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CLOSE TO THE BORDER

It was hot the next morning, hard blue sky revealing the tough little Las Cruces neighborhood we were indeed in, unwatered or overwatered lawns and functional cheap homes, two of which are for sale across the street. We hit the road, ditching the as always hopelessly inaccurate MapQuest directions and finding I-25 north by instinct and asking at the McDonald’s. Northward in a gentle ascent through wide vistas of desert scrub, similar but different from our familiar Mojave flora, basalt capped ridges ringing our horizons, canyons half filled with ancient gravel on this 1500’s Spanish ghost trail.

We’re hungry. Paul Marshall felt a powerful draw from Hatch, a farm community in the basin of the here not so big Rio Grande, nestled a mile west of our highway view. We took a chance, wandered the half abandoned old streets of another declining rural town, found the Pepper Pot, a solid Mexican food place. We ate solid rellenos in small chiles, enchiladas and tacos. Headed back to the highway past little shops and stands selling braided red chiles, past chile fields and the muddy river.A beautiful drive through brown hills and small towns, some perfectly level sedimentary strata, more lava flows and jagged mountains on the horizons. We reached Santa Fe 10 minutes early for sound check at The Gig, a performance space run by Bruce Dunlap, who plays jazz on a nine string guitar and has played with Warren Zevon and other heavyweights. Bruce is gentle and kind and master of his domain, a great sounding little room with about 60 chairs and Bag End speakers and high quality mics.

We set up, played a few songs, headed for the old style Kings Rest motel on Cerillos, which we highly recommend as a taste of old Route 66, stucco Santa Fe classic low buildings with wood arches and blue doors, and cheap. Back to the gig at the Gig as the sun was setting. New Mexico specializes in beautiful and constant cloud formations, with a brilliant blue canvas. Next to the Gig is a hip coffee shop owned and run by teenagers (not making this up) who cheerfully announce that they’re not very good at making the coffee drink you’ve just ordered, and prove true to their word. But it’s a sexually charged scene, young adults on a mission, age specific and exclusive, unless you’re a country rock band on the road and oblivious to local boundaries.

Donald Rubenstein is a very talented free spirit and musician, singer songwriter, chaotically virtuoso pianist, who has scored movies for Ed Harris and others, escaped Los Angeles about four years ago for this clean dry land in an earlier stage of being killed with kindness. Less gifted artists strive to cultivate the eccentricity Donald was born with. He opened the Gig show with some beautiful new songs, and then the Hawks did a short then long acoustic set before a small but very appreciative audience. The room sounds just great.Our good pals Craig and Cynthia, aka The Believers jumped up and roared through “Subterranean Homesick Blues” with the Hawks, then joined us on “Humboldt.” Donald played piano on “Duty to Our Pod” and that was that. We said farewell to Donald and wife, Believers, who will resume their 16 month wandering, headed for California, and Bruce, who says come back any time and we will. Late night feastette at the Atomic Café with Rob’s witty artist friends Todd and Ede, a choreographer who has been hobnobbing with Laurie Anderson and Lou Reed in NYC.

There was much discussion of names for Ede’s dance troupe: she’d settled on 3-D, which all agreed was a terrible name. Rob had suggested Bunny Bunny Bunny Cake Cake Cake, which probably would have launched the troupe in a direction they could not have dreamed of. We all reminisced about the great Dot Com scare of the 1990’s-2000’s, when absurdly affluent Silicon Valley startups would try to outdo each other, hiring the Neville Brothers or the B-52’s as backdrop for CEO and code writer nerd dancing, and more importantly, video gaming in giant tents flanked by the uibiquitous air pump driven giant semi-inflatable dolls with screaming faces and flapping arms, and dance troupes and circus performers doing their ignored art in the shadow of the flapping semi-inflatable dolls. The last era of innocence in America, and good riddance.

Back to the Kings Rest, the two Pauls watch a poker tournament, not as riveting as the one they had to abandon for the gig Gig, but still pretty great.There have been many coincidences on this trip: the first four days of the trip at two Hawks were wearing identical articles of clothing; Eve of Destruction played on the Hotel Congress, right after our last Coles show with PF Sloane performing the very same. Paul M and Paul L were playing “Ghostriders in the Sky” while waiting for the Yukon to be repaired, and that night at the Deming haunted diner Johnny Cash performed the same on the video big screen; and last night we hung out with two couples who are wandering the country, ToddEde and CraigCynthia. Todd and Ede are journeying in a converted school bus, and Craig and Cynthia wander this earth in a Honda Odyssey, aptly named, their only link to the square life an unloved abode in Nashville.

And we Hawks wander, gazing northward as we head 25north85south, down to a red earth valley covered in pines, gashes of barranca spelling sentences through the desert color print. Shawn is wearing a red wife beater in honor of the red rock and the soil it becomes; he’ll wear it until we hit white sands, which will be somewhere between here and Lubbock.

IT WASN’T ALL THAT LONG AGO IN LAS CRUCES, NEW MEXICO

It’s noon. We’re back on the I-25 north, heading to Sante Fe. New Mexico feels good to the Hawks. The temperature is a mild 92F, skies are clear, and browning dreamy moonscape rock formations ring the valley we travel.

Last night, on the advice of our reliable and well-traveled friend Buck, we drove 7 miles off the highway outside of Demming to the Adobe Deli for dinner. We were skeptical as we drove south in the darkness toward the Mexico border past loaded immigration bus after loaded immigration bus. A shiny new bus is emblazoned “National Security.” Oddly enough they’re hogging the fast lane, not very secure driving. It wasn’t clear that we were going to arrive anywhere. But then we noticed the neon beer signs in a barn-like structure off the road a couple hundred yards. We ignored the “Hippies Use the Side Door” sign and went right in the main entrance.It was 9:45pm. A reluctant waitress looked at her watch as we came through the door. Knowing there were 15 full minutes left until the 10 PM cut off she seated us with warnings that the kitchen might already be closed. The welcome mat was not rolled out, at first.

The Adobe Deli is really a high-ceilinged, barn-sized steak house, formerly a rural schoolhouse. Black booths line the walls and huge racks of antlers and heads of elk loom overhead. Groups of ranchers in cowboy hats, off duty border patrol officers, and a few single women sat at the bar. We took a table by the bar and started the usual restaurant ritual. PL revealed his nervousness to the band by ordering a Coors. When PM ordered wine the waitress asked if we’d like to see the wine cellar. Ignoring our paranoid instincts, we said, “Sure.” She led PM and RW away from the dining area. They arrived at the Men’s room she pointed at it and said, “Wine cellar’s in there.” PM and RW exchanged uneasy glances. “Just kidding!” she said and kept walking. There was, in fact, a very respectable wine cellar just past the Men’s room. PM selected a young local sirah from a vineyard just down the road. It was rustic and rough edged and delicious. Buck’s advice was simple, “Order the ribs.” RW and SN took his advice. PM ordered Osso Buco. PL the salmon. Salads and French Onion soup came out first. It was exciting piercing the almost unbreakable skin of cheese in the French onion soup, the ribs arrived almost erotically mounted on gleaming steel spikes on home woodshop-carved platforms, and the world’s largest TV screen played an old Austin City Limits featuring Johnny Cash and his Music Man and Charvel guitar wielding interregnum band. June Carter’s video appearance, the wine, and the solid man food had the Hawks feeling good. Jill, a big boned beautiful cowgirl looking to liven up a Lordsburg adjacent quiet Friday night, told us she heard we were musicians and were we going to play or what?

We played sitting around the table with our ribs and potatoes remains, six or seven songs, Hawks songs, Paul Marshall drinking songs, Big City by Merle, Long Black veil. Jill and the waitresses and the taciturn huge cowboys at the bar enjoyed it, bought a bunch of Cds and t-shirts, bought us Weller’s whiskey. We chatted with the border patrol guys, an older guy in a cowboy hat and classic reserve and his younger hip hop partner. They both said that a California style 12 foot high steel fence erected across the entire Mexico border might slow down illegal immigration a bit. Skeptical of the big project, to say the least.Turns out that Van, the big beefy cowboy like bar owner, and Paul Marshal worked together in the ’60s. Van did the lights at a Strawberry Alarm Clock show that Paul Marshall played in Passaic, New Jersey in 1969 (of course this may have never happened; what they say about remembering the ’60s is true, unless you’re one of those indestructible and insufferable idiots savant).

Before the glow faded the Hawks packed up and headed for Las Cruces. Solid directions from Buck guided the Hawks through his backdoor and homey slumbers ensued. Camel and Moose were a little freaked out at first, understandably. But the country rock dog whisperers came out of each of us, the vibe calmed down. The lucky Hawks were once again on the receiving end of some kind New Mexico hospitality.

Q & As FROM A TYPICAL ROUND OF “DRUMMERS AND DRUMMING”

Mercy is shown us Hawks, in the form of cloud cover over the southern Arizona desert.

big clouds.jpgShawn Nourse the trucker’s son is at the wheel, silent and steady.

truck.jpgAnd soon the sun is way down, lonely headlights mark the darkness, and the Hawks retreat to the cerebral, their favorite highway game, a kind of rolling Jeopardy where the winner of the last question becomes the host.

gas.jpgThe game is called Drummers and Drumming, and this is exactly how it went:
Name one of the two Lynyrd Skynyrd drummers?
Artemis Pyle
Which Grateful Dead drummer is worse than the other one?
Mickey Hart
Who’s the other one?
Bill Kreutzmann
Which Willie Nelson drummer is worse than the other one?
Paul English
What UK drummer shares a name with an ISHILA member?
Paul Marshall
Who said, “if your drummer didn’t show up, call me, I can show up in 15 minutes and I’m better than no drummer at all.”
Carmine Sardo
Who is Louie Prima’s drummer?
Sam Butera
Who played drums on Traffic’s song “40,000 Headmen”?
Stevie Winwood
If you are playing in 7 in Bulgarian music what are the typical accents for a percussionist?
1, 3, and 5
Who played drums in the 80’s progressive country instrumental trio The Dixie Dregs?
Rod Morganstein
Who was the drummer that backed up Phil Collins during his solo career? (hint: this drummer also played with Frank Zappa during the early 1970’s)
Chester Thompson
Who’s the king of Afro Beat?
Tony Allen
Name one of Toto’s early percussionists?
Lenny Castro
I’m going to name three songs. Which song did Jeff Porcaro NOT play drums on?
“Dirty Low Down” by Boz Skags
“Roasanna” by Toto
“Peg” by Steely Dan

The correct answer is “Peg” by Steely DanWho was the drummer on Steely Dan’s “Peg?”
Steve Gadd
Who played drums in Queen?
Roger Taylor
Who played drums on “Take Five” by Dave Brubeck? (Hint: this drummer was the author of the book of drummer exercises “Portraits of Rhythm”)
Joe Morello
Who are the Allman Brothers drummers?
Jaimo and Butch Trucks
What brand of drums did Ringo play is his classic period? (this one’s easy)
Ludwig.

IT’S 110 F IN TUCSON, ARIZONA

The Hawks are adjusting to road life. The heat helps. It breaks you down quickly, stripping away the comforts of home in a fierce but merciful way.

The trip began as the Hawks gathered in Highland Park on the morning of the last day of May. With all the equipment spread out there in the driveway, it seemed we would have to jettison some precious gear to make it all fit. Boxes of Cds, instruments and amplifiers, books and magazines, posters and t-shirts and suitcases. As each band member pondered a personal sacrifice, lead singer and West Coast Pack Champion RW started doing the math in his head, assembling a three dimensional Tetris game of gear and bags. Miraculously, everything fit and we steamed out of Los Angeles around midday. We filled the Yukon with $75 of liquid gold (it still wasn’t full) and aimed east for (eventually) the green hills of Vermont. We will be traveling east until some point in mid-July when we turn and begin racing back towards the Pacific. The desert. We’re back. We’ll always be back.

mojave 1st day.jpgWe crossed the Colorado River on the big bridge, honked the horn, first of nine state border honks we’ll honk on this first leg of our tour. It’s blazing hot out there. Paul L remembers swimming in the river as a wee desert rat, with all the other rancher and bracero famlies, everyone staying close to shore because the current in the middle is fast and there was always the latest drowning to murmur about.

Traffic was surprisingly light all the way to Phoenix. Paul L inspired a Led Zeppelin marathon by thrilling us with tales from “Hammer of the Gods,” the Zep-biography he’s been unable to put down for the last few weeks. And I must admit, a strong case was made that the lyrics for “Stairway” are in fact meaningful and wise, not silly. Mid-Way through Zeppelin II we hit rush hour Phoenix traffic and had to switch it off. You simply can’t soar like a dirigible in desert grid-lock. After suffering through the worst of it we finally reached our exit, the 48th Street, Hampton Inn booked lovingly by PM’s wife Colleen. Not only can Colleen get the sweet deals, they seem to love her so much that they upgraded our rooms to suites for free. Rarely have the Hawks had the good fortune to stretch out in such fine lodgings at such reasonable rates.

After unloading the gear we headed to Recommended Food Stop One. Our fine friend Randall suggested a legendary hamburger joint he’d frequented in his undergraduate days in Tempe. Would it still be there? Would we like it? The Chuckbox was hidden behind a large Caterpillar Tractor working the summer shift replacing water pipes beneath University Blvd but it couldn’t hide from us. The Hawks were becoming belligerent from heat and hunger. The place was pretty empty. We walked to the front of the line and ordered. Raw meat hit flame grill and I knew everything would soon be OK. Randall had come through for us. Big delicious burgers. High quality onion rings. Ice cold beer served in mason jars, just like Randall told us. Nice work, Randy!

Satisfied, we headed towards the Yucca Tap Room, a small music friendly bar located in an old strip mall near the college. Older strip malls have developed a kind of nostalgia and architectural credibility somehow in the last few years for me. Call me crazy, but I’m really starting to appreciate a decaying strip mall. There’s something romantic in them. Perhaps what I like is that they are now crumbling. This too shall pass. A startling discovery as we u-turned our way towards the Tap Room: a drive through liquor store. Choosing the walk in option, we were further dazzled by the complex and sophisticated selection of tequilas and single malt scotches in the densely packed little liqueria. Oban 16 year old being $65, we turned to domestic bourbons and took a chance on Bulleit, because we liked the shape of the label. The $8 bottle turned out to be a boon companion, smooth and subtle.

Our friend Dave Insley hosts a weekly Yucca Tap Room show, and he was setting up his acoustic duo as we pulled into the parking lot and hauled in some of our gear. Tony Gilkyson and Kip Boardman, our tour mates across this great and vast land, arrived at the same time, and we exchanged hearty greetings. Dave and his name-to-be-recalled lead guitarist did some fine harmony singing, with a family portrait song of Dave’s called “Geneva’s Gonna Leave Ya” being a high point.Tony, Kip, and our own Nourseman Shawn hit the stage in a reuniting of the Old Yellers, a seminal L.A. roots rock unit, and they sounded great, a hard hitting power trio fueled by Tony’s always scary guitar and great vocal harmony parts with Kip. Tony’s fronting this combo, singing songs from his new and soulful “Goodbye Guitar” CD.

On the last song, a barn burner moved further down the line by Shawn’s signature train on the tracks beat, the club suddenly emptied out through the back door, the bar crowd responding instinctually to unseen trouble. Out in the parking lot, Dave’s wife Brenda had passed out and fallen, fracturing her skull (send your good thoughts to Dave and his wife lonesome@daveinsley.com if you know them). Dave took off in the ambulance with his wife. The Hawks considered packing it in, but then decided to play, and did an off the wall and cuff set with Tony sitting in on some tunes. We’re glad we played, it felt good to release songs into the Arizona atmosphere, and we wish Brenda a speedy recovery.

The next day the Hawks all managed to get up in time for the free continental breakfast, which is unprecedented. Shawn and Rob, the late risers of the band, are new fathers, with the new found skill of getting up after not enough sleep.It’s quite hot in early June in the Sonora desert, 110 to be exact as we re-loaded the Yukon in the near blazing parking lot. We drove off the beaten path to visit a nearby Yaqui reservation town, and it was mystical indeed: little adobe and old wood frame houses with stone and mortar shrines to the Virgin, dry branch lean-to type awnings over front doors, and an ancient colonial church with a vast white dirt parking lot with NO PHOTOS ALLOWED signs. Holy ground.

South to Tucson, a saguaro and rock outcropping lined journey. Many new offramp clusters of civilization have robbed the road of its harsh beauty—it doesn’t take too many prefab buildings and big plastic signs to obliterate the vibe—but the horizons are stark and menacing as ever, if you fix your gaze upon them.Two hours later and we’re in Tucson. Hotel Congress is an enlightened updating of a classic old Southwest institution, host to the swells and Hollywood stars of the teens, twenties and thirties, when Tucson was an outpost of irrigated farms and not much else.
congress logo.jpg
There’s a bar, a café with 4 out of 5 Hawks rated food, and creaking upstairs hallways with comfy, no-TV no AC rooms. We checked in, dumped the gear in the dark and elegant concert room, and headed to KXCI radio, housed in a great old rooming house a few blocks away. Tucson’s got everything you need within a few blocks. KXCI Programming Manager Duncan set up the mics with confidence and speed and engineered the session. Kristi, the Home Stretch drivetime DJ came in and ran the show with professionalism and kindness.

We play three acoustic songs, Kristi runs a brief and efficient interview, and it’s time to head back to the Congress for sound check. On the way, the Yukon threatens to overheat as the AC blows hot air. Damn, car trouble this early? Duncan provides a hookup to his trusted Tucson mechanic and schedule an appointment for 8 AM. The Congress show sounded good and the small but wiry audience was enthusiastic and appreciative. We even got a request for “Byrd From West Virginia” which we played with as much rock majesty as we could muster.

The night is both long and short. Our rooms are located directly above the hotel disco and the bass thumps loud enough to rattle the hundred year old plumbing. The building is apparently tuned to B flat an octave below middle C, and this note knocks things off the mantle. But the Hawks are tired and hardened to loud noises and drift off to sleep despite the racket. RW and PM raise the dead (themselves) before eight to get the Yukon to its appointment. The day unfolds an hour at a time. The temperature rises, then falls as welcome clouds roll in. cloud congress.jpg

The train roars past. Thunder rumbles, and the rain is falling. Where does it come from? Dry as a bone endless blue skies somehow conjure clouds. The seductive scent of rain on sidewalk wafts under the back door of the Congress as we await Rob returning with the repaired Yukon. Paul M and Paul L play “Ghost Riders In The Sky” as raindrops spatter the sidewalk outside the back stage door.Rob’s back. Load up, thank the Congress folks for putting up with our all day loiter, and we’re rolling east on the 10, sawtooth peaks and misted mountains and rainshadows making the way mellow.

Actual conversation in the Yukon:Paul L: Hey, Rob, are tapirs kind of like pigs?
Rob: I don’t know. I think it’s okay as long as they get permission.
I’m hoping the guy in Tucson can burn us a CD.

MIAMI NEW TIMES REVIEWS “CALIFORNIA COUNTRY”

On their third album, the core members of I See Hawks in L.A. are joined by Chris Hillman (Byrds, Flying Burrito Brothers), Rick Shea (Dave Alvin Band), and other heavies from L.A.’s alt-country gang, but it’s the songwriting of the principal bandmates that grabs your attention. Rob Waller, lead vocalist and guitarist; and Paul Lacques, who supplies the high harmonies and plays lap steel, dobro, and guitar, craft memorable melodies with lyrics that conjure up the dreams and nightmares of Californians past and present. “Raised by Hippies” blends bluegrass and rock to look at the past through slightly jaundiced eyeglasses. “Slash from Guns N’ Roses” is a sea shanty for people shipwrecked on the shoals of the Sunset Strip — a dark song delivered with considerable humor. “Hard Times (Are Here Again)” is an acoustic country blues that nods to Woody Guthrie’s working-class poetry with Hillman’s mandolin fills and Lacques’s wailing dobro adding to the song’s hopeless melancholy.

— J. Poet, Miami New Times

DALLAS OBSERVER, DENVER WESTWORD reviews

“California Country,” the third effort from this oddly named roots quartet from the sunshine state, is heavily indebted to The Flying Burrito Brothers, the early Eagles and probably some kind of psychedelic drug. Full of sweet, Byrds-like harmonizing, songs like “Slash from Guns N’ Roses” and “Motorcycle Mama” are peculiar tongue-in-cheekers with an earnest appreciation of the less appealing aspects of rural life, and singer Rob Wallers’ baritone and Paul Lacques’ subtle guitar and dobro strike a fruitful balance between the regular and the just plain weird. Genuinely surreal in a professional sort of way, I See Hawks in L.A. offers a warped take on Americana that wonderfully defies easy categorization.

— Darryl Smyers, Dallas Observer

On their third album the core members of I See Hawks in L.A. are joined by Chris Hillman (Byrds, Flying Burrito Brothers), Rick Shea (Dave Alvin Band) and other heavies from L.A.’s alt-country gang. It’s the songwriting of the principal bandmates, though, that grabs your attention. Lead vocalist and guitarist Rob Waller and Paul Lacques — who supplies the high harmonies and plays lap steel, dobro and guitar — craft memorable melodies with lyrics that conjure up the dreams and nightmares of Californians past and present. “Raised by Hippies” blends bluegrass and rock to look at the past through slightly jaundiced eyeglasses, while “Slash From Guns N’ Roses” is a sea chantey for people shipwrecked on the shoals of the Sunset Strip — a dark song delivered with considerable humor. “Hard Times (Are Here Again)” is an acoustic country-blues cut that nods to Woody Guthrie’s working-class poetry, with Hillman’s mandolin fills and Lacques’s wailing dobro adding to the song’s hopeless melancholy.

— j. poet, Denver Westword

Buzzflash Reviews “California Country”

Tony Peyser’s “Blue State Jukebox” Review — May, 2006 Edition

I often find myself writing about musicians from Texas. Maybe it’s because their songs resonate with a strong sense of place: this is where I am, this is where I’ve been, this is where I’m going. Pick up virtually any album by Ray Wylie Hubbard, Adam Carroll or Eliza Gilkyson and that basic terrain will be covered. What they create aren’t just songs for an album but stories from their hometowns.

These basic components are what drew me to a band from right here in the City Of Angels: I See Hawks In L.A. I saw them one night a while back in a club on Hollywood Blvd. called King King that used to be a Chinese restaurant. The songs soared like the birds referenced in the band’s name. I See Hawks sublimely embody the country-rock sound that the legendary Gram Parsons pretty much invented. Parsons — who ignored Neil Young’s advice and burned out instead of rusted — would be proud.

On “Motorcycle Mama” — the opening track from California Country — I See Hawks sing, “I tried to ride with the motorcycle mama/But the motorcycle let me down.” Pedal steel guitars wend their way through this yarn of being lured by the Golden State dream but never quite finding it. One of the main products manufactured on the Left Coast is disappointment but I See Hawks find a way to describe this in a glorious fashion. And the legendary allure lives on with lines like these: “She’s riding free over the trees/crossing over the great divide/I’m down with my tears & beers but I know someday I’ll ride.” The ooh-ooh-oohs in the chorus are as irresistible as the state’s enduring siren call of fun in the sun.

“Raised By Hippies” covers almost forty years in just under six minutes. It’s the saga of a hippie girl born in 1968: “Nixon was heading to that big White House/And the bombs would soon be dropping on the children of Laos.” She has such a sweet and decent disposition that she manages to endure the Reagan and Bush I & II years. And, perhaps most tellingly, it’s the things she learned from her parents that help give them hope during the post-Woodstock era. I’d bet a lava lamp that her peace-and-love Mom and Dad played “Teach Your Children” to their young daughter who luckily paid attention and wound up later teaching them.

Flexing their creative muscles, I See Hawks later chronicle the story of another young girl. But this time, they shelve the innocence and embark on a dark drama called “Golden Girl.” The descent into exploits worthy of one of Jim Thompson’s pulpy novels is not without foreshadowing. The narrator glimpses an angelic 17-year-old in a church choir and observes, “As we bowed our heads in prayer she gave me a wink/I knew our book was written in the devil’s ink.” There’s a palpable conflict here between the music and lyrics. The former seems to be on her side and is always light, airy and seductive. But the latter keeps reminding the listener that this girl is bad news, no matter how good she looks. “Golden Girl” is the polar opposite of “Raised By Hippies,” its landscape riddled with sex, guns, crime, betrayal and revenge. When a robbery goes south in a Navajo bar and the shooting commences, you may find yourself ducking. It’s that vivid a song. This cautionary tale could result in less dates involving bad girls and nice guys.

I had the album playing while I was doing some other work and suddenly found myself delightfully bewildered at the fourth track, “Slash From N’ Roses.” This has a to be some kind of a first: a song about rock and roll identity theft. This crackerjack guitarist — sort of like the kid in “Six Degrees Of Separation” who pretended to be Sidney Poitier’s son — has bamboozled various folks into thinking he’s really the guy from that famous band. As they used to say in every TV Guide sitcom description, “trouble ensues” when the real Slash shows up: “At the top of the highest hill in the hills of Hollywood/Two mansions were competing to see who could/Throw the biggest baddest party this town has ever seen/2690 Beachwood said, ‘We’ve got Slash.’/2693 Beachwood said, ‘Oh yeah? Well, so do we.'” A guitar rumble tumbles out on this canyon street in a climax that’s equal parts mythic and comic. It reminded me of video I saw once around ten years ago but never forgot of Wyclef Jean channeling The Bee Gees in “We Trying To Stay Alive.” Directed by Roman Coppola, it similarly depicted archrivals engaging musical fisticuffs. I See Hawks don’t spell it all out in the song, so we’re allowed to fill in the blanks as the real and faux rockers raise their guitars to do battle. “Slash From Guns N’ Roses” is a one of a kind song that jumps out like a guitar solo by, uh, Slash from Guns N’ Roses.

In “California Country,” I See Hawks put everything they feel about the state they live in to describe the state of mind they live with: “I am a child of the golden state/I grew up in the orchards and fields/I’ve seen farm towns become commuter alleys/And shopping malls eat up the trees/Sometimes I wish for a simpler time/When you could drink right out of the stream/The loneliness around me, freeways just surround me/I’m 30 miles from a field of green …” Whatever sense of frustration and dislocation they feel is upended in the very next line as the mandolin kicks in and they sing, “But I’m still standing in California Country.” This sense of not giving up on where their roots are is also underscored a little later on whey they add, “Only now I understand I could ever leave this land/ I’m a California man.” Along with Mike Stinson’s “Late Great Golden State” — which has already been covered by Dwight Yoakam — “California Country” is another honest-to-God Left Coast anthem. It’s worth noting that the mandolin playing here (and in the aforementioned “Golden Girl”) is especially rousing and harkens back to The Byrds’ groundbreaking Sweethearts Of The Rodeo. This is perhaps because the fellow playing that instrument is none other than Chris Hillman, who used to be in The Byrds. It’s perfectly fitting that a fellow with that lineage is aboard for these songs to pass the country-rock torch.

A few weeks after I was sent this album, one of I See Hawks’ main men — Paul Lacques — called to make sure a) that I got the record and b) that I knew that there was a political track on it. I had and I didn’t. This little life lesson here to impart is if you want someone to know something, tell them.

I didn’t realize right away that “Byrd From West Virginia” was about the Senator Robert Byrd. Apart from the lyrics — which I’ll get to — the song has a stirring, majestic quality with a melody and harmonies that resonate deep into American country and folk traditions. It’s like an A&E Biography episode distilled down to five minutes. It even finds a way to address Byrd’s early racist attitudes: “He burned the cross of Jesus in the West Virginia night/The darkness of America blinded his sight.” Among the landmarks along the way are glimpses of The Great Depression, Byrd’s marriage to a coal miner’s daughter (Loretta Lynn has nothing on him) and his hard work in a shipyard. Further down the road, there’s even a Forrest Gump moment of colliding with people more famous than him: “As a young man in congress he studied law at night/For ten long years he burned a different light/Presented with his J.D. by John Fitzgerald Kennedy/Just before the young president was escorted into history.”

It climaxes some fifty years later with Byrd as the grand old man on the political landscape. I See Hawks can’t help but reveal their shared sense of indignation as they compellingly sing, “And when a reckless new president came calling out for war/Old Byrd from West Virginia sang out the score: ‘The doctrine of preemption is radical and deadly …'” And it tops all this off with these haunting words: “Who will sing this song when the Byrd flies away/Vanished oe’r the hillside at the end of the day/A long voice a crying, a lone voice a crying … Senator Byrd.” All people who make the world better by their presence deserve such a sendoff.

There are rumblings that the next I See Hawks album will have more topical songs on it, which is definitely something to look forward to. In the meantime, California Country will fit the bill as a prime example of the timeless California Country sound.

* * *

Tony Peyser writes political poems every day for BuzzFlash and draws editorial cartoons twice weekly. His new music column, The Blue State Jukebox, is now a monthly feature for BuzzFlash. Mr. Peyser (who loves referring to himself in the third person) is shamelessly using BuzzFlash as a springboard to help him land his dream job: becoming the new Washington Bureau Chief for Talon News.

L.A. Daily News: California Country Review

Three and A Half Out of Four Stars
Local co(s)mic cowboys serve up true sounds of ’60s country rock with a satirical bent that captures the surreal absurdity of life in our fair megalopolis. The Hawks’ hippie twang cred is emphasized by the appearance of Byrds/Burrito Brothers stalwart Chris Hillman, but they can also cook up a faux myth-rock inferno on the hilarious “Slash From Guns N’ Roses.” An eyes-wide-open ode to Sen. Robert Byrd and the caustic “Hard Times (Are Here Again)” provide contempo political counterpoint to Golden State narratives of passion crimes and spaced-out nostalgia. The Hawks play tonight at McCabe’s in Santa Monica.
By Bob Strauss, Staff Writer

GOLDEN STATE READY FOR THE COUNTRY

Richard Guzmán
The Desert Sun
May 13, 2006

California isn’t the first place most country fans turn to for musical inspiration.
But that may soon change, thanks to I See Hawks in L.A., who are helping reveal the Golden State’s hidden country soul.

“California Country,” the Los Angeles-based band’s third release, is a collection of bluegrass-honky-tonk-alternative country with a distinctly Socal vibe.

Jointly influenced by country legends such as Merle Haggard and Buck Owens, and the psychedelic sound of The Byrds, I See Hawks in L.A. are set to perform at Pappy and Harriet’s in Pioneertown – their home away from home – Saturday night.

“We have a great time out there, it’s a blast,” said Hawks lead singer Rob Waller.

“It (Pappy and Harriets) really fits in great (with our sound). A lot of L.A. artists are inspired by the high desert,” he said.

The Hawks are among the best established country rock bands in California, with a weekly spot at Coles Bar in downtown L.A., regular gigs at the The House of Blues in Hollywood, as well as The Cinema Bar in Culver City.

The band also earned the L.A. Weekly’s Best Country Artist awards in 2002 and 2003.

Saturday will be the seventh show for the Hawks at Pappy’s.

“The country rock scene is great here in L.A.,” Waller said.
“There’s a wide range of fans from the generation of The Byrds and The Grateful Dead to hippie folks, pure country fans and college kids,” he said.

The opening tune on the Hawks’ latest album, “Motorcycle Mama,” is not a cover of the Neil Young staple, but a hole-in-the-wall, jukebox original, plush with twangy guitars and tragic lyrics like “I tried to ride with the motorcycle mama but the motorcycle let me down.”

The Hawks also mock L.A. pop-culture with songs like “Slash from Guns ‘N’ Roses.”

“That song came out of a conversation where we asked ourselves what would happen if Slash ran into an impersonator,” Waller said.

“Barrier Reef” pays homage to another L.A. hippie cultural icon, cannabis.

Fiddler Brantley Kearns and banjo player Cody Bryant add country credibility to the Hawks’ very-L.A. sound.

And although the band feels most at home playing honky-tonk tunes at honky-tonk havens like Pappy’s, Waller said he also sees the sound and feel of their alternative country hitting bigger crowds.

“We would play anywhere we have songs people seem to like,” he says.

“We’re a regional country band with global aspirations.”

THE EXQUISITE INTERMINABLE FRENCH LUNCH

The Hawks just finished recording a new record with Eddy Mitchell , probably the most well known country singer in France. He has done about 30 CDs with every famous American country musician:
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Eddy avec Le Monde, preparing for vocal session

The Hawks recorded 6 songs as Eddy’s backup band May 6-9, with Bernie Dressel on drums. We played guitars, steel, dobro, and did background vocals, helped with the arranging, and drank many, many bottles of wine at the three hour lunches the French are famous for (a tradition we desperately need over here). A gleaming high tech espresso machine was there from the first morning, producing a crema only an expert barista could hope to match.

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The sessions went just great. Philippe Rault, Eddy Mitchell’s longtime producer, who arrived in American during the summer of love ’67 and has lived an enviable dual Paris/L.A. life ever since, was trop cool, betraying only a hint of irony at those moments of doubt and pain every recording presents. When the producer and artist are lingering over trout and a last bottle of wine on the patio, you know everything’s going to be all right. We Hawks felt a real wistfulness over an imagined older and wiser Euro approach to doing things. Many a last joke before rising from the table, and many a cigarette and whiskey as tape rolled.
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le producer

Gabe Witcher, who’s in Jerry Douglas’s band, came in and did some blazing fiddle, and also doing some great playing was Bob Dylan’s old guitarist/fiddler Freddy Koella. It was great fun.freddk.jpg
Freddy et le whiskey

The other half of the album will feature members of Jackshit, which includes Pete Thomas, Elvis Costello and Los Lobos’s drummer, should be a pretty great record.It’ll be released on Polydor Europe, and a DVD of the sessions will be included. A crazy Frenchman with a high definition camera followed our every move.

On Monday a three way vocal with Eddy Mitchell, Little Richard, and Johnny Halladay is rumored to be happening.