Salt Lake City, UT – “It’s Not Your Fault Line” – September 21, 2001

This morning, we left Sun Valley, ID. There, we’d played two nights in sheds under a mountain covered in a blanket of stars.

Dad had me sing an unrehearsed “Mocking Bird,” as an encore. People seemed to dig it and, of course, I had the time of my life. That night we slept up at Dad’s manager, Gary Borman’s, house.  His living room hosted a view of the mountains so wide, it felt glutenous to take it in, in a single glance.

We had a hike through giggling golden aspens. The leaves rained down like nature’s confetti and when we got back, Dad thought we had time to get another workout in before nightfall.  We borrowed a couple of bikes and headed out on the a path through town. Though I’m roughly half his age, I found it challenging to keep up with him.  I’m convinced my ol’ man will never get old.  But it wasn’t just fitness my pop was proposing on this outing.  We’ve always found difficult conversations easier when our hearts are already racing and he had some challenging news.

“I’m afraid I’ve got to let you go back to Colorado a couple days early” he said.  “Jerry [road manager] is looking into changing your flights from Tuesday to Sunday if that’s alright.”  The change of course was truly minimal but I felt devastated all the same. I tried to keep my composure.  Was my presence a burden? Was a week with me too much to bear? Did he hate my voice? He must hate my voice. Always looking for proof of my unworthiness, I scouwered my brain for reasons why I was being dismissed from his life (and not just the measly extra 3 days he was suggesting). 

Of course, I found plenty.  They were waiting for me like bandits hiding out in the shadows of my hopes — “You’re not important,” “You’re not successful or beautiful or talented,” “You should be ashamed of wanting more,” “Your dad has more important things to deal with,”  “He has the unconditional love of so many people, why do you think your love is special?” “You’re a burden,” “You’re selfish,” “You were never worthy of his love, why do you think your parents got divorced?” “You’re the first batch of pancakes, the ones that get thrown out.” These corrosive beliefs jumped on me, hijacking my dreams.  Of course, they were a gross overreaction to a visit cut short.  But childhood fears are tricky. They’re always waiting in the wings for an invitation to spoil a vulnerable moment.

I held my tears, grateful dad was riding ahead of me and couldn’t see the expression on my face.  “Ok pop.  How come?” I tried to sound casual.

“Oh, well, Kim and the boys are coming out, and I think I’ll just be too preoccupied,” he said,  “I should probably focus on being a dad right now I’m afraid.” I knew he meant to add ‘of two new babies’ but what I heard was ‘you’re no longer my daughter and I need you to get out of the way of my new, better life.’  I took it in stride, already resigned to my insecurities.

“Ya, Ok Dad.  I understand.”  I swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and gave myself into self loathing.  Dean was already in Thailand for work.  I wasn’t going home to his strong arms and I felt lonely.  I felt depressed, damp and suddenly I realized how cold I felt.  Perhaps it was the chill in my heart freezing me from within or perhaps it was my sports bra.  I’d grabbed it, still damp from the wash before we left for our ride.

The sun was sinking down. Dad offered to buy me a sweatshirt but we only had 19 bucks between the two of us and decided we’d better just to get back before it got much colder. But by the time we returned, I had all the telltale signs of hypothermia—nausea, dehydration, and dizziness. I spent the rest of the night shivering in a 102° hot tub under the mothering supervision of Mrs. Ann Borman, and her friend Barbara Rose. 

My pop did his guitar nails in the room with me while I rested — a ritual involving super glue, a plastic hotel key card, fiberglass, and a nail file.  He whistled while he worked and hugged me between dryings.  I know how much my dad loves me—really I do.  His hugs felt like apologies for not having more to give.  But I know all this is not his fault and I know it’s not Kim’s fault or the new twin’s fault or the road’s fault or even my fault.  This is the fault that lies in our family line — a fault inherited from ancestors who didn’t know their sense of rejection and unworthiness it wasn’t their fault.  And I know what my job is, if I can muster the strength to do it in this lifetime. It’s to politely decline the fault for myself and gracefully forgo the opportunity to pass it along.

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Fourth Stage Studio, Boulder – “7 Days & A Shotgun Record” – March 14, 2001

Jack and I drove to Estes Park over the weekend. Elk meandered down Main Street as casually as tourist trying to decide what restaurant to try. Jack and I were late for our appointment at Real West Old Time Photos and I was worried we wouldn’t make it before the studio closed —we were the last appointment of the day. Sandy, a buxsom blond, costumed in chaps and spurs greeted us with a smile and locked the door behind us with a click. She helped me into the authentic, lacy turn-of-the-century wedding gown she’d mentioned when I’d called to make the appointment last week. Her energy was contagious, and I couldn’t help but beam as I glanced at my reflection.

I wanted a sepia photo of a shotgun wedding for the back cover of the CD and was overjoyed my new boyfriend, Jack, was game to play the role of my groom. He looked handsome in the trench coat and suspenders on loan and stood by my side holding a shotgun. He set his face in mock resignation like he’d drawn the short straw on “husband” to me, his knocked up girlfriend. I grabbed a cowboy hat to fashion a makeshift baby bump, shoving it snugly under my dress. The hat tilted comically as I adjusted it, and by the time we stood posed in front of the camera, we both found it hard to maintain a stoic façade due to laughter as the hat fell again and again.

We moved into the studio a few days later, on March 11th. I was edgy — worried about recording again and this time, without a producer—just us, the instruments, and a raw vision. It was both exhilarating and daunting. Having two albums under my belt helped ease some of my anxiety; I knew what the next month would look like. There’d be calendars to coordinate, budgets to tighten, instruments to lug back and forth, and every little detail, from album design to mastering, demanding attention. With only seven days to track, there was no room for error.

I came prepared. The eligible songs had all been charted, and instrumentation was planned down to the last beat. On the first two days, Mike and Paul, our engineers, worked on laying down Kyle and Kenny’s drum and bass tracks while I spent hours on the phone, calling in favors from my circle of session player friends. They arrived intermitently, like the soundtrack to a snowfall, their smiling faces popped into the studio, hats and scarves wet from the spring snowstorm. Their footsteps made wet puddles across the floorboards as they dragged in keyboards, cellos, and various percussion instruments tucked under arms. They warmed up their instruments with the same enthusiasm they warmed themselves. They laid down expensive sounding parts only ever asking for bus money or dinner as payment.

While the band waited for their turn between takes, I perched at the edge of the control board, sketching rough ideas for CD artwork. I was interested in using all the versions of “Shotgun” we’d come up with during our band meeting — fascinated by how much one thing can mean. Everything connects. Everything is everything. I meditated on that while my pencil traced shapes on my note pad.

Different versions of “Shotgun”—Gun, Wedding, Bucket Seat, Beer Guzzling.

I dragged out early drafts of Tomboy Bride for layout for reference:

And as the day drew long, I wrote a new tune called Justin Tyme:

By the time we finished tracking in the late evening, the notes were crisp, yet the atmosphere in the studio hummed, warm like spring crocuses just under the snow. As I took Hannah, the cello player, out to dinner across the street I could envision the album in my hand—a project, not created in a single stroke of genius; but a tapestry, woven by everyone who laughed, played, and added their flavorful twist to the mix. Together, we weren’t just creating an album—we were crafting a memory, one track, one artwork idea, one laugh at a time.

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Boulder, CO – “Re-rooting and Recording” – February 28, 2001

Back in Boulder after attending my dad and Kim’s wedding in Boston, I called a band meeting in my living room.  We hadn’t seen each other as a group since December and everyone except Soucy and I looked well-rested. 

“My plants are dead,” I said shaking one in my outstretched hand.  “Even the succulents,” I continued somewhat exasperated placing the skeleton of a jade on the table.   “I don’t know about you guys, but I need a break from the road.”  The rest of the band shuffled uncomfortably in their seats, unsure of what to say.  No one could deny that our last tour had been emotionally challenging and it was no wonder why. In 2000 alone we’d wracked up over 180 shows and whittled each other down to our very last nerve. 

“There’s no doubt in my mind it’s paid off to tour so rigorously.  We’re playing bigger venues, getting better pay and better interviews but It’s too much.  I’m exhausted.”

“So what’s the plan?” asked Delucchi, always on the lookout for the solution.  I took a deep breath.

“The plan is to sleep for the next week.   Then make a record and book a tour in May to promote it.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” said Kenny “You want me to hang out with my wife?!?  She’s gonna divorce me in less than a month if she has to actually live with me.”  I was grateful for the comic relief.

“Why do we need another record?  6S is only a year old,” Soucy pointed out.

“I know, but we need new material to sell at shows.   Our fans aren’t going to buy the same ol’ albums again and again.  We’ve got a ton of new tunes—”

“Thanks Sam,” Soucy rolled his eyes at me.

“—And the plan is to record the whole thing in a week.  It’ll be a demo* with a mail insert offering fans the opportunity to get involved in our music.  We’ll let them vote on their favorite tunes, offer production ideas and feel part of the whole record-making process.  After we tour with the demo for a year or so, we can gather everyone’s ideas and make a professional version of the songs and retire the demo.  It’ll be like a special limited edition.  What do you think?”


“Why don’t we just make the professional version now?” asked Soucy.

“I still haven’t recouped what I spent on the last album.  I can’t justify spending more than 10G on a new record.” The plan excited to me—something that would give us a chance to regrow our roots at home, get some well needed rest all while ensuring the band gets paid without breaking the bank.  So I was dismayed to see their heads bobbing unenthusiastically in response.

“I booked a studio downtown called Fourth Stage for the week of March 11th. We’ll call the demo Shotgun—as in shotgun wedding to represent the record as a fast and furious effort.”

“Like shotgunning a beer,” said Kenny.

“Like sitting shotgun,” suggested Soucy.

“Who’s goanna produce it?” asked Delucchi.

“No one — I will.  Mike Gworek is gonna engineer it.”  Kyle Commerford hadn’t said a word all meeting so when everyone agreed to my proposal except him, he announced he had big news.

“Traci’s pregnant,” he said “I’m having a baby.  To be honest, I’m not sure I can commit to recording in March and I’ll definitely need to take August and September off.  I’ll let you know. But whatever you need to do, I’ll understand.”

Left to right: Kenny Castro, Sally, Chris Delucchi, Chris Soucy, Kyle Comerford

While we were obviously excited about Traci’s pregnancy and the prospect of a baby Drumerford, the prospect of an alteration in the band lineup was daunting at best.  I couldn’t bring myself to contemplate the idea of having to find and rehearse a new drummer so I let the matter be a problem for another day and the band meeting concluded with slaps on the father-to-be’s back and a march down to the local pub to celebrate. 

In the most recent issue of 5280, Denver’s most prestigious magazine, I somehow ended up on “Denver’s most eligible bachelors” list and have been getting endless shit for it from all my friends as well as endless attention from random strangers.  Yesterday, someone I’d never met sent me flowers and the guy who delivered them asked me out on a date!  It was surreal.  But I’ve started dating a handsome young waiter, we’ll call him Jack, who happens to share Sam’s last name (an annoying coincidence) and works at my favorite restaurant Jax downtown.  Though my heart is still closed for renovations, I’ll opened it a crack for Jack.

*Footnote:

Demo: A music demo is a recording of a song or group of songs that is usually not ready for public release. It’s a rough draft or sample that showcases the core elements of a series of songs and gives listeners an idea of what the final product will sound like.

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Indianapolis, IN – “Spooning my way up the East Coast” –  The Patio – November 2, 2000

Jay (not his real name) is beside me when I wake up, humming softly as he tucks a rogue curl behind my ear. He is wonderful. We played “The Patio” last night in Indianapolis. I’ve been spooning my way up the East Coast in an effort to forget Sam. My nights have been a patchwork of borrowed arms, stitched together—one set handing me off to the next in a “Sally” (re)assembaly line. Somehow, I’ve managed to recruit a handful of willing participants to do nothing more than hold me—fully clothed—while I sleep. They are my heroes, offering their warmth despite the fact I have little, if anything, to give in return. They know my limits—no more than a snuggle, maybe the occasional kiss and that I’ll disappear by morning, my mind preoccupied, my heart outlined in chalk. Yet, they take me as I am—broken down, broken into.
Jay’s steady presence anchors me into the quiet morning. He kisses my ear and pulls another errant curl away from my face. I cling to these small, tender moments like lifebuoys in a storm.

At 1 PM, I’m sitting at Vinnie’s Italian Kitchen/Bar with the band. A bowl of soft, blond, mozzarella cheese covers a layer of french fries which are lumped atop five huge, steaming, buttery slabs of chicken composed on a wilting bed of iceberg lettuce. I guess this is the grilled chicken salad I ordered? Kyle, sitting beside me, tries to hold back his laughter as my meal is laid before me but it pokes through his lips with little lawnmower sputters and a few apologetic tears. The waitress glares at him with indignation, her manish sideburns peeking out from under a backward baseball cap. I’m on the hands-free cell phone with my mom and she wants to know what’s so funny. “Cheese Bowl,” I tell her without further explaination and Kyle lets out another sputter through tightly clenched fingers.

Above the bar, a country music station plays on a widescreen TV, featuring flawless stars in cowboy hats dancing on dusty roads next to haystacks and stables. The air inside Vinnie’s is thick with smoke. Everyone is puffing between bites making the carcinogenic haze seem like part of the decor. Outside, it’s humid. Inside, it’s cancerous. It’s hard to taste anything through all the country music let alone the smoke, but after the third bite, I begin to suspect, my cheese-lathered meat might not be chicken after all. I push my plate aside and spontaneously climb onto the booth bench. I start lip-syncing to the 80s tune that’s interrupted the country playlist. “I know what boys like, I know what guys want,” I mime, my gestures syrupy with exaggerated seduction. The guys laugh, their amusement loud and unrestrained. The other patrons, however, look at me like I’ve just landed from Mars. To them, I must be an alien in my blue aviator sunglasses, green felt hippie shoes, glitter in an undone downtown dinner in middle-of-nowhere Indiana.

But after my performance ended with a flourish — hip wagging, arms in the sky — Na na na na na-ing a few customers applauded and one old guy gave me a standing ovation.

Screenshot
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Mill Valley, CA – “The Show Must Go On” – Sweetwater – September 5, 2000

We rose early at Delucchi’s parents’ home, where Bob and Judy graciously, albeit a bit madly, put the band up whenever we were in the Bay Area. The morning light stung my eyes, puffy and red from last night’s emotional breakdown. On the ride back from the Golden Gate Park show, I’d vented to the guys about my guitar’s annoying buzz in the stage monitors.


“Try taking guitar lessons,” Delucchi mumbled from the driver’s seat. I brushed off his jab, assuming he hadn’t meant it to wound. “Could it be my pickup?” I wondered aloud. “Try taking guitar lessons,” he repeated, this time louder.
I told him I doubted my guitar skills were the cause of the buzzing. I told him I knew my guitar playing was my weakest link. I told him it was easy for him to say and then I told him he’d hurt my feelings.


Soon I was crying—tears I battled to suppress—until my eyes were swollen like ripe berries and my face was a canvas of mascara and hopelessness. When we reached his parents’ home, Delucchi offered an apology and a hug under a flickering street lamp at the end of his parent’s cul-de-sac, but I wanted to be alone. I wanted to be “good enough” — to be simultaneously seen and unseen — I wanted fame.


Fame!?!? The very thought horrified me, far more than Delucchi’s remark. It revealed how little I valued my love, as if its worth depended on the accreditation of a crowd of screaming fans—as if I needed an audience to co-sign my heart.


I’ve noticed since my breakup with Sam I’ve started measuring my worth by show attendance, CD sales, and the number of compliments I get on my voice, my outfit, my stage presence, etc. I’ve been using praise like a drug and applause to mend my broken heart. It is not healthy.


I should just focus on recouping the money from this album and escape this business, I ruminated, wiping away the makeup debris in Delucchi’s bathroom mirror. I thought back to my therapist’s hippy shack on Martha’s Vineyard. I recalled the day I’d asked if she thought I was crazy to consider a career in music. Of course it was crazy, but she didn’t think so and together, we put some measures in place that might protect me against my ego if I ever chose to pursue a musical path. They were, in short,

  • 1. Don’t sign a record deal.
  • 2. Don’t read reviews. and
  • 3. If your ego gets in the driver’s seat, jump ship!!!

But while it was clear my ego was in the driver’s seat now, how could I jump ship two albums deep, in the red, halfway through a tour? I imagined various music business escape routes as I drifted off to sleep on a futon in the middle of the Delluchi’s livingroom–some of which, near the horizon of dreams, involved life rafts and scuba gear.


I feel better this morning; besides itchy eyes and a throbbing head, my despair has largely cleared. We’ve got Sweetwater tonight in Mill Valley, and I know I have to rise to the occation. I pull myself up by my bootstraps, eat a breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast with jelly and OJ and remind myself, “The show must go on.”

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Fort Collins, CO – Opening for The Samples – The Starlight Theater – May 11, 1998

I turned in my last paper today for Anthro to Professor Patton.  It was not my best work.  I’m thoroughly exhausted. We opened for the Samples at the Starlight in Fort Collins and it changed my life. 

Our little garage band is now “Doppler Circus,” formerly known as “Tiny Yellow Ducks” formally known as “Not Eric” formally known as “Mary Sister Reload.” I got the call from Tom (Drummer) when I got home from recording keyboards on my own demo at Skyline. On the voice message, Tom said “We got the gig opening for The Samples and the guys are all in.  See you Saturday night.” 

I rode to the gig with Jeff  (guitarist) whose squareness brought out the cooky side of me. I sang silly songs in British accents along to the radio most of the journey.  We arrived close to 5 pm.  Just in time to hurry up and wait (as is often the case with sound checks).  Venues want you to be on time and imagine (rightly so) that since you’re an artist you’ll be late.  So they schedule their sound guy to come in 3 hours after they’ve told you to be there and thus, the colloquialism all bands are familiar with, “hurry up and wait.”

Wendy Woo randomly showed up and we talked about the tracks on my record while The Samples sound checked.  It was a warm night.  The club was medium-sized with an indelible patchouli scent that had no apparent source.  I was watching the buzz of bartenders tapping fresh kegs and listening to musicians test mics with the tried and true “Mic check 1, 2.  Testing 1. 2. 1. 2.”

Suddenly I heard a voice that came from somewhere deep inside me. It said, “This is just the beginning.”  But of what?  I’m not sure.  Opening for The Samples?  Doppler Circus on the road?  My own musical career?  Whatever it was, I couldn’t wait.  I felt confident and strong. 

We sound-checked with “In My Mind,” and our audience began to file in. 

Sean, The Sample’s lead singer, asked if I’d join him for a song during their set.  I got out my guitar in the dark red light of the stale green room.  We did tequila shots and drew sharks and parrots on the walls and Sean suggested we do a Neil Yong song “Old Man.”  Of course, I knew all the harmonies. 

“You look like your dad,” he told me “Your eyes are like waterlilies and I’m falling into them.” He said drunkenly while his girlfriend rolled her eyes and got up from his armrest.  “Will you open every gig for us this tour?”  He asked.

“I’d love to.  I’ll ask the guys.”  I did and of course… they declined.  “If the Samples won’t pay our gas, it’s not worth it man!“  said Dave (insert eye roll here).

When Doppler Circus was introduced at 9:30 I dove into the spotlight first “Hey everybody, we’re Doppler Circus and we’re going to play some tunes before you experience The Samples.”  As Tom counted off “Weaving The Tomb” I felt my feet ground like roots into the stage.  I felt electricity flood my body. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to fully direct my energy into the mic but when I opened my mouth my voice shot out as clear as a laser beam.  I felt like the limb of some giant ancestral tree branching a new bough out into time and space and I knew that the music had me, more than I had the music.  I let it flow through me.  My black floor-length polyester dress struggled to hold the universe in my lungs, in my chest. 

This

Kicks

Ass!!!!!

I thought.  Before launching into “F#” another Doppler Circus original, I said “You all having fun?” and the coagulated crowd roared their consent.  “OK, we’re gonna play a couple more and it’d be cool if you all danced”. The crowd laughed and one guy toward the back, shrouded in darkness shouted “If we could move!?!”

At the end of our set, I shouted “You guys want to hear one more?”

“Yeah!” The room responded.

“Ok, Twist my arm.  We’re Doppler Circus from Boulder.  If you want, there’s a live performance recording of us in the back!  Good night!” and we finished up with “Not Eric” a song we wrote as a band in the middle of an identity crisis.  But while that crisis might continue in that chilly, cavernous garage back in North Boulder, as we evacuated The Starlight spotlight and re-entered the sea of faces below stage level, my personal crisis was over.  I knew who I was.  I was not Not Eric or Tinny Yellow Ducks or even Doppler Circus.  I was Sally Taylor and I was branching out on my own.

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