i love sally taylor.

From Sally Taylor's website...

February 24th 2006 - Club 770 - Madison, WI

A Strap of anonymous hair, rudely torn from the root, flaps in the air of a heat vent upon a screw in a brass light socket. It's blurry because I'm blurry and on a mission to the bathroom in the sub light of a grey morning. The bus meanders toward Wisconsin. Dom's foot sticks out of his bunk, toes down. An empty beer bottle rolls restlessly in a tinny, shallow sink. Someone's snoring behind their curtain and Gwen's orange boot, fallen like an abandoned lap dog catches my heal and trips me up. It's way too early for me. I hear Buddy's book on tape "Their Wildest Dreams" prodding our peripatetic journey onward; it's low basal monotone delivers me back to my dreams.

When I wake up for real at 4:30 pm the crew is watching Red Hot American Summer, an 80's farcical parody on summer camp which makes walking into our collegiate venue all the more de ja vous-y. We're playing a free show in what appears to be a University Of Wisconsin commons room. Chris, our student promoter is way too cute and nice to harangue for our venues unofficial appearance. Still, in all of its informality, the room is adorned with the mandatory disco ball and maybe that's all we really need.

Now, after all my fastidious derision of the venue, I, once again, turn out to be completely wrong. The sound is the best yet, the lighting is fantastic, the stage is aesthetically pleasant, the openers (Blake Thomas & the Downtown Brown) are so good that I'm forced to purchase (with my own money) their record and the student filled crowd is enthusiastic, attentive, respectful and well educated at that.

The last time I played in W.I. my fly was down the entire show and no one bothered to tell me. Now, in the middle of the show I have the feeling that once again that I've got egg on my face. No matter how many times I finger check my fly, I can't bring myself to believe that I'm zipped up. I'm not gonna blatantly look down so I wander over to The Saw for confirmation.

"Saw, is my fly down?" and to my horror he replies:
"Yes" With a mischievous grin. So, trying to be subtle I glance down at my crotch. My fly is not down and in my attempt at subtlety I look out into the crowd and make eye contact with a young blond in the front row. "I have that same shirt." I say over the mic. It's a M*A*S*H shirt and she pulls at its hems to display it proudly.
"It's my favorite shirt." She admits
"Target? $6.99?" I respond and now I've humiliated not only myself but this young scholar as well. Looking up, I watch a couple of incredulous students subjecting their throats to the gagging finger at our tawdry dross. Sorry blondie. I really didn't mean to offend. I too love my Target, M*A*S*H, $6.99 shirt.

At 3:00 am I find myself in a pair of unyielding, overly disinfected bowling shoes in a dark, neon, crowded student bowling alley directly beneath our venue. I'm rocking a florescent yellow bowling ball down lane 2 with eight other students, my brother, Derin and Dom. I'm good to, and no, this is not just a dream during another one of my marathon sleep offs. Thank you Lyndz, Stacy, KY, Wyndham and Chris (our team mates). Stay cool (and warm) up there at UWI.