Kipp Stroden – Page 2

Pre-Production for Apt #6S -“How to Prep For an Album”- January 12, 2000

Our pre-production space is a warehouse just outside of town. It’s where the second sock turns up. Where the dust under the rug gets swept and it’s where we feel most at home. In a high-ceilinged room, under a bright fluorescent light we play and bang and map the topography of our songs all day without concern neighbors might complain. Our only neighbors out here are tumbleweeds, a murder of crows, and a patient moon that hangs out like a fan for an autograph.

Our schedule runs each day from noon to midnight. Michael White, our engineer/producer, arrived from New York on Tuesday straight off a recording session with Whitney Huston. He’s agreed to produce our next record for a meager 18K (not AT ALL meager to me (que nail-biting) but much less than the fee he usually fetches). To soften the blow of his rate, he’s agreed to sleep on a futon in Kipp’s office for the duration of recording which we plan to track* in under two weeks. For this ambitious feat to be feasible, we’ve got to train, the way gymnasts do for an event. We need to learn and perfect all our parts: lyrics, solos, chord progressions, and harmonies. We need to memorize the shape of each song—where to bring the energy up and when to drop it back. We need to decide what reverb* and plug-ins* to use and which melodic parts are missing so we can start hiring session players.*

Sal & Michael White calling session players on his new cell phone

Michael White listens to each song. His skinny frame reverberates under the influence of Brian’s snare drum. At the conclusion of a song, he marinates in silence before instructing, “Again,” and bending his expressive nose into a question mark-shaped pointer finger. The next time we run through the song he might request an extra bar here, a bigger drum fill there, a complete drop out of all instruments coming out of a chorus. We rework each song like chefs at a culinary school until we’re satisfied the auditory recipe is perfect. Then, it’s on to the next song and the next. On average, we’re able to cook two songs a day, running each under a microscope hundreds of times before Mike agrees it’s time to move on.

Time moves inconsistently, the way it does when you’re falling in love. Every second lasts a day and each day lasts a second. Sometimes I forget I’m tired, then walk out to find a new dawn gracefully lifting the sky like a stage curtain on another day.

Before an open garage door, atop a beer and oil-stained slice of carpet, we chart the road to a finished second album. Sometimes I forget the words. Sometimes Kenny forgets the chords. Sometimes Brian forgets to eat and then falls asleep on his drum kit but Chris never forgets ANYTHING, and for that, we are grateful.

Vocabulary

*Arranging a song means modifying it to fit a new purpose. For example: I write my songs with the intention of playing them live. Together with a producer, the band needs to come up with additional parts, sounds, intros, and outros that will bring it to life on a recording.

*Tracking: A song is made up of a series of ‘tracks’—drums, bass, guitar, vocals, background vocals, etc. Each part gets layered on top of the next like a sandwich. When an album is “tracked,” it means the recording is done. The next two phases of making an album are mixing and mastering.

*Reverb is a sustained sound that occurs when sound waves bounce off surfaces in a space. It’s a natural acoustic effect that’s present everywhere, but in music, it’s usually an artificial effect added by producers to create a sense of space and depth, making instruments and vocals sound like they’re in different environments, such as a large hall or room for example.

*Plug-ins are pieces of software that enhance sound. Plugins can be used to enrich existing sounds or create entirely new sounds.

*Session players are professional musicians hired to perform in recording sessions. They are freelancers who work on a per-project basis.

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Pre-Pre-Production for Apt #6S – “The Listening Party” – January 9, 2000

Tonight I enlisted fourteen of my best and most discerning friends in Boulder to help me pick the songs for my next album. I was nervous. Kipp agreed to host the listening party at his house, ‘Timber Trails,’ off Boulder Canyon Drive. Outside, the winds fell down the drapes in the Colorado Canyon walls and roared to be let in from the bitter winter cold. Flickering like sunlight off a snowfield, fourteen smiles glistened at me above a sea of candles I’d lit for the occasion.

There were twenty-seven songs to get through, and though they were all great friends, I felt uncomfortable asking them to sit through two hours of shoddily recorded musical meanderings compiled over the past year in my bedroom with a dinky 4-track recorder. On top of feeling self-centered and unworthy, I was also vulnerable—concerned about how my friends would react to songs I’ve come to love, knowing I needed to ask them to help me abort half of them. I tried to relieve them of any pressure to save my feelings by constructing a rating system—one that would leave them anonymous after the music was over and the wine was gone.

I’d decanted several bottles of red wine and asked my guests to make themselves comfortable on Kipp’s L-shaped sofa and white, shedding, shaggy rug. I handed them each a sheet of paper with a list of all my new songs and explained with the air of an SAT monitor:

“On these sheets, are a list of all my latest songs. Since I can only put ten or eleven songs on the record, I need you tonight, to help me weed out at least sixteen. Next to each song, in column two, I would like you to rate each song. A #1 will mean that you think the song MUST BE ON THE RECORD. A #2 will indicate you can TAKE IT OR LEAVE IT. And a #3 will mean OUST IT. In the column on the far right, I would love your comments, suggestions, and/or production ideas. Please try to be as honest as you can. You don’t need to put your name on the sheets. If I catch you looking at someone else’s papers you will be sent to the dean’s office, do not pass go; do not collect $100 dollars,” I joked and hit play on the tape deck.

27 songs to be whittled down to 10 or 11

My friends took their job seriously. As the music started and the conversation quieted, I could hear their pencils studiously scratching away. I smiled and watched the floor. I couldn’t move a muscle (besides my drinking arm of course) for two hours. I felt the music might shatter like a mirror if I breathed too deeply, or hoped about a song too loudly.

My friends WERE honest, God bless their souls, and the effort was a success. We were able to eliminate all but 16 songs from the running and I was grateful none of my favorites landed on the cutting room floor. Preproduction starts tomorrow and while it will still be an undertaking to whittle away five more tunes—tonight, in the operating theater of Kipp’s living room, my fastidious friends performed a painful but necessary surgery on my song collection.

*Preproduction: Before a band goes into a studio to record a record, they get together for a few days in advance to work out production ideas so that no time is wasted in the expensive studio.

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San Juan Capistrano, CA – “YOU’RE ON YOUR WAY UP” – The Coach House – October 21, 1999

We loaded out into a cold windless late night through sprinklers that sprayed cold misty water at our shins and soaked my dress to dripping. Exhausted, I shoved the last of the instruments in the back and slammed the cargo door. after drying my ankles, I climbed past a spiderweb of seatbelts into the bowels of the van to lie down.

As we pulled out onto the road, I heard the boys see something moving across the highway. “BUNNY!” They all shouted with glee as the small rabbit dashed safely across the street. But, just when they were sure it was gonna stay put, it dashed under the right car wheel and crushed itself. It was a horrible sound. “UUUUHHHHGGGGGG!!!” They all shouted. I told Delucchi (who definitely was not to blame for its death) that he had to drink the skunky Bud this tour. We all fell silent, mourning the little bunny’s tragic end. But why, I wondered, do we care more about this bunny’s death than about the 100s of moths that splat against the windshield? Or about a dog than a 1000-year-old tree? These were the thoughts I chewed on as our bodies were thrust at 95 miles per hour down the highway smashing up against our own destinies.

The Road
The Road
We’re out here on the road
In the middle of nothing, we’re headed nowhere
In this space that glitters gold
Conversing with angels who try to convince us
that we are not alone
And the devils that sit on the dueling shoulder
Who’d try to send us home.

As sleep reeled me in, I thought back to the concert we’d just given. Overall, I thought it was a success. It began with a painless 45-minute drive down the coast with Kipp, putting us into San Juan Capistrano by early evening.

The rest of the band was late. Kipp sat down outside on a curb and talked too loudly on his cell phone. I laughed, watching him trying to score a ray of sunshine between glacial, iceberg-like cumulus clouds. I left him outside to investigate the venue. Contrasted against the 95-degree day outside, the Coach House was a cave—dark and cool. it took a moment to adjust my eyes but as my sight calibrated, the room appeared. It spread out in a red array of chairs and balconies. The walls were plastered with black and white autographed 8X10s, not unusual for a venue save that EVERY SINGLE ONE of the faces was someone extremely famous. You name them, they were on the wall.

Jay, the stage manager appeared out of nowhere and nearly scared the socks off me. He had dark gray, shoulder-length hair that staggered, like drunk stick figures, from under his hat. He spoke in a coke-induced, tight-lipped voice that sounded compressed, like something you’d expect to hear from AM radio.

“Where’s the rest of yer band?” he asked, then, without a beat continued, “Not here yet….(he he)” he chuckled, “Yup…(he he)…ain’t that just like a band?” He offered his hand the way a dog that’s ordered ‘shake’ does. I shook it.
“I’m the stage manager, Jay, but I specialize in lighting. What kind of lights you like?”
“Well, I’m not too picky….. maybe just—”
“I’ll just play it by the music then, right? Yeah, that’s what I’ll do… he he,” he laughed, turning his back to strut with purpose toward the bar.
“‘Lot ‘a famous faces you got up here on the wall,” I said in sincere reverence.
“Who’s your favorite?” He yelled over his shoulder still beelining it for the bar.
“Wow, I’ve got to pick ONE?” I joked
“WE GET ‘UM ON THEIR WAY UP AND ON THEIR WAY DOWN.” He shouted with a glass in hand. “YOU’RE ON YOUR WAY UP.” He raised a one sided toast.

A sudden impending doom swept through my chest. The expressions of the faces in the 8X10s abruptly changed from ones I’d read as hopeful exuberance to ones of mortal peril. All of a sudden, I saw the headshots as stuffed deer busts—trophies on the wall—portraying something once beautiful and vibrant, shot dead by a camera and mounted. Fame, what a strange and dangerous beast to ride, I thought.

The green room took the entirety of the upstairs. It was a maze of low ceilings, semi-air-conditioned enclosures, stickered walls, and guitar cases lined up and latched with braced teeth. Rick Fagan from Taylor Guitars came by early with a friend, Zack, and together with Gary Folgner (The Coach House’s founder) we sat around a glass-topped coffee table complaining about the current state of the music industry.

Gary was especially knowledgeable and fed up with how the industry treats its artists. He wanted to know my take.
“I see the conglomerates of the industry—radio, major labels, MTV, etc., as one huge glutenous monster,” I told him.
“Exactly,” said Gary, “They have all the power and money because they’re all in bed with each other. All they do is create careers and smash them. They don’t care about you; they don’t care about me; they don’t care about what people want to hear or love or desire. They shove manufactured junk in our faces and say “This is what you get. If you don’t like it, well, fuck you.”

There was something bonding about venting to the choir about my indignation and, invigorated, the four of us traded stories about bands that’d been screwed by “The Man” until the band showed up and wanted to sound check.

I pray, as we enter this next millennium, people will seek out what they want to hear! That we won’t just continue to settle for the fast food music of MTV and Radio— that we’ll demand something better, something soul quenching and nutritious—something that doesn’t come in an easy-peel, pretty little, microwaveable pink dress with disposable lyrics. I want to live in a world where artists make art for art’s sake, not just because it gets them laid or because they want retribution against some kid in 5th grade who picked on them. I want to be surrounded by artists who want to support, help, and nurture each other—not just compete to play the role of GOD.

I want to start reevaluating what success means, to me.

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Hollywood, CA – “Something to Prove at The Troubadour” – October 20, 1999

Letter from Kenny on the road. Proof we all need a mini-break from time to time on the road

After the show in Santa Barbara (where I’d narrowly missed being assaulted in an alleyway), a two-day break was exactly what the doctor ordered. The whole band was itching for some R&R and after a late night loading out under a yellow flickering street lamp, we each went our separate ways for a mini-break. Kipp and I fluttered back down the coast to LA for a romantic getaway on our film producer friend Geyer Kosinski’s couch. Geyer always puts us up when we’re in LaLa Land claiming he doesn’t mind stepping over my guitar case to get into his kitchen. Despite the lack of privacy, it was blissful to swim in Kipps beefy arms and sleep for hours against the cool leather of Geyer’s couch.

On a hot and sticky Wednesday night, Santa Monica Boulevard snaked Kipp’s silver rental towards West Hollywood. I couldn’t tame the butterflies dancing in my stomach. Even after a shot of tequila at the bar and a sandwich Brian and Kenny made me eat in the dressing room, I was still a wreck. My mom and dad have banked so much history in The Troubadour’s dark electric walls, it’s impossible not to feel I have something to prove. To make matters worse, this time, we were headlining.

By nine the house was packed— a noteworthy feat for a Wednesday night in October which I attributed to Kipp and Geyer’s shameless promotion. Our opening act was a trio out of Vancouver who, unable to secure a US work permit before the gig, were forced to leave Canada with nothing but the clothes on their backs and rent some cheap musical equipment when they landed in LA. The lead singer, Kristy Thirsk, was a pretty little thing with red manic-dyed streaks in her hair. She wore a tiny vintage lace dress with platform combat boots. Fifteen minutes before she took the stage, Kristy dashed into our dressing room with a panicked expression and some caked-on eyelash glue drowning her left lashes.

Kenny & Brian making sandwiches in the Troubadour’s heavily graffitied greenroom

“I can’t get this one on!” She panicked in my direction. I thought she might cry.

“Let me see,” I said inspecting the gluey webbing mess on her eye. With a motherly touch, I led her down the hall to a heavily graffitied bathroom.

“Want me to fix it?” I asked. She shook her head yes and closed her eyes. I plucked the metallic pink lash from her dainty white fingers and pushed it into the cobweb of ropey glue all the while reassuring her, “Don’t worry, I used to be in a disco band.”

“Thanks,” she said leaning into the frosted mirror, staring at her reflection between a multitude of penises etched into the glass. She sighed, covered her lids with glitter, and like a pro, grabbed her ax and took the stage. She rocked! Emily and Carols, the second act, were great as usual. We’d played with them our first time at The Troubadour — the time my mom and brother surprised me on stage—you know, the best night of my life.

Mom surprising me on stage at The Troubadour

Although nothing will ever top that first gig, last night was outstanding. I’ve always dismissed LA and NY as jaded, where people seem disinclined to see live music unless there’s something in it for them. But last night I changed my mind. People listened to the music. They watched intently. They weren’t scanning the crowd for famous faces or industry leaders who might elevate their careers. They were there to have fun and enjoy some live music. Needless to say, this made me very happy.

After the show, Emily and Carols insisted we go to a dive bar around the corner for tequila shots. The boys (who would have followed Emily to hell and back) went out, but Kipp and I were tired, and Geyer’s couch was calling.

Outside, on a grimy, early-morning curb, littered with cigarette butts, Brian and I walked east on Santa Monica Boulevard (he to the bar, me to Kipp’s car). Looking down the row of lights lining the avenue he asked “How much further does this street go?”

“To New York,” I said slipping my capo into my front pocket, throwing my guitar case into the back seat, and hopping into the passenger side of Kipp’s car. Blowing Brian a kiss out the window, I pulled into the empty early morning street. The strands of lights in the distance turned into a dazzling necklace. I was asleep before the last star removed its pinprick from the sky.

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Santa Barbara, CA – “Danger” – Rocks – October 17, 1999

It was one of those perfect days for a drive up the Pacific Coast Highway, the kind where the ocean sparkles like a thousand paparazzi at a red-carpet event. Kipp picked me up at our hotel in Venice wearing his trademark grin and a “bitchin'” silver Chevy rental. The plan was to meet up with the band at the venue for a 5 pm sound check. Delucchi drilled it into my head not to be late as Kipp and I peeled away from the group to make our way up the coast solo.

When we arrived at the gig, the place looked more than a little deserted—boarded-up windows, a front door plastered with old newspapers, and an entranceway littered with empty green beer bottles. As I stood on the foot of the stairs, squinting at the venue’s sign, I called Brian on his cell phone. No answer. I left a message, “Hey Bri, it’s Sally. I’m outside the club, and it’s totally dead here. Are we playing somewhere else? I hope?!?! Where are you guys?”

Just then, I noticed a guy walking towards me. He had the overly confident, frat-boy swagger and the stench of testosterone coming off him was almost palpable. My pulse raced. I hung up and started walking with what I hoped looked like an equally confident stride, towards the alley where Kipp had parked. His back was to me in the driver’s seat but I could see he was still there, fiddling with something on the dashboard. The frat guy followed me, his footsteps growing louder and faster. “Hey, where you going?” he grunted. I ignored him, picking up my pace. “Hey, where you going?! I think you need to bring those legs over here!”

He was almost on me when Kipp opened the door and stepped out of the car. His innocent smile turned serious as he took in the situation. The guy took one look at Kipp (who looks like the Mr. Clean mascot caricature from the detergent label) and bolted, leaping over a fence at the end of the alleyway. My heart was pounding a drum solo. Kipp wrapped his arms around me, and I shivered but didn’t cry. I felt angry. It’s exhausting on the road, to be on guard all the time from potential danger. I believe that people are mostly good, but it only takes one asshole and you never know who they’ll be of where they might show up. While trust serves me well most of the time, I know it’s an expensive quality to own as a woman. I allow myself the luxury of it because of an event in the summer of ’97.

I was alone in my house on Matha’s Vineyard late at night and drifting off to sleep when I heard my bedroom door creak open. I slept with the windows open and assumed it was the wind, but when I looked up, there was a man silhouetted in my doorway not three feet from my bed.

Surprising to both of us, I jumped to my feet and shouted “WHO IS THAT?!?!” The confidence in my voice scared him and he turned on his heels. I ran after him through my living room. Every move we made felt like it was in slow motion. I chased the intruder out the door, onto my porch, and halfway down the stairway as he flew down the steps into the night.

Having lost him, I ran back in my house and locked the door behind me. Then, worried he might not have been alone, I called the 911 and they stayed on the phone with me until someone arrived. There was no one else in the house luckily. The cops took fingerprints and called a few days later to assure me they’d caught the culprit. He’d been found sneaking into one of my neighbor’s beds where she’d been asleep with her daughter. He’d tried to rape her. The man was in custody and wouldn’t be bothering me anymore they said.

What I learned about myself that night is that when a man shows up at my door intending to rape me in the middle of the night, I’m someone who instinctually jumps out of bed and runs them out of her house. Believing that I have effective instincts that might save me in times of danger is the valuable commodity that affords me to have trust in humanity. What I learned that night in Martha’s Vineyard is that as a woman, I’m a target. Staying vigilant is imperative for me. But I also learned I can trust my instincts in a crisis and that is invaluable.

I’m happy to report Kipp and I were at the wrong venue and that when we arrived at “Rocks,” it was a stunning venue/restaurant. Life on the road is a wild ride—full of strange, hilarious, and sometimes scary moments. But it’s all part of the adventure.

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Philadelphia PA – “Infidelity on the Road” – The Painted Bride Art Center – September 12, 1999

By great coincidence were the opening act for Entrain, my favorite Martha’s Vineyard Band. I used to sneak into The Atlantic Connection to watch them when I was underage and dance ’til the sun came up. Their music energized me in a way that freed me from my awkward teenage insecurities and inspired me to move from the roots of my soul. I was overjoyed to see the members of Entrain who I’d become friends with over the years. I watched their soundcheck with admiration and excitement.

The Emmys or the Grammies or the Oscars or some other ridiculous pomp-inspiring award ceremony was on TV over the bar. Between songs, I watched pretty, attention-seeking egos stroll the red carpet all dressed up in the latest fashions. Men strutted with their chests puffed out like peacocks and women paraded arched backs to display what days of self-starvation can do for a waistline. The stars panted nervously and self-consciously when interviewers’ asked them banal questions like “Who are you wearing?” or “What do you think your chance of winning is tonight?” their vapid eyes glassy with excitement.

I watched with an anthropological eye, curious as hell to know how these celebrities were surviving their fame. Of course many are not, Chris Farley, Kurt Cobain, River Phoenix abd Margaux Hemmingway to name a few. But many of these stars looked alive enough and I wondered if it was an act or if they actually liked themselves in the mirror when they went home and removed their tuxes and spanks.

Kipp called on my cell phone and I relieved myself of my self-assigned ethnological study for the privacy of the green room. He was at home in Boulder

“I’m getting a serious vibe that you’re cheating on me out there with someone,” he said.

“No!!!!” I denied.

The truth is, I was. In fact, I’d had a lovely little noncommital romp with Phil back in Providence and probably wouldn’t deny myself more late-night casual snogs if given the inspiration. I grew up believing in an unwritten rule about infidelity on tours. There was a not-so-hidden “what happens on the road, stays on the road,” and “if it happens on tour, it’s not really cheating” policy I’d picked up on from as early as 8 or 9 touring with my folks. But even after growing up with this understanding engrained into my belief system, I knew deep down it was wrong.

I was in no hurry to admit this to my boyfriend, however, nor my suspicion that our relationship was more than a little over a thousand miles before I got home. So I denied any infidelity adamantly and felt wretched for doing so. When I got off the phone, the song was already written. I just needed a pen and some paper.

Ten minutes later “Split Decisions” was jotted on the bottom of a paper plate and Soucy was coming backstage to get me. “Fifteen minutes, Sal,” he said delicately, looking into my red weeping eyes. I could hardly open my lips to tell him that I’d be right there. Fifteen minutes? Hadn’t we just gotten to the gig? I ran into the dressing room to let the boys know I was leaving it up to them to create a setlist for the night.

I grabbed the keys to the van and rushed into the alleyway. Grabbing my bulky black bag out the back, I peeled off a wrinkled gray T-shirt and a calf-length red skirt. My hair was tied back in a nest of a bun and my eyes were puffy from crying but there was little I could do about either. With no time to change inside the venue— I looked both ways and tore off my shirt and jeans and, naked in the ally, I shoved arms and legs into my chosen outfit. A red light shone down on me as I covered myself in my red scarlet letter of a costume and rushed back inside and directly onto the stage.

Sign of Rain was the first song, and in my confusion and sadness, I forgot to capo (I’m definitely drinking the Skunked Beer this tour). The whole show felt like one blunder after the next. We were all so distracted. I was ashamed of myself, Kenny was tired, Brian was thinking about the time he could be having on stage with The Freddy Jones band, and Soucy was defensive thinking my tears were about him. We weren’t playing together. We were each alone in our own little spotlights.

Chris, Brian, and Kenny, exhausted after the show, be-lined it for the hotel. I thought I’d dance some of my sadness and worry away to Entrain. But, not three songs later the guys reappeared. “We’re going to have to drive to New Jersey,” they said “The hotel here can’t take us tonight.” And suddenly we were clumped together like barnacles, rocking in our cradle-like van, through the night ’til we got to New Jersey. There, Delucchi found us a cheap hotel we could pay by the hour until our rooms at The Fairfield Inn were ready. I fell asleep on a moaning bed with a flatness even the horizon would’ve been envious of.

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Providence, RI – “No Sound Check” -The Hot Club – September 11, 1999

The Hot Club is a free, three-day festival on Providence’s waterfront. A smallish crowd gathered like fall leaves in a puddle, around the perimeter of our blue and white tent. If you’ve ever wondered why music at festivals sounds so shitty it’s because festivals raarely offer sound checks. What, you ask, is a sound check anyway?

Chris Delucchi playing the room from his instrument – the soundboard.

What is a sound check?

A soundcheck is a preparatory process before a show that allows the soundman to adjust a venue’s sound system and ensure the best possible audio experience for a performance. A band and audio technician/engineer(s) work together to run through a portion of the show, test-driving songs and sounds.

The sound engineer: Runs the soundboard or mixer.
- First, they fix the monitors on stage for each artist, allowing them to set their own customized mix.
  - For example: I like both my voice and guitar to sound dry, but a lot of artists like reverb in their stage monitors.
After a band is happy on stage, the soundman will open up the volume on the “front of house” (the area where the audience stands) and ask the band to play a full song.
The rest of a sound check involves:
- Tweaking monitors on stage for the band.
  - For example: I like my mix to contain approximately 60% vocal, 20% guitar, 10% of Soucy’s guitar, and 10% background vocals and to have high sibolence so I can hear my words clearly.
Tweaking the front-of-house volume, bass, and frequencies. The sound engineer often walks around the venue to ensure the music sounds good everywhere and not just where they’re located at the sound booth.

I think of a soundman as one of the most important musicians in a band. They play the room itself and it’s an art and a talent.

A festival, hosting so many acts, doesn’t have the time or bandwidth (pardon the pun) to accommodate the nuances of each artist’s technicalities so instead of a “sound check” they offer something called a “line check.” This allows bands to plug into cables on the stage and make sure noise comes out of each instrument (no matter how bad it sounds). With no sound check, we were hard-pressed to find our instruments in the stage monitors making for a challenging show. Luckily it was short, seeing as my tired voice was throwing a temper tantrum every time I tried to sing above a whisper.

“Sit and Spin,” an all-female rock band, took the stage after us. A lone lanky man with orange, tussled hair danced in wildly poetic gyrations and sleek side winder glides in his Lennon-esque purple shades.

Two pals I rowed with at Brown, Josh & Phil, invited me to go out dancing. None of my guys were up for a night on the town, but I wanted to celebrate getting through 5 gigs without entirely losing my voice. They took me to a place called The Complex— “four clubs in one building for the price of one.” We drifted melodically through doors connecting one decade of music to the next. We danced until our hearts hurt and all the tension in the middle of my chest was gone.

Back at Josh & Phil’s place, candles were lit and dark wine was poured into long-stemmed glassware. I was home—not my home though it may as well have been. I don’t even remember what my home looks like, save that it’s on Pine Street and is white and has a lawn and a porch and black and white tiles in the kitchen and a bed that Kipp built for me with a little heart engraved in its headboard.

I imagined the deep sense of security Josh & Phil must have here, with their fireplace and hardwood floors and a back porch and white walls with pictures on them and a stove that looks like it’s cooked for friends, and blue placemats that are slightly worn at the edges.

They said it’d be OK if I wanted to stay the night instead of finding my way back to the crash pad. I can’t explain my gratitude except to say that I felt that they were handing me a slice of ground, of peace, of a sigh from which I can now sip from for the rest of this strange journey.

I woke up only hours after my head hit the couch. Blurrily, I shuffled down Josh & Phil’s narrow stairwell to find my band in Moby with the motor running and a coffee hanging out the window in a giant paper cup prepared just the way I like it. Taking my seat among my guys, I realized something important. I feel more at home in the van, in my suitcase and in my band than I do in a home—even the one I pay monthly rent not to live in.

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San Diego, CA – “Life is Good” – Java Joe’s – June 30, 1999

Man, it is GOOOOOOD to be back out on the road!!!!!

My time at home was punctuated by days of stainless, blissful sleep followed by days of relentless errands geared toward getting us back on the road. My “to-do” list included things like:

Order CDs
Check-up for the van
Check-up for myself
Pick up new press pictures
Fill CD orders
Send press kits to news outlets
Confirm upcoming gigs
Book hotel rooms
Phone interviews and
Repack.

Driving into San Diego, the sun was a ripe melon in the cloudless sky. At a rest stop, I opened the San Diego Tribune to an interview I gave George Varga a week ago to promote the gig tonight. It was a flattering piece with the headline; “Taylor asserts her independence and her captivating voice.” But I averted my eyes from the accompanying photo.

On my second night home, I’d proudly shown my new 8X10s to Kipp, my boyfriend, and his immediate response was, “I HATE IT!” For the next 3 days, it was all he could talk about—how much he hated my choice of publicity photo, how awful the image was, How everyone he’d shown it to, hated it also, and how strongly he felt it should never see the light of day. “Everyone will make fun of you,” he said as I defended myself, enunciating each word as if speaking to a toddler. When I showed up in tears to my publicist’s kitschy office, decorated in arcade games and 80’s lunch pails, Ariel’s response was both motherly and realistic. “Don’t listen to Kipp,” she said, “The shot is beautiful. It’s too late anyway, we’ve already sent thousands to press.” As more tears fell out of my face she held my head to her belly. “Honestly Sal, It’s so natural and unpretentious. I love it.”

I love it too. The image is of me leaning up against a fence on Martha’s Vineyard. My mom’s miniature donkey, Ike, is in the background hee-hawing uncontrollably and I’m leaning forward in a moment of sincere, unadulterated, authentic laughter. When I saw the image I thought, this is who I am. This is who I want to be on stage. This is me when no one is looking and when I told Kipp in a last attempt to convince him I’d made a wise choice he said, “And it should continue to be you—as long as no one’s looking.” And that was the final straw. I got up from the table, kicked my fancy white heels into someone’s lawn off Spruce Street and walked home alone.

Now, looking at the article, I wondered if I’d been wrong and if Kipp had been right. Was the image embarrassing? and if I saw my authentic self in it, was I embarrassing too? I put the rag and the image away and out of mind. There’s no room for fear, or second-guessing or self-pity on the road. Out here, you’ve got to be teflon or your ego will eat you alive.

When we arrived at Java Joe’s we were greeted by our opener Gregory Page, who turned out to be an absolutely fabulous musician with a vest and a gote. Java Joe’s is a coffee house (no surprises there). It’s located on the southern slope of San Diego in a mellow community called Ocean Beach.
The building Java Joe’s inhabits served some religious purpose long ago. The ceilings arch like gymnasts with back-bending beams and cartwheeling iron candelabras which infuse the halls with yellow, orange, red, and gold light. The reverence-inspiring atmosphere was juxtaposed against the greater Ocean Beach community which was described to me as being “a cool hippie village” but felt haunted.

A man named Sammy approached as we were settling in. He had a pad and a pen and a funny little cowboy hat on. He stood slanted forward like a solidus and, even with his hat, was no taller than my collarbone. He gave a wide grin before scrawling something in his little pad for me to read.
“Lose your voice?” I asked as he scribbled.

Sammy pointed at a hole in his throat caused by smoking. At first, I was horrified. I could feel a weighted sigh come from that nickel-sized puncture. I tried to grab myself back from shock. I didn’t want him to see my terror lest he realize his own tragedy. So I stood with a tight-lipped smile as a soldier might stand in an optimistic confrontation with a friend whose arm has just been blown off and doesn’t know it yet.

“I lose my voice all the time,” I said; but I always get it back, I thought. He handed me his note. It said, “Life Is Good.” Meeting Sammy made me realize how lucky I am to have a voice to act as a conduit between my heart and my friends.

The gig was magical. The room, which had sounded so empty and echo-y during sound check, was transformed by an abundance of people who came and paid their $8 dollars to soak up our sound and sit near the stage. By the end of the night I was high off Ocean Beach’s vibe, the smell of fresh coffee, and gratitude for meeting good people like Sammy who remind me, “Life Is Good.”

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St. Louis, MO – “Soundtrack To The Best Time of My Life” -The Firehouse – June 16, 1999

$6 Bucks
Go Carts
Midnight
Mini Golf
And cheap wine discreetly sipped from straws in jumbo White Castle plastic cups.

It was cold when we arrived in Missouri and windy. The mini golf range was our scenic view from the middle of the nowhere motel. After checking in, we opened a bottle of wine and settled into a room swathed in overtly floral patterns. Chris Delucchi, visibly enchanted by the mini-golf course, started pointing out some of its quirkier features—“Look at those rainbow flaming lights!” he exclaimed with admiration. “Those water fountains gotta be dyed blue.” “Are those plaster dinosaurs?” Soucy asked, moving closer to the window. Kenny joined in, “That’s the greenest astroturf I think I’ve ever seen.”

Perhaps it’s an indication of how low our standards of a good time have fallen but suddenly we were chomping at the bit to play a round. We poured our freshly decanted wine into super-sized cups left over from lunch and headed across the parking lot, ready for a late-night adventure.

I was delighted by how seriously Brian McRae took his game. He positioned his feet with precision at the top of every hole, claiming the direction of the swing was “all in the feet.” He’d hit his lime green ball and stroll to it like it were a hot girl he was pretending not to notice at the bar. He’d monitor the wind, line up his next shot, and then fold his arms and wait patiently as the rest of us laughed hysterically, hitting our balls haphazardly into bushes and fountains. We were the last group to finish before closing time, and I think the mini-golf employees were glad to see the back of us.

The day was hangover gray when the phone rang the next morning. A bouquet of bright yellow sunflowers in a makeshift water bottle vase nearly blinded me. They tottered threateningly close to falling onto a sleeping Delucchi in the next bed over. It was Brian in the next room, calling to see if I’d go rollerblading with him. He remembered something before he hung up and called so loudly into the receiver I could hear him from the other room: “Sal—my friend asked if we wanted to open for Lynard Skynard this weekend? It would mean hanging out in Missouri for an extra few days but I think it pays well…(hehe)” he laughed nervously. Brian does that. He laughs nervously when he’s unsure of how someone will react to what he’s saying. I imagined the four of us up on a tall outdoor stage at high noon playing to Lynard Skynard’s brawdy crowd (in Missouri no less) and the whole southern, beer-drinking, “Sweet Home Alabama,” sunburn-ness of it gave me heartburn. “So…(hehe)… What’da’ya think?” Asked Bri. “Let’s think about it.” I said, “I mean, I don’t wanna let you down but I’m not sure Lynard Skynard’s our market.” Brian paused, perhaps imagining the same heartburn-inducing visual and replied “On second thought, that’s a terrible idea… (hehe).”

Wheels on, I rolled into the hallway and skated down the red-carpeted isle to the elevator. I hit complimentary breakfast in the lobby, thinking I’d just grab an untoasted bagel and an orange when I discovered it—My new favorite thing. It sat unassumingly on the indelible, beige, mica, linoleum countertop—An automatic mochaccino machine!!!!! All you can drink, all-day, all you have to do is press your desired cup size, your preferred strength of coffee, slide a paper cup under its lip and hit “start!” Over the course of the day, I took advantage at least 50 cups of complementary mochaccinos. Brilliant invention! What will they think of next?!?!?!

Our blade was desolate. We kept mostly to the flatness of “paved paradises” (parking lots) and side streets. The area of Missouri we were stationed in felt soulless, as though even the breeze was afraid to breathe there. We trekked into St. Louis for lunch and ended up at the top of the St. Louis arch. Even though it was pretty cool up there, we all agreed it wasn’t worth the hour-long line.

The Firehouse is an old fire station. Its rugged brown brick walls are beautiful and strong but unfortunately, they make for an echo chamber of a venue if the show’s not packed to soak up the sound. Our show was NOT packed. Apologetically, The Firehouse’s owners, Christian and his wife Kaylene, let us know we were competing with Dave Matthews Band and Chuck Berry on a Wednesday night, no less, and a home team baseball game was just down the street.

The green room was hot and downstairs. I hung my dress on one of the pipes off the low ceiling and sat in a deep yellow chair. My dress rocked on it’s hanger. I Watched some fruit flies case a freckled bunch of bananas in a silver bowl and sipped camomile tea an anonymous employee had brewed and left for me. And in that moment I thought to myself…

This is truly the best time of my life.

On our way home now, speeding along as eagerly as horses heading back to their stable, Kansas stretches out before us—a long, flat, windy place. Over these 9000 miles, we’ve listened to so much good music. If we were to make a compilation tape of this tour, it would definitely include:

John Hyatt – “Come On Baby Drive South”
Black Crows – “Remedy”
Liv Taylor – “Olympic Guitar”
Lucinda Williams – “Car Wheels on A Gravel Road”
Meshell Ndegeocello – “If That’s Your Boyfriend, He Wasn’t Last Night”
Eric Erdman with The Ugly Stick – “Nine Planets”
The Brooklyn Funk Essentials – “Creator Has a Greater Plan”
G-Love and The Special Sauce – “My Baby’s Got Sauce”
Staple Singers – “Love Comes in All Colors”
Donny Hathaway – “Jealous Guy”
The Brand New Heavies – “Make Sauce”
Cymande – “Brothers On The Slide”
Iris May Tango – “Hairdomagic”
Ben Folds Five – “Magic”
Looking Glass – “Brandy”

STB would like to thank the following for making our “Flying V Tour” of the East Coast so damn great:

Big Hand Todd, Dan Beach, The underage dancing girls from Minnesota at The Port O Call, Gary Jones, Kipp, Charles at Harbor Docks for all that phat food, “Big Time” and “Re-run,” Of course: Eric the “Bird Man,” Melba and Mary from the Waffle House, “mom” from Madison, “Hot Po” Tader, I.Q, Peggy, David Starr from Arkansas, “Missy”: Chris’s Mystery girl from Shuba’s, Kim Kelly in Tuscaloosa, Alex Taylor for housing us in Northampton, “Smithy,” Livingston and Maggie Taylor for all of their unbelievable support and loving advice, “The Bubble Man” who ever you are, Ian Selig and Val for up all night in Tribeca, Nimi, Heidi, Cat, and Mikol, Dr. Len and Diane at the Raptor Trust, The kids at the Walden School and Marji and her family (thanks for the chocolates, flowers and “gingew beeww”), Jeffery, Sean Pocock and Mary Jane Rumley, “The Gloms” who probably don’t know who they are, Brint and Liz Anderson… Yummmm food, music, and “one boot playin’ on the porch board,” DJ Image (The parking lot attendant in NOLA), The Porch Board people at Enroute Music, Howard @ Blue Note for the J-45, Jason for the beautiful flowers, Josh for the Safe House, Kate Faccia (thanks for leaving me in Boulder alone!!!!!), “Disco” for supplying Kenny with the cup….(next time bring two), The Paramount for supplying us with our mascot “The un-kind Bud”, Shuckers, All those people who “looked like a chicken to me!”, Those of you who stuck us with the fat ass tab at Walker’s in NYC, Reid’s Ginger Beer, “Key’s to the Trailer,” Laura back in Boulder for everything, Those of you who gave us hours of listening with your CD’s, Ariel, P.I.M, Those cool phone interviewers, Thai Joe, Beccini contestants #5 & #7 From the Windjammer, Gene O’Brian, “Pelican, Pelican, Pelican”, Amityville, all of our parents for their support, Mel, Heidi Wild and Brandon, Nisa, Dave our tow truck driver, Michael White and Mary, and thank you to I-70 headed us West as we speak.

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