New York City – 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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New York City – “Greetings, From My Hairy Nuts” – Sotheby’s Auction House – July 24, 2002

After tonight’s gig in New York, we have a whole week off in Colorado. I can’t overemphasize how excited I am to see my fiance! But it’s too early to get worked up. Though our flight home is less than 24 hours away, we still have four states to visit before take-off.

The day kicked off in New Jersey, where Soucy woke me with breakfast in bed? Suspicious. He hovered over me with a lukewarm coffee and a bagel, ever so slightly smudged with cream cheese. He gave a little throat clearing, eh hem, and gently grazed my shoulder with the underside of his paper plate. Soucy is nice, but never this nice. I stumbled in the sheets to insinuate my reluctance to get up.

“Come on, Sal,” he announced with unreasonable charm. “It’s Raptor Trust day!”

Ah. Now it all made sense. The Raptor Trust, if you aren’t already aware, is a bird rehabilitation sanctuary in New Jersey. It’s operated by Soucy’s parents and is the childhood home of my continental breakfast carrying guitarist. I should have remembered it was bird day!

As we slid through the backroads of Soucy’s hometown, he pointed to places of interest like an enthusiastic tour guide — his best friend in fifth-grade’s home, unrequited loves parents’ house, favorite stoner hangouts, and the pièce de résistance, the site of his first french kiss.

Unfortunately, our Soucy tour made me late for my interview with Paper Magazine, and I spent the first hour of my visit, glued to a phone in the Soucy’s living room.

When I finally emerged, I joined the band on the continuation of the Soucy tour around The Raptor Trust grounds. Chris proudly showed us the inner workings of his family’s organization. He demonstrated how to feed baby birds with tiny instruments inserted into cup like, screaming mouths. He explained the process of freezing rodents to make yummy rat pops for hungry adult raptors.

Soucy samples the rat pops at The Raptor Trust

I got to hold a barred owl and a beautiful eagle with an injured wing. But to stay on top of our busy schedule, our bird handling would have to be cut short.

Bidding a grateful adieu to Mr. and Mrs. Soucy, we cruised over the bridge and down the FDR toward New York City. Our destination? Sotheby’s. Yes, that’s right, that Sotheby’s.

Was playing a set at Sotheby’s even a thing? Turns out, not really—we found ourselves in the middle of some big opening event for a new Miguel Calderon exhibit. Load in included riding up in a freight elevator next to a $5 million Andy Warhol portrait. Our green room was crammed with precious artwork worth billions and we decided against making ourselves to comfortable, least the couch turn out to be a Thomas Molesworth or the drink tray, something once belonging to Louis Xiv.

After a brief sound check I decided to amble around the newly hung gallery. The artwork was quite shocking (which is really saying something. I am not easily shocked). Off to stage left was an series called “Greetings from my Hairy Nuts” featuring Miguel’s balls against scenic postcard backdrops — tiny paper mâché action figures vacationing, diving, and fishing on the artist’s hairy nuts. Off stage right was a series of photographs showcasing a wannabe gangster shooting taxidermied safari animals with a Magnum.

Our makeshift stage was in the main hall and when I took the mic, I pretended I was only there to auction off some of the instruments (insisting the players came with them). The audience seemed to enjoy my bit and played along. Sotheby’s was soon packed with music enthusiasts, two of whom came from 6 hours away in Syracuse just to see us. They shouted and sang along to all my songs (even the words I forgot). The whole event was a surreal experience — more dream than reality, and over too soon. Once again, we were rushing to stay ahead of our unreasonably tight schedule.

This last bit was going to be the tricky part—the dismount if you will. I’d made reservations at The Spring Hill Suites in New London, and figured we could get there by midnight to kack out for a while before heading onto Boston for the flight. But there was construction traffic and cars dripped through the interstate like water through a leaky faucet. Dino took the first shift and I, in shotgun, fell asleep to the lull of classical music over crackly FM airwaves.

I woke up at 1:55 alarmed. Dino was doing 90 with his chest pressed against the steering wheel, elbows jutting left and right. There was loud static coming from the radio, which was, intermittently playing Mozart and Brian shouted up from the back “How you doing there Dino.”

Dino’s eyes were wild and wide “I dunno man. I’m getting tired. I might need to stretch a little.” We pulled over and Dino proceeded to do some impressive yoga on the side of the road to wake himself up. Luckily New London was only the next exit and we snagged three hours of sleep, before climbing back onto the road at 5 AM.

I took the morning shift, navigating toward the sunrise and Boston while Kenny, finger tacking a map, hollered directions from the back.

At the airport, we cobbled together a breakfast of dry biscuits, suspiciously yellow eggs, and undercooked, fatty bacon before collapsing at the gate. Dino and I claimed an unmanned secondary screening table for a kip while the rest of the band sprawled beneath it on the floor. As I fell asleep, I could hear Soucy distressing about the things he’d forgotten in the van and when I woke up it was to getting kicked out of the area by a frizzy-haired, secondary screening woman with an intimidating frisking wand.

The flight itself was a collective knockout—we were all sleep-deprived, drained, and high fiving our legendary capacity to make an exceptionally chaotic, tight schedule work out.

Colorado, here we come.

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Buffalo, NY – “No Coffee, No Chocolate, No Bubbly Drinks” – Morning TV Show – October 27, 2000

There’s something magical about the week before a tour wraps up. The road feels like home, the crumpled itinerary is a keepsake now covered in coffee stains, and the van? It’s a disaster but no one minds or cares to clean it up.

By this point, we’ve conquered the dreaded “mid-tour blues.” – that 3-to-4-week slump where you’re convinced THIS TOUR WILL NEVER END and all you want is a bed that doesn’t smell faintly of fried food. A week out, the finish line is in sight, every gig crackles with an energy that only comes when you’re burning the candle at both ends—and occasionally, in the middle.

8 AM. Room 111.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

“S.T., time to go, girl. TV time.” Soucy’s voice, muffled but chipper, rang through the motel hallway.

Reluctantly, I untangled myself from the beige fuzzy blanket that clung to my legs. Cheap motels rarely offer fitted sheets, so the mattress—a spectacularly ugly green-and-yellow relic from the ‘70s—was fully exposed. The room smelled faintly like old carpet and stale cigarette smoke. A boy was next to me in bed. We’ll call him Tom. The heating unit went “thump thump thump.” A crack in the polyester curtains bleached a pie-wedge of daylight on the adjacent wall.

I shuffled toward the door, opening it just enough for the security chain to hold firm. There was Soucy, awake, too awake. He looked washed, and refreshed. He let out a seagull-like laugh when he saw me, all puffy and crumpled around the eyes. “I didn’t get my wake-up call,” I said, stating the obvious in a garbled morning voice.

“I can see that,” he said, amused. “We’ve got five minutes before we have to go. Wash up, put on some clean clothes, brush your teeth, and meet me downstairs,” he directed. I washed my face but because I hadn’t bothered getting undressed the night before; I spared myself the hassle of picking out a new outfit.

Still clad in the jeans and the tank top I’d worn onstage in Syracuse, I figured it was passable enough for TV. We’d driven straight from the gig to Buffalo and landed at 4 am in the current shit-hole motel we found ourselves in. Well, I didn’t drive—I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, “Thank GOD for Chris Delucchi.” I swear that man is my savior. If it weren’t for him, I’d lose my mind, not to mention my wallet, my keys, my voice, and probably any hope of a music career.

Soucy and I performed on AM Buffalo, a local ABC affiliate, at 10 am, after an inadequate vocal warm-up in the women’s dressing room and some black coffee. My pop called as we were packing up.

“Man Sal, you sound awful,” he said.

“I know pop. My voice really hurts. Between stage, radio and TV, we played twelve shows this week.”

“12 shows!?!?!” he said in an exasperated voice that mirrored the tone he once used to respond to the tatoo I got when I turned 18. “That’s too many shows Sal.” I’m calling my throat specialist in Boston. Can you get there today?”

Boy-in-bed-Tom agreed to drive me. The doctor sat me in a straight-backed chair, sprayed a numbing, watermelon novocaine into the back of my throat, then stuck a miniature video camera on the end of a metal stick into my throbbing windpipe.

“Oooohhhh,” he said “Ahhh, uuuhhh, yup. Looks swollen.” He said as Tom sat bedside, staring fixedly at my naked larynx (the most nudity he’d seen of me). *

“What should I do?” I asked, choking on the cold camera stick.
“You gotta sleep and drink plenty of water. No coffee, no chocolate, no bubbly drinks, no acidic juices, no spicy food, no eating before bedtime, no talking, no singing and try an’ avoid smokey areas” he said. I almost laughed out loud. That aint gonna happen, I thought as Tom drove me back to Buffalo for the gig at The Tralf.

Footnote:

The larynx is often mistaken for the most private of the female anatomy and I felt oddly exposed in front of Tom.

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New York City – “Meeting Tarantino Part 2” – The Bitter End – October 21, 2000

CONTINUED FROM YESTERDAY….

After The Point, in Bryn Mawr, night before last, Soucy decided to get 3 bags of laundry done (at 1am no less), napping between loads. This made for a junk night of sleep for me. His alarm went off every half hour proceeded by what felt like passive-aggressive turning on and off of lights. The roof was tin, so the torrential rain echoed like a thousand construction workers opening brown paper bag lunches. It was impossible to get any honest rest. The morning of the 19th hurt and our Itinerary was stacked:

Oxygen Media (Oprah’s Network) TV show: 10:45 am
CD Now interview (at The Bitter End): 5:00 pm
CNN interview (at The Bitter End): 5:45 pm
Sound Check: 6:00 pm
Doors: 7:00 pm
Show: 8:30 pm
WNEW radio interview: 11-3 am

Oxygen Media’s office sat above the Chelsea Flower Market, a bustling maze of fragrances and sounds that overwhelmed the senses. Fresh blooms mingled with bread, chocolate, and the bass drum hum of New York City, hot and unrelenting. Walking through the brick-hauled hallways, blue guitar in hand, I felt like a wraith gliding through the chaos. The noise, the heat, the smoke—they all seemed to break around me like waves on a rock.

Upstairs, we were greeted by a showrunner, “Nikki,” who brought us coffee, bagels, and flowers, and settled the band in a huge, clean, comfortable, unnecessary but much-appreciated dressing room. Kenny parked himself in front of the TV and turned up the volume on the show being filmed in the control booth next door. Quentin Tarantino was on in a Hawaiian shirt, flailing his arms around frantically talking about the new script he’s writing — a movie called “Kill Bill.” He was high on his own brilliance and Delluchi, staring at the screen mused, “Man I’d like to smoke that guy up.” So, I put on my cutest pink skirt and sauntered into the hall just as the producer was escorting Quenten out and I “just happened to” bump into him.

It was the least I could do for Delucchi after all the stress I’ve put him through this tour. “This is Sally Taylor, Quentin,” the producer introduced us. “Oh, it’s so nice to meet you,” I may or may not have said flirtatiously. “Sally Taylor,” said Quentin, bowing his head to kiss my hand, “I’ve heard a lot about you. You playing the show now?” He asked cooly. I brought him back to our dressing room and poured him a cup of coffee while Delucchi beamed at me and offered him a blunt.

Quentin was hysterical! He had us all laughing so hard I got the hiccups. Knowing it’s impossible to sing with hiccups, Quentin frantically insisted he help me get rid of them, only making me laugh harder. You know when you meet someone you feel you’ve known your entire life? That’s what it was like with Quentin. He was familiar, fun and after watching our set, a fan of our music. He requested a ticket for The Bitter End that night.

Backstage hundreds of thousands of band stickers, desperate for attention, culung to the splintery dark walls and I stuck mine up there too. CD Now and CNN came to interview me before our stage call and the show was packed to the gills. Jimmy Buffett, who’d recorded our most recent show at Steven Talkhouse for his webcast, “Margaritaville” sent Chris Blackwell (Founder of Island Records) and Russ Titleman (Producer) to the show and, as someone handed me a newly printed Vanity Fair bought from the newsstand on the corner, I couldn’t help thinking, this is our time. This is our break. This is Apt Success (APT. #6S)

It was thrilling to see my face in such a fancy, glossy magazine and more thrilling still to watch Quinten Tarantino bounce in his seat to “Happy Now” and later, ask to be our roadie* for the night. He helped us tear(ntino) down and shlep our gear to the van. He kissed me on the mouth between loads and told that “When We’re Together” was his new favorite song and that I was amazing. Driving away from the city, I felt important, scared and lonely.

Footnote:

Roadie: A member of a crew for a traveling group of musicians or other entertainers, whose work usually includes the setting up and tearing down of equipment.

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New York City – “Meeting Tarantino Part 1” – The Bitter End – October 21, 2000

October is the Sunday of months. For 31 days each autumn, the world hits snooze and time is suspended, like linen, licking at the wind on a slack clothesline. The earth holds its breath and we are weightless in the air before the gravity of the holidays brings us slamming back down to the ground.

Ahead, through the windshield, the world is a patchwork of rolling fields — blond wheat and dead corn interrupted by orange-dotted pumpkin fields all hemmed in by fire-engine red leaves. The cerulean sky beyond, towers tall and jagged, swallowing the earth’s edges.

Jeff Buckley sings Hallelujah on the radio. His voice is threading perfectly. A jumble of cables – radar detectors, CD players and car phone adaptors balance precariously in the cigarette lighters, threatening to collapse at the mere mention of a bump. The “Happy Camper” supplement I only half jokingly picked up at the last rest stop, sits in a cup holder signaling a Pandora-like hope with its joyous yellow box. We should have called this tour, Tour-ture. We are all at our snapping points.

We’re bound for Great Barrington tonight for a gig at Club Helsinki. My dad’s (who is coming to the gig) offered his pad after the show and the promise of a proper bed and a good night’s sleep is all I can think about– That and how stoked I am to see my pop and tell him about our EPIC our show at The Bitter End.

The Bitter End is considered New York City’s oldest rock club and is where my dad got his start. He used to play the club’s legendary “hootenannies” in the 60s along with Jonni Mitchel and Carol King and is partially responsible for the reputation it earned for showcasing great new talent.

It was an honor to stand on the stage where my pop got his start and almost as cool, to meet Quentin Tarantino there….

TO BE CONTINUED….

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New York City – “Mama’s Ol’ Stomping Grounds” – The Bottom Line – May 18, 2000

I was so gassed when I went to sleep last night I almost slept through the 3 am fight some noisy couple had outside my door. I was so choofed that when the cleaning lady came in at 8 am I almost let her make the bed with me still in it, and when the drilling and hammering started next door at 9 am, the ear plugs and pillow over the head trick almost worked…..but it didn’t, and I have, once again succeeded in adding another restless night to my score card. But I knew playing New York’s famous Bottom Line with my mama would help me find chutzpah enough to pull through.

When the band pulled into the city, our first stop was a Post Office in Chelsea. Soucy had word a package from Cuba was waiting for him in New York and though it was harder to find than fur on a rattlesnake, Chris’ curiosity kept us searching for the obscure location. Chris’ package turned out to be nothing more than a letter from an acquaintance he’d met down there, saying “I hope you didn’t have to go through too much trouble to get this letter.”

While we waited for Soucy (in the heat, in the horn-honking traffic of New York) I told the boys I needed to find a bathroom and hopped out of the van. I walked up to 16th and then headed downtown. I couldn’t find a restroom anywhere but I did manage to find a shoe store (my kryptonite). Within 10 minutes I was back in the van with a brand new pair of faux-lizard-skin shoes and had all the boys laughing at me as I modeled them. I still had to pee.

The Bottom Line was just as I’d imagined — dramatic in an understated way. Mom said, when she arrived, that the dressing rooms hadn’t changed a bit since she’d played there with my dad in ’78.

The box of a backstage was linoleum filled with a bulb-lined mirror. A fan rotated in ungraceful, arthritic movements. We were the headlining band in a lineup of four acts playing as part of the “Nightbirds” series. All the bands were led by female vocalists and all of us were sharing a green room the size of a van. The roster included: Denice Franke, Christine Ohlman and “Cecilia,” a band with a really cute celtic fiddle player.

After sound check Mom & I ventured out onto the muggy Greenwich Village streets where people strolled, sipping cool drinks from red straws—kids sat on church stairs smoking weed — bodega owners stood outside their shops staring out of wet, sequined eyes —teens in baggy jeans threw slang at one another like bitter fists.

The rain didn’t start until 7:00 and even then, it wasn’t torrential. The tornado warnings didn’t begin until 8:30 at which point my mother began to get nervous. I tried to point out how much the club resembled a tornado shelter to no avail. She was anxious. By 9:00 the rain was coming down like a Broadway curtain on closing night — heavy, determined, and devastating.

When it rains like that, nobody goes out to see live music. But somehow we managed to get a decent-sized crowd — mostly friends or diehard fans who’d flown in to see us from out of town and couldn’t have foreseen the tempest. For what we lacked in bodies at the front of the stage, we more than made up for in the backstage. The green room was busting with — four bands, 16 guitars, sprawling makeup bags, cables, that freaking wobbly fan, and odd friends of friends who thought they’d just drop back to say “hi.” It was a madhouse — a bouquet of elbows.

Despite the mayhem it produces, The Bottom Line has a strict performance protocol. Each band gets 25 minutes for a first set. As they run their gear off stage, the next band is introduced with zero time to set up or plugging in. Each act, then has to wait until the lineup starts over again to play their second set. It’s lunacy and slightly dangerous (with all those guitars in the dark). t’s hectic as hell but no doubt the audience enjoys the circus of it.

My Mom was such a trooper. I idolize her. She sang backups on “Split Decisions” during our first 25-minute set and then waited, stage left, with me and all the other claustrophobic bands for our second sets to begin. Together we hovered in the dark getting bludgeoned by swinging guitar necks and strangled by flying bass cables. Mama, between songs, in whispered tones that sonded more like lulabies, recounted fantastic tales of the club in its heyday. She is the coolest mom on the face of this earth and after the show, she helped me sell my CDs!

The rain finally quit pounding as the last of the merch got sold, the gear packed and the fan finally died. My mama kissed me goodnight and sailed through the side door with a flourish of her slender fingers. Under a New York street lamp Kenny and I shuved the last of our instruments into the boot. Before I loaded myself into the back seat, Allan Pepper, Bottom Line’s owner (who coincidentally booked my mother when she used to play here in the 70s) pulled me aside and asked, “Will you come back?” and I said, “Allen, it would be an honor.”

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Boston, MA – “Good Morning America” – The House of Blues – May 16, 2000

The alarm went off at 6:30 and my eyes opened into a house of hanging plants and warm, honey-still sunshine. Rachael and Billy, a couple of friends of a friend, put us up last night, along with an assemblage of people who’d come from far and wide to see us play Boston. The couple’s 27-pound orange cat spread himself out like a slab of peanut butter across a sunny spot on the floor.

Still fully dressed from last night in Adidas sneakers and a sparkling champagne-colored tube top, I rolled over on my right to find Soucy, open-mouth snoring next to me. On my left, I discovered my pal Heidi from Martha’s Vineyard snuggling and gently prodding me to wake up. “Get up,” she whispered, “you’ve got Good Morning America with your mom in New York.” I rubbed my eyes and slid my hand along the wall towards the bathroom.

Scattered bodies, packed in colorful sleeping bags, littered the floor. Everywhere I stepped there was another sleeping form to navigate and I wondered how I’d gotten lucky enough to score the futon.

Delucchi too, had lucked out on bedding. I found him in a side enclave, curled up inside a red puddle of blanket, trapped in the quicksand of a slowly deflating blow-up matrice. “D., I gotta get to the airport,” I rolled him like pie dough but Delucchi wasn’t coming to the surface of the day anytime soon. Handsome Joel, a friend of mine who I may or may not have kissed during my Brown rowing days (honestly, I only recall wanting too, not whether I actually did or not), woke up and generously volunteered to take me to Logan to catch my Delta shuttle to New York City.
The show at Boston’s House of Blues the night before had been sold out and my dad showed up unannounced to play a song with me.

After the gig, we moved the party out of the green room and back to Rachel and Billy’s house. There, we drank (too much) wine, listened to Al Green sing “Let’s Stay Together,” and stayed up way past “When.” Now, I’m on a plane on my way to New York, on 2 hours of sleep in the same outfit I sang in last night, to be filmed for Good Morning America with my Mom, Dianne Sawyer, and my brother Ben.

Funny how dream-like everything becomes on a diet of 2 hours of sleep.

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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.

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…

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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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