with Dad, What it’s Like” – Sept 20, 2001

As I evaluate all I’ve accomplished over my five years on the road, I can’t help but feel disappointed. Have I done what I set out to when I first sat down with Fausta? My therapist and I met weekly in the summer of 1997 and, sitting in her shack one day I asked her if it was nuts for me to consider a career in music.

I’d been in a plane accident recently in Peru, and the scare had prompted some deep reflection on my future. Fausta didn’t think music was an altogether terrible idea to pursue music. But she wanted to know what my goals were.

“I want to archive the music I’ve written. When I went down on that plane, I thought of all those songs I’d written that I never gave birth to. I want to archive those songs, give them bodies.”

“OK, will you look for a record deal?” Fausta was contemplative.

” I want to try to do it on my own. I don’t want to sign a record contract. I want to learn what I can about the music industry and then maybe I’ll start my own label — One that develops artists and educates them about how to make it on their own.”

“Why?” asked Fausta thoughtfully, her moth-eaten sweater falling off one shoulder.

“I want to inspire young musicians. So many think they need to get signed to make it. I want them to know it’s possible to make it on their own. I’ve seen so many labels screw artists and I want musicians to know there’s another way. They don’t have to sign away their ownership or publishing or souls to be successful.”

“Ok, good. Those sound like really meaningful, solid goals. What are you worried about?”

“I’m worried I’ll be tempted to sign a deal—that it’ll be too hard, that I’ll get addicted to applause and lose sight of my values, that my ego will end up in the driver’s seat.”

“Ya, that would suck,” she said laughingly, “but I think we can put some measures in place to ensure your road to success stays in line with your values, and we can create an evacuation plan if the shit hits the fan.” The scaffolding we came up with was as follows:

I shouldn’t be tempted to take the same path my parents had.
I should never take good reviews or applause as an indication of success. The thinking was that if I believed the good reviews, I’d also believe the bad reviews, and it would skew my vision of success.
If at any time your ego gets in the driver’s seat, don’t be afraid to “Jump Ship!”

Recalling these measures now, I wish I could return to Fausta’s shack through the woods, hug my former shelf, take her out to breakfast and suggest a career in theoretical physics. “It’ll only take an additional four years of school,” I’d say, “and just think of the marvelous insights you’ll have along the way to pondering the Grand Unifying Theory.” But it’s too late, and from here, five years later, on dad’s bus, exhausted and worried about the state of the world, I can’t help but think I’ve failed my twenty-three-year-old self as I size up my miniscule accomplishments next to my ol’ man’s.

His tour experience is nothing like mine. Well, almost nothing.

For one, his band travels in a bus with bunk beds and DVD players and a refrigerator with yummy snacks in it while their equipment rides in a separate truck. My band drives in a van (Moby) where there’s a cooler with warm sodas and one neck pillow to go around for the 5 of us, plus we fit all our equipment in one trunk.

We stay in the same type of hotels, my dad and I, only we get 2 rooms while dad gets 50.

My dad’s band sleeps in bunk beds with TVs and VCRs in them while a driver drives them through the night to their next gig. I sleep on a bench with 2 other guys, my ponytail pinned under my guitar player’s ass to a hotel, post-show. Then we wake up at 7 am and drive all day long to our next gig.

My dad’s got two people to run his sound. One to fix his stage speakers and another to run the front-of-house sound. We’ve got a road manager who’s also our primary driver, who’s also the monitor engineer and also runs the front of house sound.

Pop’s band’s got a room for “Hospitality.” We’re lucky if we’ve got a table with a couple of tea bags on it.

The JT bus has a toilet on board. Our closest bathroom is a Denny’s at the ‘next exit.’

The members of my dad’s band each have their own changing rooms. Our changing rooms are the ‘men’s’ and the ‘ladies’ restrooms.

The only writing on the walls backstage with my dad, are placards with the names of the different band members on them. The writing on our walls reads “I _____ your mother in the back of my van SUCKER!!!”

But my failures are less about my ability to make a name for myself and more about the the following:

I have not taken the path my parents took to stardom, and yet I’m comparing myself to them.
Somewhere along the line, I let good reviews and applause be the measure of success instead of what I’d originally set out to accomplish and
I burnt myself out yet am unwilling or unable to look at how much my ego had taken control of the steering wheel.

What seems clear is this—I need to re-evaluate everything—need to sit down and inventory what I’ve gained and all I’ve lost to this musical adventure. I need time off the road, to peel back the layers of soot and set lists and sections of highway and really take a look under the hood. I need time to sleep and fall deeper in love with Dean and not think about the road….

But man I wish I had a fridge in the van…it wouldn’t suck to have the driver, either…and maybe a couple more neck pillows. Yeah, that’d be nice.

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Bozeman, MT – “Isn’t it Nice to be Home Again” – Brick Breeden Fieldhouse -Sept. 19, 2001

During sound check, Dad decides I should sing “Sign of Rain,” and then “Close Your Eyes” with him, as an encore. I’m over the moon.

It’s thrilling to be on stage with him – the juxtaposition of being recognized as a “grown-up” singer in front of all those people while feeling like a little girl next to him. It’s a meditation to be on his stage – between the lights and shadows and bows and harmonies and butterflies. I love my Dad.

After the last song, we jump on his tour bus and begin our journey south toward Sun Valley. The bus smells like my childhood.

There’s Mexican takeout on the counter and we make up songs about chicken enchiladas as we sip Stewarts Ginger Beer and brace ourselves as the bus wags its way through the parking lot, dodging cars and fans. Dad has a PayDay candy bar, he’s pilfered from the kraft services table at the gig and offers to share it with me. Arnold McCuller emerges from the back of the bus already in his pajama bottoms. We curl up with the rest of the band, on the cold leather couches and watch “Vampire in Brooklyn.”

When I feel my head nod without my consent for the third time, I excuse myself to turn in for the night. I grab the bunk above pops. It’s the one he cleared for me before the show but already it’s full again with his stuff — half-empty water bottles, a single sock, a medicine kit from the last hotel, and his favorite green sweatpants. Before I nod off, I hear him snoring below and think to myself between the bump and the brake, “Isn’t it nice to be home again.”

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

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

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

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

“I think so. Why?” I hollered back.

“Have you seen the news?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sal & Dean with some cute kids (no relation)

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

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

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

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

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

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Oakland, MD – “Two Cups and a String” – The Oakland Main Street Festival – July 27, 2001

The boys and I went to see my dad play in Pittsburgh last night (which as usual was FANTASTIC. He’s just so good!). Today, we are playing at The Oakland Main Street Festival.

“It’s like two cups and a string.” Says Kenny, sizing up our stage.
“What is?” I ask
“Our production compared to your pops.” he correctly points out. I wince.
“But, may I point out, we too are playing a shed,” Soucy butts in, “The produce shed.” Indeed, we are once again headlining a produce stand but as Soucy optimistically reassures us—a shed, is a shed, is a shed.

The ambiance at the Oakland Mainstreet Festival is something out of a children’s book. Enchanting kids drift by tethered to brightly colored balloons. They’re coated in strawberry ice cream—eating it, wearing it and painting their parents with it. Watching them, I’m instantly escorted back to my own childhood. I remember how watermelon tasted metallic the first time I tried it. I remember wondering why eyes bled water when someone’s feelings got hurt, and why the moon seemed to follow me around — loyal and dependable, like a dog on a leash.

Lost in memories, I paint my nails, propping my feet on the stage monitor. Dino says the color reminds him of strawberry jam. I eat corn on the cob and shoo fruit flies away from the shiny lacquer of my freshly polished toes. Boats slip by on a glassy lake and a coal train whistles by every 30 minutes or so. I feel like we’ve wandered onto the set of Little House on the Prairie. Everything is so quaint and beautiful and untouched here … well, except for that new Wal-Mart that’s gone up on the hill and is sucking, like a weed, the life right out of this little town.

There’s a storage shack we’re told we can use for a green room. It was recently built for a town production of Anne Get Ye’r Gun and has no electricity or running water, but we’re welcome to it. Thankfully we don’t need it for any reason. However, Delucchi and Dino use it to smoke up in between sets and manage to get themselves locked in which delays the start to the second set significantly as we have to go looking for them.

Kenny’s right, our gig is two cups and a string compared to my pop’s. But as Soucy points out, at least we’re playing a shed. Anyhow, It’s not the size of the shed that matters so much as the spirit you bring to it and while ours may not be a stadium, and may lack in the pyrotechnics department, it has heart. Our production is raw and real and full of soul … and fruit.

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Great Barrington, MA – “Catching Two Parents, With One Gig” – Club Helsinki – July 14, 2001

Club Helsinki is one of my favorite spots to play. It’s small, as intimate as a bedroom, yet boasts theater-quality sound. Its walls are a sea of mosaiced mirrors extending onto furniture and ceilings like crashing waves, winking when the stage lights hit them.

Stephen Kellogg showed up around dinner time (he graciously agreed to open for us again). The food at Club Helsinki, far from your average band fare, was colorful, and exotic and after gorging ourselves on it, we crawled, bellies full, into the bowels of the Club. Under the stage the exposed beams hung low. Pipes protruded from walls at awkward angles like mannequin arms and roots from plants above, leaked through the ceiling. There were pickles stored next to candy canes and bottle rockets stacked next to pork rinds.

Stephen, was wearing a brown corduroy outfit and was tollerant as I ribbed him by refering to as a leisure suit. I dared him to introduce himself, then his brown outfit (as though it were part of his musical accompaniment). We stashed ourselves behind the stage door to see if he’d go through with it but when I poked my eye through a straw-thin crack between hinges, I saw my mama walk in to the club!

I rushed into her arms and embraced her vanilla scented body with such enthusiasm, I nearly knocked her over. “What are you doing here?” I whispered in an attempt to minimize distracting from Stephen’s act. “I came to see you!” She gleamed. I was over the moon. Stephen’s short set didn’t afford us much time to catch up. But I called her up on stage to sing “Convince Me.”

After the show she crawled into the belly of a backstage with us. She climbed down the rickety ladder under the stage in her tall red boots like some sort of sexy santa. She lavished love, gifts and praise on all of us and lifted my spirits to the moon with her joyful smile.

I don’t even think people understand how much I love my mama. Seeing her sent me into a storm of unfastened laughter. Her presence alone could have fueled my spirit for weeks. How could I have wished for anything more? And yet, there was more to come.

At 1 AM the band piled back into Moby and head towards Cromwell Connecticut. When the phone rang, it was my dad. I wasn’t surprised, he often calls me late at night from one backstage or another. We take for granted we’ll both be finishing work as the night tilts into the next day.

“Hey Pop, where you at?” “I just got done with a gig at Jones Beach. Got a couple’a days off so I’m headed up to the Berkshires to see Kimmy and the kids. Where’ you at my girl?”
“Uh, where are we Delucchi?” Delluchi handed back a map and I read it by the intermittent street lights”highway 91, headed toward Connecticut.”
“That’s south right?”
“Sure is.”
“I’m on 91 headed north! Lets meet at an exit so’s I can smack eyes on ya. What exit you at now?”
“Amazing,” I said, We’re still in Massachusetts.”
“I’m at exit 24. Call me when you get to the Connecticut state line.”
The next 20 miles were spent in radio contact, relaying what exits we were passing, calling back and forth strategically to make sure we didn’t pass like two ships in the night.

At 2:13am, exit 46 off highway 91. We pulled into a Mobil station. Dad was still a couple exits south so we dashed into the gas station for supplies. We bought a jumbo bag of chips and a slew of ultra processed dips and fake cheeses that escort all good late night snacks (some Tums too) and waited outside for my pop to show.

He pulled up in a shiny tour bus that made Moby look like a tonka toy. He looked great despite all the dates he’d been playing and was a sight for sore eyes. We stood around, kicking the curb in the empty parking. We crunched on chips and traded road tales with my ol’ man.

It’s a great thing to be able to meet up at a gas station in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night with your pop who’s got the same screwed up sleeping schedule as you, just to chill, admire the moon, chew on some pastels or hostess cup cakes, and maybe even risk a cup’a joe. And it’s a better thing to get the opportunity to catch up with not one but both of your troubadour parents as you trace the same highways they helped pave.

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