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.


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.

Playing at The Oxygen Media Show

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.

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….


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.”

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.

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

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

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


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


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

Lark & Sal

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


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


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

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

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


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

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


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

Mixing Schedule

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.

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.

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

I’m coming down with something. My nose is runny to match the watering of my eyes and the pounding of my head. It was a mistake to think I could fly to New York Monday and then back the next day to lay down horns without compromising my immune system. But there was no way in HELL I was going to miss my pop getting inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame.

Paul McCartney did the induction honors. He was lighthearted and loose. He talked about the start of The Beatle’s record label “Apple,” back in the 60s and how after looking for some talent to put on it, came across a recording of some “haunting” guy who could really sing and play the guitar. They signed James Taylor immediately as one of their first artists. Paul handed the mic off to my dad with a hug. Pop was dressed n black looking not unlike the award he was presented.


Handsome, humble and hysterical my dad held his shiny, new chrome statue in hand. He thanked everyone from his mother to his tour bus company for helping him receive the honor and then, looking severely at the weapon-like statue in his hand said, “I only hope one of these doesn’t fall into the hands of someone desperate enough to use it.” He was a champ and it was a thrill and honor to watch him along with my brother, grandmother and his “snookums” and fiancé Kim, be recognized and embraced by his musical community.


But now, I’m sick and for the past 4 hours (no exaggeration) we’ve been trying to move a horn section on “Fall For Me,” into place. My ears don’t work right anymore. There comes a point in listening to a track where I can predict where flaws are coming and mentally prepare my brain to adjust my ears so that I don’t hear the blemishes. It’s a very odd and frustrating phenomenon. While there isn’t a specific term for it, the concept relates to how brains anticipate musical patterns. The ear develops expectations based on a song’s structure, and when something deviates from that structure (like a mistake), experienced listeners can (intentionally or unintentionally) anticipate it and adjust their focus. I might leave the studio tonight thinking everything sounds perfect, only to return tomorrow to find an entire vocal track racing, or pitchy or missing a lyric. It’s infuriating.


Time does not pass; it just piles up on itself like dirty laundry. It’s 9:45 when I glance at the clock. Then, after what seems like 20 minutes I look again and it’s only 9:47. Two slender minutes have passed and I’m glaring at time as though my intimidating expression might speed the second hand around the racetrack perimeter of my watch face.

I’m in no immediate rush. The rush is not against the minutes but against the months and so I push on fragile seconds to get home, to get to the studio, to get to the next song, to get the artwork done, to get to the plane, to get to New York next Monday, to get this album mixed down, to get this album mastered, to get it pressed, and packaged, to get the band rehearsed and out on the road and promote it. And so I rush it all toward an uncertain future, as though my intimidating expression might speed the second hand around the racetrack perimeter of my watch face.


And now it’s 9:50 and I’m still sick but also still grateful I got to see my dad inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. You’re a badass dad.

Mill Valley, CA – “How’d you Look?” – The Sweetwater – October 15, 1999

Ah, the lushness of the wine country. The sky is a skirt, that teases the ground with its lacey, foggy hem. Logging trucks thunder by on switchbacks, bouncing their open cargo. I can’t help but see the trunks as bodies and ruminate with outrage and guilt about the tragedy of human greed.

Mill Valley was sunny and warm when we arrived midway through a Friday, midway through October, on the cusp of a new West Coast tour. The entire population of Mill Valley (both men and women) are unreasonably handsome. I watched them out the back of Moby strolling in white shorts and stiffened collars. I saw them pretend to window shop as an excuse to check themselves out in storefront reflections. It made me laugh out loud and recall walking New York City streets with my dad in my adolescence. Whenever he’d catch either my brother or me checking ourselves out in a window, he’d whisper cheekily, “How’d you look?” and, busted, we’d all get a good chuckle.


Let me just say, for the record—no one treats artists as well as Sweetwater does! Tom, Sweetwater’s owner, greeted us at the door with open, heart-quenching hugs and insisted on feeding us mountains of gourmet food. Backstage, the boys watched a game on TV in one curtained-off half of the green room, while I sank into the vastness of a red velvet couch in the other half and worked on a new tune about my time on the Colorado River.



When our opener, Matt Nathanson managed to get the audience to do a sing-along to Bon Jovi (of all things) we knew we’d have a great gig. We were not wrong. The house was packed. There was no room to stand and no place to sit either. We lit up that stage like a bonfire. Sometimes, I’ll admit, that when performing, I try to cut songs from the set mid-show. I get feeling bad for the audience that they have to stay out so late and listen to my music and clap for each song and I get thinking to myself, “These people probably wish they were at home, in bed. You’re torturing them, Sally. They don’t want to be here; you’re holding them hostage with your music. Get off stage as fast as you can and give these people a break!” But last night, those thoughts burned up in the stage light. We were one with the audience and no one wanted to go home, especially not me. It was a magical fall night.

Thank you, Sweetwater. Thank you, Tom. Thank you, October. Thank you, black cow in the golden field. Thank you leaves for your selfless, colorful sacrifice. Thank you all so very much for a great first gig of the Roadrunner Tour.