February 10, 2006 - Barley's Tap Room - Knoxville TN

Doors are at 8:00 but Barley's Tap Room is buzzing with dinners when we arrive for sound check. The only thing I hate more than sound checking to a loaded room is having a band sound check while I'm trying to eat. Brandy Robinson, our opener, comes to introduce herself. She's a beautiful girl with mauve plump lips and she's carrying a little gift bag stuffed with translucent papers and presies for us! Under further investigation I find a photo in a frame of our grandfather Ike and his 3 brothers (that I didn't even know that he had) . Brandy works at a restaurant, she said, and a somewhat distant cousin of ours named Scott Kirk had dropped this picture off for us. She'd packed us goodies too: some gum, a mini hand sanitizer and some delicious hand made chocolate dipped fruit (which I'm eating right now. Yum-my!) Thanks Brandy.

Back in the bus - post sound check, we watch Jackass on TV where two of the J.A.s, dressed in a llama costume, get mounted by a fully aroused elk. This is real amusement. A train rolls by every 10 minutes or so. The tracks must be really close cause the whistle can be heard 5 minutes before it actually gets to us. It makes me nervous.

Barley's Taproom is full of early inebriates by 9:45 and I sneak away briefly to use the ladies facilities before show time (10pm). I get held up in a line with 10 other girls who have more invested in gossiping than using the lavatories: "Did you see Jim?" a pony tail asks a set of hips "He is so fine. No one else better touch that man. He's mine tonight" says hips in a deep sassy southern drawl. "Oh no you don't!" says make-up "You got to get your own" she shakes a finger at hips. Laughter, banter, holding bladder, holding bladder, holding done. I relieve myself of the girl posse's to find that I've held Ben's show up. He waves me over to the distant corner for our group huddle and getting there through the crowd is like surfing in molasses.

Once on stage I feel better. The sound here is good and Ben is really on top of his game but two songs into the set some red puffy jacket wearing J.A. yells at us through cupped hands: "You guys suck! Learn how to play!!" That kind of threw me off my game. It doesn't really effect Ben but that sort of stuff really gets to me. The best line I ever heard a band member tell a heckler (and you must excuse my language) is "Hey dude, I don't come down to the docks and kick dicks out of your mouth while you're workin'" I would have used that line but we were in the middle of a song and besides, I'm too much of a lady.

The crowd is noisy like you wouldn't believe save for the front row who's actually listening and it's hot. So hot in fact that ½ way through the set I look over at Ben who's wearing a wool sweater and who's prone to perspiration and he's drowning. His face is dripping so bad that he can't even open his eyes. I suggest "Hey Ben, why don't you take that sweater off?" and he mouths "Because I don't have anything on underneath." At which point he requests over the mic that someone from merch. deliver him one of his tee shirts. "An extra large women's" is what he asks for and when it arrives over the wave of women watchers he goes to take off his wool sweat shirt and every lady in the joint wields their cell phones to snap a pic of Ben Taylor's ripped torso.

He looks pretty cute in his miniature extra large tee shirt too.

February 8, 2006 - Rick's Café - Starksville MS

There's a dance party on the bus. I can feel it. It's the sensation of being rocked in a cradle sideways in my cacophonous bunk. I claw for the light and climb to the floor. My watch says 3:30 but I can't remember whether I turned it forward last time we crossed time zones. With a switch of a button the forward air door slides right (which is very star treky) and there in the front parlor is my brother, Gwen "The Saw" and 15 or so young girls getting' jiggy to Jeffery Osborn's "Baby Stay With Me Tonight." (Not to worry Hadley or The Saw's girl, your boyz ain't got eyes for anyone but you). Nobody registers my presence but for a girl named Hailey I met earlier, but doesn't remember me and holds out her hand, "I haven't met you? I'm Hailey". "Sally," I respond shaking while slowly reversing my steps back through the star trek doors from which I came. Is this a nightmare or maybe I'm still dreaming?

Everything between Phoenix and Mississippi is a blur frankly. Besides sleep, which admittedly I do an abnormal amount of, we learn new songs in the back of the bus and rehearse old ones. With Gwen's bass amp wedged beneath a table and our legs and arms in Twister like positions we straddle states. Outside it's Tucson and there goes Dallas. We amuse ourselves by shining red laser beam lights into each other's mouths and nostrils while taking pictures. This makes Gwen squeal with pleasure. It's more fun than it sounds, but clearly it doesn't take much to entertain us these days. I pick up the movie "White Chicks" at a rest stop for $1.99. That's fun for a couple of hours. The bus sways like an old dog's tail over I-90. Every now and again the hum of wheels crossing rumple strip wakes me up. Before I know it, we're in Mississippi.

We've stopped for showers in a hotel in a day room. Ben, Gwen and I do fitness while the other band mates primp and prime and shower and shave and try to maneuver around squat thrusts. Ben and I grab coffee and soggy cheese omelets at an all night dinner from a waitress named Melba.

It's still light when we get to Rick's Café and we load in through a back alley filled with old industrial smoke stacks and mucky puddles which might give ya gangrene if you stood too near, for too long. But inside is nice and bar/café like and Rick's a real prince and I'm not just saying that because he told me he's following my road journals. The green room is one of the most artful I've ever seen. Duct tape colored walls are covered with the kind of filth that only a rock band can come up with and there are holes in the dry wall where wanna be rockers put tantrum filled fists and feet. The sound is excellent at Ricks and the audience, even better, which is really good considering how great it the sound is.

The next time I wake up (5:00ish) it's all quiet and still on the bus and I'm thinking I might just be able to sneak up front for some of those jumbo sized, pastel M&Ms that were lying on the counter before the dance party began. But when the star trek door slides open - there's my brother singing by candle light to a very drunk crowd of post dance party people. The Jumbo M&M bag lies deflated and empty on the counter and with one eye shut I make like I was only coming up front to use the lavatory. Secretly I'm damning them for eating all my chocolate when Hailey turns toward me, holds out her hand and says: "I haven't met you, I'm Hailey."

Deja Vu.

February 4, 2006 - The Brickhouse - Phoenix, AZ

Ben bought Hadley a tomahawk. He bought it at a truck stop last night on the drive from LA to AZ and presented it to her this morning on her 21st birthday. It was hard to say if she was happy about said gift or mortified but she was certainly less enthusiastic than Ben had hoped she'd be. It was a really cool tomahawk, in all fairness to my brother. The blade was a sharpened buffalo's jaw with teeth still intact and its handle was ornately decorated with meticulous multicolored beadwork and leather.

To side step the tension born of the tomahawk gift, Gwen and I took to the hot streets of Phoenix to find coffee. Phoenix's wide roads were desolate and noiseless. The heat burnt mirages into patches of horizon visible between high-rises. Construction workers hammered in orange outfits, working soundlessly and diligently. Suddenly we were burdened with a choice: Starbucks to the left or Starbucks to the right? The Starbucks we choose was lifeless but for a white bearded man Gwen thought might be Rob Halford from Judas Priest. But later, when he was seen across the street with a Casio propped on a mailbox playing Little Feet songs, we decided he was un-likely Mr. Halford.

The heat kept us indoors (that is to say on the bus) most of the day. Once the sun went down I ventured outside to relieve myself of acute claustrophobia. To my surprise, we were at the club already. It's alarming to live in a mobile hotel. You really never know where you're goanna be when you step out the door but you can pretty much bet you wont be where you were last time. The owner of the Brickhouse, Rodger, turned out to be someone I'd met before when I was on tour with my pop. He told me that my dad had given him a set of in-ear monitors at the end of his tour and did I want them? This was extremely synchronistic because I'd come on tour with all my in-ear equipment save for the in-ears themselves which I lost long ago and which cost a fortune. What a miracle and what a nice guy. Thank you Rodger.

We ate as Tristan sound checked. I had a very spicy chicken tortilla soup with a floating guacamole dollop island and went out to the parking lot for some privacy with which to call my honey. I was barefoot and there was shattered glass scattered over the tarmac like sun over waves. So I had to walk gingerly to avoid getting cut. I sat down on a curb block and dialed our number. His loving musical voice brought the stars out onto the electric dessert sky and I wished he were there to hold the cold away from my goose bumped skin. Suddenly cars were arriving and without seeing, were pulling dangerously close to running me over in the parking space I was occupying. Each time I changed curbs, a new car would arrive to scare the shadows from our dark lot privacy. We finally gave up and said goodnight. I miss him more as these days pass.

The show was as distracting for us as it seemed for the audience. The noise they made, made it difficult to sing over and the noise we made made, made it difficult for them to talk over. Haunted monitors changed frequencies and volumes at will. The brick walls volleyed our voices around us like a tennis ball at Wimbledon. When I took the stage I discovered I had other challenges of my own to contend with. I had a horse stuck in my throat and a strand of chicken from my tortilla soup in my back teeth. So I spent the first half of the show tonguing the chicken and clearing my throat and not concentrating on the music at all.

Ben was cutting songs short, desperate to be done with his set. He was more than a little upset by his performance despite how well he'd done, and there was some thrashing in the back of the bus. The rest of us evacuated until we heard Ben had a migraine and had gone to sleep.

For Hadley's birthday everyone (excluding Ben and I) went dancing at a Latin bar. Supposedly, there were many tequila shots. Gwen dashed into the center of the dance floor before anyone could tell where she'd gone. Hadley took some spins with a pro as did her mother which her brother caught on video and it's rumored that David Saw got knackered, danced the rumba (which he refuses to believe. Because: "I'm English guys! I don't dance.") And begged Larry to send the bus over early to pick him up. He had to lie down "and if it's not in the bus," he said, "it's goanna be on this floor." Du di di Dum… Buddy to the rescue.

February 3, 2006 - The Roxy, Los Angeles

I wake up to a Cheshire grin on my brother's face at point blank. He laughs as my eyes crack, and immediately bug at his proximity. How long has he been staring at me? "Steve's friend Dave Reilly's here to take you to some yarn warehouse." He says. I'm out of my bunk in milliseconds, throwing on my road dog clogs. My hair is in a rat's nest, my eye's are still crusted ½ shut and my teeth are un-brushed but I'm Ready!

It's a 30-minute drive to "Wild Fiber," Dave's wife, Mel's yarn store. But that's an approximation without traffic and traffic's all we hit. Thank God Dave's a really cool guy. He's a guitar tec. who worked with Annie DeFranco for a year, which is how he knows our soundman Steve. The extra 45 minutes added onto our trip is worth it when I walk into my yarn heaven. Wild Fiber has some of the most unique wools I've ever seen (and I've seen a lot). Without delay I set about touching, squeezing and coveting yarn into the woven basket Dave's equipped me with. $300+ dollars later we were on our way back to Sunset Blvd for sound check.

I thought I'd be late but Tristan Prettyman is still on stage when I arrive (with yummy yarn in hand). Tristan is Ben's co-headliner for this tour and tonight's our first night together. She's Pretty, man and has a stunning voice which sounds a little like Edie Brickell meets Ricky Lee Jones sleeps with Susan Vega. She's opted to travel alone in her van with her drummer instead of with us on our bus. Probably a good choice seeing as we get messier and more boisterous by the day (and it's only day 2!!)

I make my way up to the green room, which is psychedelic with blue halogen bare bulbs, groovy, miniature circular mirrors stuck onto walls and corduroy furniture which I'm sure has multiple STD's and which I avoid touching at all costs. I can just imagine the Doors in this dressing room once upon a time. The Roxy is old enough to have hosted them at one point. Our rider is already up and spread out in ice under the blue glow. It consists of: Beer, hummus, pita, M&Ms, power bars, Myer's rum and root beer (for Ben's dark and Stormys). I shovel some hummus down my throat chaperoned along by pita and rush back down to the stage where Ben is setting up for sound check.

At the stage's entrance is an acutely warped floor length mirror. I stop short of the stage to give myself a once over. My image is grossly deformed. My head's huge and I'm taller than I know myself to be and my chest bulges a little like Jessica Rabbit's and I realize that what I'm seeing is not really me but the image of my ego. Mine and every other ego that's gone before me onto this stage has contributed to the buckling of this poor mirror. Now as I close in on the reflection I can see the perverted dents and billows of the bent glass and from my closer proximity I find that my image has changed. My head's now tinny and my body looks diseased from scoliosis. This only adds to the metaphor. I shake my vision clear and ascend to the stage. But the image doesn't leave my mind and it affects me more than I can convey. It shook me to the core.

Sound check was short and from a hole in the wall of our dressing room we watched the audience pour into its place. The crowd mostly consisted of pretty, young girls with grown up sequin costumes and make-up who later proved to know all the words to Ben's songs. COOL! With 1 minute to stage call we gathered as a band for a traditional prayer/football huddle which ended with "And that's F**n' team work" which is from a Jack Black Tenacious D. song. If you haven't heard it you've got to listen to it on line at: http://www.sonymusic.com/artists/TenaciousD/. It's called F**k her gently. "Karate" is also a righteous song. *Warning explicit material, parental participation advised.

In his red paisley shirt, Ben leapt to the stage with inspiration and aplomb only to be sentenced back to the green room: "We're holding your act for another 20 minutes" said a burly; don't want to mess with me, bouncer in black. Ben returned in a pool of unspent adrenaline. "That's really not a good thing to do to my body," he remarked, holding both his excitement and disappointment back in his butterfly-infested belly.

Then, out of nowhere, F**K her Gently came over the speaker system and we knew it was goanna be a good show (despite the false start). But it wasn't a good show. It was a GREAT show. Ben rocked the Roxy house. The handsome audience was attentive and supportive as a sports bra. At one point a little hottie yelled out "I LOVE PAISLEY!" and that's all we ever really need.

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