New York City – Sally Taylor

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 that 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 through the mosaic hallways lined with the same strip of red 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 where I used to measure 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 Mike, in lieu of a birthday cake. The sandalwood-smelling attendant at the front of the shop was excited when I placed the cookies, alongside a stack of color therapy, chakra, rainbow sunglasses, on the counter. “These are delicious,” the shopkeep pointed at my cookies, emphasizing the ‘lich.’ “The frosting’s spirulina, sugar, and water,” she explained, throwing in some complementary candles when I mentioned they were for a birthday.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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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.

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On The Drive

We’re listening to Reggae. My red-toe nail polish is cracking and revealing the 10 coats beneath it. I don’t bring remover on tour, I merely paint over and move on. I’m wearing overalls and flip-flops. Chris Soucy is doing the crossword. I wonder if my dad’s second wife, Catherine Walker, still does the crossword. The thought of Catherine evokes a feeling of being stabbed in the ribs. Intuitively, I sit up straight and behave myself by trying not to breathe.

Catherine was an injured woman. I knew this even at 12 when she and my dad got married at Saint John the Divine’s Cathedral on 113th Street and Amsterdam in New York. She didn’t know how not to make my brother and me the source of her victimhood. I recall summoning all my energy just to keep her arrows of condescension from penetrating me. Even when my brother and I were perfectly behaved, her attitude toward us was unpredictable and abrasive. Some weekends, If we were lucky, she’d hide out in her and dad’s room with her three-legged cat “Kitty,” and her oversized glass of chardonnay full of ice cubes for the duration of our stay.

She had a closet of pets—parrots, bunnies, rats, and 100s of mice who often got lice and were quarantined into multiple cages. She had a chihuahua named “Flea,” she’d found on the street (in Texas I believe) who was always trying to bite Ben and my ankles. When she wasn’t holed up in her room she was a storm cloud that moved around the apartment in a white nighty, sighing loudly whenever she saw us. I spent my time with her trying to make myself invisible the way I imagined I’d hide from a trigger, knowing that if I breathed wrong she might tear me to pieces with her sharp wit.

She was full of “Oh goddddddds” followed by sardonic laughter which cut past my heart into the bedrock of my soul. At my mother’s house, I at least had my own bedroom to escape to where I felt safe and free to be myself. At Dad’s, all he could convince her to sacrifice for us was a single room. No toys, no wall décor – just two single beds pushed up against a wall without a bed frame and I’m sure my dad had to fight for that. She no doubt saw us as extensions of our mother and was only too willing to unleash the full arsenal of her venom on us hoping it might rub off on our mom when we were returned at the end of the weekend.

The thought of Catherine has me looking quite shell-shocked and Soucy leans over to ask if I’m alright. This is how we get to know each other on the road. Someone’s doing the crossword inspires a childhood memory and the next thing you know, we’re trading in divorce traumas and childhood abandonment. This is how a band becomes a family.

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New York City – “You’re Sylvain” – The Mercury Lounge – September 9, 1999

I remembered the green room from our show 3 months ago at the Mercury Lounge. It was the worst backstage accommodation I’d ever been in and it remained largely unchanged now. Here is what I wrote about it from our June 11th gig:

The Mercury Lounge is a dark, black box of a venue so while on stage, I was unaware how large our crowd was. When the lights came up, I was delighted to find so many of my NYC friends who’d somehow heard about the show without my direct interference. I was glad my publicist Ariel Hyatt was in attendance so I could congratulate her on promoting the gig so successfully.

My best friend from kindergarten, Rachel Zabar, embraced me with golden glittering eyes and her huge smile which has always seemed to me, to escape the perimeters of her face. Jim Hart, my stepfather, had heard about the show from a colleague at work. A bunch of people from high school, Boulder and Brown were present, and a trickle of people who insisted we’d met before and ‘did I remember their names?’ were there.

This game of “Do you remember my name?” is always embarrassing and no one comes away from it looking good. I learned early on from my dad to lead with context when approaching an acquaintance.
Ex. “Hi, it’s Sally Taylor, from Martha’s Vineyard. We went to camp together, you might not remember, it was a long time ago.”
And to re-introduce people to each other leading with context as well.
Ex. “Hey Dad, you remember Kate, my freshman roommate.”

This way, even if there isn’t immediate recognition, the person can say something like “Of course, now what have you been doing since then?” and no one has to feel embarrassed.
My friend Adam (Yes, Adam Natusch from The Boogies) used to love to make prank phone calls (these were the days before people got caller ID boxes). I’d be at his house and, with his red phone already off the hook he’d say, “Give me a number.” One day I gave him my mom’s digits and when she answered the following, now infamous, conversation ensued:

Mom: “Hello?”
Adam: “Is this Carly?!?!”
Mom: “Yes.”
Adam: “You’re never going to guess who this is.”
Mom: “Who?”
Adam: “It’s Sylvain”
Silence.
Mom: “Who?”
Adam: “Sylvain Brown. Don’t tell me you don’t remember me. I’m already on the ferry on my way over to the Vineyard to see you. You wrote a song about me.”
Mom: (Sounding worried) “I did? What was the song?”
Adam: “You’re Sylvain!!!!”
Mom: “Hmmm…I’m not sure which song you might be—”
Adam: (Singing You’re so Vain) “You’re Sylvain, you probably think this song is about—”
Mom: (Click, dial tone).

Adam and I rolled around laughing on his floor for a few minutes before I tried to call her back to apologize for the prank (Side note—Do not feel sorry for my mom. She is the queen of pranks and practical jokes and can dish it out as good as she can take it). But she’d taken the phone off the hook, clearly to avoid another call from “Sylvain,” who definitely thought this song was about him. The next day when I went to call her, she’d already changed the number. Mom laughed hysterically when I told her later, that the caller had been Adam and to this day calls him ”Sylvain Brown.”

Midway through signing CDs at the Mercury Lounge, someone dropped a slice of paper on the table in front of me and disappeared into a blur of faces. Ariel and I squinted at the serrated square which read “I ENJOYED THE SHOW. YOU ARE ALL GROWN UP!” and was signed ‘Oren Segal (3rd grade).’ “WHICH WAY DID HE GO?” I shouted to Ariel. “THAT WAY,” she yelled back and pointed toward the front exit “HE HAD A WHITE T-SHIRT ON!” I didn’t have time to explain Oren had been my first crush. He’d bought me a porcelain doll for my 7th birthday and I was sure the gesture meant he wanted to marry me. The delusion of this early proposal dissolved over time but I kept that doll through adolescence displayed up on a shelf hoping someday Oren and I would meet again. It’s sort of disappeared since we left our apartment in New York, but I’m sure it’s somewhere, packed in mothballs and memories, somewhere between the center of the earth and the tips of my fingers.

Outside, the hot streets offered a miraged horizon of blurred red, yellow, and green lights. I marched myself up to the first white T-shirt I saw and said “Hi” just hoping it was Oren, but it ended up being one of those people who insisted we’d met before but whose name I did not know and ‘Did I remember their name?’ I never found him.

Dejected, I walked back to the venue. There, a very pretty woman named Ann Taylor (no relation) introduced herself. She’d come across our web page in the most unexpected, roundabout way. “I was looking on a search engine for Sally Taylor Orchids,” she said, “did you know there is a flower called The Brother Sally Taylor?” I said I hadn’t known but was delighted all the same. “Well,” she said tossing a blond lock behind an ear, “I was searching for this flower when the engine came up with your web page and I clicked on it. I’ve been following your Road Tails ever since and that’s why I’m here tonight.”

This internet thing is amazing!?!?! Until recently, I’d assumed I was shouting into the void. But maybe my words are actually making it through the abyss. Perhaps real people are reading this and enjoying it and what we have to offer. Maybe they’ll consider coming to a show or listening to our music in the future. I can’t believe it. My mind is legitimately blown. Now back to vocal rest and on to Rhode Island.

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New York City, NY – “A Musical Reunion” -The Mercury Lounge – June 11, 1999

The venue wore vampire black…Typical of New York, so I wore red.

Our trip into my hometown earlier in the day was chaotic, to say the least. Cabs and trucks with signs that read “Caution: Toxic Material” darted in and out of our lane, expecting our extend-o-van, chock full of heavy musical equipment, to be able to stop on a dime. Brian, cursed behind his teeth, behind the wheel as he navigated the congested highways. It was a maddening cycle of stopping, accelerating (to avoid being cut off), and slamming on the brakes, all while backseat drivers yelled conflicting directions: “Not this exit,” “Get off now, turn left… Left!,” “Do not go over this bridge! Whatever you do, avoid the bridge! Oh no!” The heat was oppressive. We bit our nails to the quick and with every jolt, engaged in an impromptu, all-afternoon, abs workout. But eventually, we made it to the Mercury Lounge and somehow, despite the chaos, managed to call all our old friends to invite them, last minute, to tonight’s show.

We were two hours “fashionably” late for our sound check and asked to leave the stage almost as soon as we arrived so the staff could set up for the first event of the night; a fancy private party we clearly were not invited to.

If I were generous, I’d describe The Mercury Lounge’s greenroom as a dungeon designed for a play about Hades. We corkscrewed down so many castiron flights of stairs I lost count. The underground landscape was illuminated by yellow bulbs that flickered and jittered to the beat of the traffic above. We were escorted through a maze of insulated pipes painted black, down below the subway system, down deep into the hot belly of the dark city.

Huge mutant black flies buzzed threateningly past us like knives swimming in shark-like patterns. How did they get down here? I wondered. They looked like part of some lost dinosaur lineage or a gruesome subset of the fly mafia. Our escort unfurled a spool of keys and ushered us inside a cell-like closet. Inside was a bench on a cement floor, and we took turns sitting on it, swatting away meaty mob boss flies and waiting for midnight for our set to begin.

When we were released from our jail-like greenroom and took the stage, the black box of a joint was full of friendly faces. I recognized people in the audience from 3rd grade, 6th grade, Tabor Academy, Brown University, and summer camp. I saw family friends, friends of family friends, friends I’d met on vacations, and even friends who insisted they were friends who I swear I’ve never seen before in my life.

My glorious brother Ben showed up with his girlfriend, Bridge to surprise me. I didn’t even know he was in the city. He sneakily jigged in front of the stage mid-set. His face shone out of the darkness like a Francisco Goya painting. I thought he might have shaved his head bald but when I instinctively called him up to sing with me, I saw he had, in fact, dyed his hair white blond; a style I hadn’t seen on him since grade school. He looked great and it was beyond glorious to have him with me on stage.

Wired after an inebriating gig, my brother, a crew of old friends, and a handful of new acquaintances who insisted they were old friends, cabbed it to Tribeca for dinner at Walker’s. Somehow I got stiffed with a $300-dollar bar tab. So much for new old friends.

Back across town, we limped, through the slow strobe of lamp-lit streets, to our pal Ian’s pad. The last surviving soldiers of our group hiked a steep flight of marble stairs to find our beret-wearing host at his door wearing a guitar and little else. Inside, the party raged on. With a hodge podge of Ian’s instrument-wielding friends, we played until 4:00 a.m.

An air-conditionless apartment made near nudity a necessity and we stripped and nessled into a pile of Moroccan rugs. A dozen candles guttered in the early morning air. An assortment of comfy sofas cupped out tired bones. Incense billowed through stained glass bay windows, and a tall arched ceiling offered the perfect amount of reverb to our well-spent voices. The music and incense eventually lullabied me and tucked me into colorful dreams. I fell asleep on a velvet maroon sea of a sofa, my head propped against a stranger’s shoulder, my feet rolled up like a splif, in a sheepskin rug.

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