Hawks

A good night’s sleep is finally granted to the brotherhood of the Hawk. Everyone sleeps in and we pack the BSM leisurely as the noon checkout comes and goes. White and gray clouds soften the light and easy rain showers come and go as we press northward up the 5. We find a great blues show on Oregon Public Radio and it fits right in with our vibe, homesickness for wives and children hangs in our silence as we listen to the old guitars. Pretty soon the Blues will be one thousand years old.

We stop at Heaven on Earth for breakfast, an overtly Christian eatery, lured in by stories of sweet rolls the size of your head and a waitress who tried to convert Dave Alvin to the way of the cross. We order pancakes, omlettes, sausage, ham and eggs. They have organic shade grown coffee from Chiapas. PL drinks his Christian Cappuchino and respectfully withholds a tough critque. Before we eat we hold hands and RW leads the band in prayer. What starts off as gag takes on an authentic spiritual feel. Holding hands and bowing heads evokes a physiological calmness that gathers and humbles our hearts before a felt but unseen power. Even the skeptical guitar players behave. Breakfast is delicious and nourishing and we’re back on the road. —–

Fields, clouds, rain, rays o God, fields, clouds. Ten silos pass on the left–grain? Soy? What fills the silos of the central valley?

A flawless day for driving to Portland, temperature oddly cool like a fall day, puffy clouds and pasteled blue sky. Moisture in the air, and sure enough it rains a bit, bright sun beaded on the vista before us. 98 miles to Redding. We hope to hit Eugene tonight, but will settle for less. Hints of Oregon in the angle of sun, a northerness that washes over our Suburban in gentle waves. We’re going to be in Humboldt County in a few days, so here’s a shoutout to all the growers and their homies:
Think globally
Smoke locally.

Steady, steady drivers Paul M. and Rick Shea, north through more cloud pillows that dump substantial rain, Suburban march takes us to Grants Pass, Oregon, first Hawks border crossing since last August. Rick’s getting a fair amount of “new guy” razzing, some of it clearly within the broad definition of sexual harrassment, but he absorbs it with his deadpan black humor. Rick’s seen it all and probably created much of it himself.It’s late night, and we’re beat, didn’t make it to Eugene. We might be in Grant’s Pass. After much cross bidding between Super 8 and the Comfort Inn, with cell phone communication between Paul M and Rob, the Hawks lodgings contract was awarded to Super 8, upon which wi-fi connection this text flies.

Note to fellow traveler bands: The Hawks haul all their gear, including amps and drums, into their evening accommodations, no matter how hopeless, no matter how far the rooms be from the vehicle. The night you leave the gear in the trailer, that’s when the evil ones strike. In this case it’s two and a half flights up to rooms 308 and 312. Now we’re really beat, fall asleep to Ren and Stimpy on the fantastic Super 8 TV.

39 miles south of Sacramento a horrible popping noise rang out from underneath the Bomb Squad Mobile. Startled, we pulled off at the Turner Road Exit. We took turns looking underneath the hood, revving the engine and listening, trying to discover the cause of the noise. Strangely, the engine was still at full power and the truck seemed to be driving as usual.

But we decided not the take any chances, busted out our AAA cards and called it in. Three out of four of us had AAA Plus. Only Shawn was stuck with the Basic plan. If you don’t have AAA Plus, we strongly recommend upgrading immediately. Free towing up to 100 miles, just about how far we were from our gig in Winters. The lady from the Call Center said a tow rig out of Lodi should be there within the hour. We hung out in the BSM with doors open trying to stay out of the mid-afternoon Central Valley heat. At last a bright yellow tow truck appeared on heat-blurred horizon like a mirage. Matt, the driver, whipped it around and backed up against our rig. He hopped out and went to work. We described the sound to him and he preliminarily diagnosed the problem as a blown Transfer Case. He chained the BSM down, the four of us climbed up into the cab and headed off to our gig. On the way cell phones we buzzed as Paul Lacques called every accordion player he knew in the Sacramento area to try to track down a reliable mechanic. Luckily, Richie Lawrence, the pride of the deep water port of Stockton, answered the call and directed us to Barbosa’s Tranny Shop on Railroad Ave in Winters. PL made the arrangements on the phone. If we could get there by 5 pm they’d work on it the next day.

We pulled into Barbossa’s auto repair in the heart of charming and bucolic Winters with about ten minutes to spare. They put her on the rack and confirmed Matt’s suspcicions. Blown Transfer Case. We’d need a whole new one which they could get the next day. OK, we said. Dave Fleming from the Palms helped us ferry our gear to the club down the street. At least we were going to make the gig. As we cross the street and start walking to the gig a man who appears to be mildly drunk accosts us. “We’re playing pool. Free beer. Do you guys play pool?” As big city Angelenos who play a weekly gig on Skid Row we all automatically recoil, keep walking along trying to avoid eye contact. But he persists. “Follow me. It’s right on the way.” For some reason Rick, Shawn, and Rob follow.

We walked through a messy, cluttered office of typewriters and reference books, the tools of the newspaper business a generation ago. There’s not a computer to be seen. All the way in the back past the presses themselves sits a fine Brunswick table beneath a long Budwiser pool lamp. There’s a kegulater in the corner and a rack of pint glasses. An old man and his wife sit on chairs by the table. He must be 90. There’s a bicycle bell attached to his mug. He takes a last sip and finishes his glass. He sets down the mug and rings the bell. His son Charlie (the one who pulled us in) grabs his cup and automatically refills it as he continues to tell us more about where we are. “He started this paper in the 40s. Did you see the pre-Colombian art?” He points out a display case next to an old Hamms Beer Sign with a waterfall on it. There’s a dozen or so ancient-looking figurines with handmade descriptions beneath them in old type face. Charlie explains that early Native Americans carved these out of stone then tossed them into their fields for protection. We play pool with two of the founder’s sons and the Winters plummer. Shawn and Rick wander back to the club but RW can’t tear himself away from the talk of history and girls. They all agree that the North Carolina accent is the sexiest of all accents. We’re all getting along famously, enjoying the novelty of each others very different daily experiences. So far the truck breakdown doesn’t hurt at all. In fact, it’s only helped us to let go of the illusion of control of life on the road. It usually takes a day or two to surrender to the unswimable current of the road but the breakdown has accelerated the process.

At 6 pm sharp the Winters newspaper office shuts down and the pool game is over. A quick pow wow inside The Palms, Hawks and Rick Shea: acoustic or electric? We’re on the proscenium stage (built 1875) of The Palms, 25 yards west of Barbossa’s, surrounded by amps, telecasters, mandolin and dobro, each on eager standby. This room has a great vibe: acoustic, by a landslide. Dave, proprietor and mastermind of this elegant emporium, has procured tacos from The Puebla (highest rating, ISHILA Food Ratings Board). Brother Peter Lacques is in attendance, big bonus for brother Paul and Hawks. We eat, we sound check, we play. But not before Paul L., thinking there’s a closed curtain, walks out on stage carrying his dobro, talking on the cell phone, in front of the whole patiently waiting audience.The show is great. Rick Shea comes out firing on D-18, with the two Pauls and Shawn backing him up, gets the big encore. Rob comes out, Rick moves stage left, and now it’s the Hawks, Rick jumping to mandolin, Richie Lawrence adding his always tasteful squeezebox. The room sounds wonderful and the crowd seems with us all the way, Hope Against Hope feels majestic, a guy in the audience whoops at the line “after you and me, the Snake and Colorado will run free,” then we end on Wonder Valley Fight Song, and a Marine in the audience whoops/grunts when we mention the 29 Palms Marine base.

Katherine and Doran, a mother-daughter guardian angel team manifested from the ether, drive us 15 minutes down dark dirt roads through silent fields, to their spiritually enlightened new concrete floor homestead towering 15 feet above the surrounding Central Valley alfalfa. A dreamlike interlude, morning bringing sweet rain and pillowy clouds, silvery drops on the pond surrounding the native grass fields, black swans in the pond, a little bird battles a hawk overhead, and the Hawks make themselves an omelette feast with eggs plucked from the 30 chickens that circle the front yard. A living room jamfest with Rick, Paul L., and Rob brings forth new alt country rocker “Yolo County Airport,” then long chats with Doran and Katherine, and the Hawks are in no hurry to hit the road. Luckily the car isn’t ready till 4 p.m., and the guardian angels drive us back to our man Charles at Barbosa’s Auto Repair, he maintains the mystical positive vibrations of this strange town, the car is fixed and runs great. $900 exchanged for a new transfer case (calm down, you 4 wheelers out there) briefly bursts the bubble of our bucolia, but a new one forms.

Grateful farewells to Dave, Doran, and Katherine, and we dive into stop and go I-80 West traffic all the way to San Francisco, Rob retrieves memories from his chaotic four years as a City By The Bay day trader, guides us to the Hotel Utah, a funky room so underground that they don’t tell the local newspapers who’s playing. This was our first electric show with Rick in a while, twas very good, the telecasters prevailed. The Hawks song “Byrd From West Virginia” threw its usual emotional gremlins into the room, walking through the foibles and moment of truth of the eldest Senator. It was good to see Hawks family units and #1 Hawks recorder Gabe Shepherd in the chilly night.A night in Marin at the Waller and Lacques northern headquarters, thank you Matthew and Nicole and elders of the Waller clan, and we get a groggy start north, passing once again through, yes, Winters, land of dreams, more carnitas and relleno at Taqueria #43, hanging around Dave at The Palms while he’s trying to work, and there’s just no more stalling to do, Hawks and Shea load into the Bomb Squad Suburban.

It’s day one of the I See Hawks In L.A. / Rick Shea Pre-Summer Solstice Tourette 05, and we’re feeling good. We departed Rob’s Highland Park abode within 45 minutes of scheduled departure, and our 1993 Chevy Suburban is running like a dream.

Rob and Paul purchased this beauty at an auction in the City of Industry (West Covina adjacent). The car auction is live entertainment at its gritty best, with an iron lunged auctioneer ramming through car sales to a funky and focused and well fed auto loving crowd. You’ve got about 40 seconds to decide if you really want that Crown Victoria natural gas powered sedan, which we almost purchased. Closing the deal on the Suburban (it was over in 15 seconds) was a thrill not soon forgotten. Rob’s mechanic believes the vehicle was a bomb squad car. The mountains of dog hair and live ammo scattered throughout and the kickout rear doors would imply this.Rick Shea’s on this trek, doing the opening and then playing guitar with the Hawks, and luckily he’s as dark and warped as any of us. The 5 North through Buttonwillow is a bit subdued this morning. Traffic’s moving slow in response to a 24 hour California Highwsy Patrol Anti-Speeding Strike Force. Band conversation is only two hours old, we’ve worked through the Bush administration’s Energy Bill and Condi Rice’s virtuoso dissembling abilities, and it’s already degenerated into:

Topic #1:I See Hawks In L.A. present Music from the Golden Age of Cocaine, a two CD boxed set: Jimmy Buffet, Toto, Steely Dan, Waylon Jennings, Stevie Nicks, Ricki Lee Jones, Elton John

Topic #2:If you were doing cocaine, what music would you want to listen to? Oingo Boingo, says Rick Shea. Steely Dan, says Rob, all Steely Dan all the time. Paul L. picks “Crossroads” by Cream, just that song, over and over. Rick Shea requests a qualifier: Oingo Boingo is what cocaine sounds like as personification of music. His real cocaine choice is Tony Rice. Shawn’s going with Cat Stevens, and Rob’s dropping Steely Dan for Hugh Masakela. Paul L.’s switching to Indian classical music. Rick Shea’s switching to Waylon Jennings.

Grapevines and orchards line the 5, not much cotton and alfalfa, as we cruise at 77 mph to Sacramento. Temperature gauge is normal, bananas, almonds, and organic Pop Tarts fuel the way.Rick Shea here: glad to be along with my good buddies the Hawks, looking forward to the shows, we just passed the 99 – 5 juncture, it doesn’t feel like we’ve really left town till we clear Bakersfield, 4 – 5 hours up the long stretch of the San Joaquin, clear and brown and flat, never changes too much, it used to bore me but now I look forward to it, one of the few things that seems to stay the same, I’m beginning to smell some new guy hijinks coming, better stay alert, more later…
Road Poem #1
by Rob Waller
green irrigated fields
yellow hills
brown mountains
black top
back pain
nuts and berries
new red tractors on trailers
the Firebaugh exit sign
an abandoned bowling ball
road heat coming up through the floor of the Bomb Squad mobile
Winnebago with a flag on it
faux log cabin trailer is an oversize load
consciousness
subconsciousness
repetition
orangiesh clay
corregated metal sheds by gravel parking lots
chemical odors
trying to make order
flying by a row of California
Live Oaks

by Buddy Blue

Mainstream country clearly contends for recognition as the most wretched music extant on the planet today; we all recognize this, no? The alt-country movement, on the other hand, is undoubtedly preferable, if characterized by three well-defined schools with issues of their own. They are:

1.) The self-serious arteests who perform with one foot in tradition and the other in contemporary, derivative  trendiness, inevitably becoming abysmally over-rated, cherished darlings of the rockcritc set despite sounding as if they believe playing music some gallant mission with earth-shaking ramifications, as opposed to something so frivolous as, oh, say, actually having fun. Exhibit A: Son Volt.

2.) The frat-boy-sensibility-having, white-trash-chic funsters, whose sophomoric sense of humor inexorably celebrates double-wides, methamphetamine abuse and semi-functional automobiles, and who glean tremendous pride in their studiously cretinous persona and lack of musical skill, but who have a wonderful time entertaining their heavily-tattooed, halitosis-afflicted fan base. Exhibit A: Supersuckers.

3.) The piously retro singer-songwriter who slavishly assumes the sound and appearance of Merle Haggard, Hank Williams or Johnny Cash, and who shamelessly plagiarizes the songs of one or more of the above, while employing a group of ace sidemen from Austin to camouflage the fact that they can’t play a note and possess nothing original whatsoever to offer. Exhibit A: Wayne Hancock.

  Happily, an antidote to all this alt-unpleasantness appears Saturday night at Acoustic Music San Diego in the form of a group curiously christened I See Hawks In L.A. Where the alt-schools above draw their inspiration from the honky tonkin’ ’50s and/or post-punk ’80s, the Hawks’ sound derives from the nascent country-rock merger of that most musically fertile of decades: the ’60s, an era oddly ignored by most alt-slingers.
  On the Hawks’ second and latest album, “Grapevine,” one encounters the thrill-seeking, psychedelic cowboy sensibility of the Grateful Dead and New Riders of the Purple Sage; the cactus harmony and ghost town steel guitar of Gram Parson’s Byrds and Flying Burrito Brothers; the earnest, pastoral songcraft and time-honored instrumentation of Johns Stewart and Prine.
  “We don’t want to be all about old Cadillacs and wife-beater T-shirts,” says singer/guitarist Robert Rex Waller Jr., who’s joined in the Hawks by guitarist Paul Lacques, fiddler Brantley Kearns, bassist Paul Marshall and drummer Shawn Nourse. “On the other hand,” Waller says, “we don’t feel the need to dress up like Gram Parsons, either. I love Gram Parsons, but I don’t have to put on a Nudie suit to prove it. With some people, the fashion aspect is as far as it goes; their music doesn’t even necessarily reflect that (love of Parsons).”
  Nope, the Hawks are hardly about fashion, vintage or otherwise. Variously bearded, balding, bounteous-bellied and bespectacled, this isn’t a group to dazzle with image; these guys are all about the music. It’s no coincidence that most of the acts name-checked above hail from the Golden State, either.
  “Our vision is as a California country outfit, writing songs about the whole Californian experience,” Waller says. “There’s also the aspect of the effect California had on country music, adding electricity and sort of a psychedelic sound. Bands like the Byrds took roots music and paid homage to it very respectfully, but also added vocal harmonies, effects and other experimentation. Those are the two streams that came together for us; country music with that rich, reverby, psychedelic thing.”
 The multi-generational Hawks range in age from thirties to fifties, helping to strike an uncommon balance between veteran instinct and youthful daring; members have worked with an array of artists from old-time country icons Rose Maddox and Hank Thompson to contemporary roots music heroes Dave Alvin and Dwight Yoakam. Just don’t try to lump these guys in with the usual alt-county suspects.
  “People talk to me like they think we’re doing the same kind of thing as Son Volt or Ryan Adams, and I really don’t understand where that comes from,” protests Waller. “I can’t even listen to that stuff!”
  You are not alone, Mr. Waller.

I See Hawks In L.A., June 4 at Normal Heights United Methodist Church, 4650 Mansfield Street in San Diego, 7:30 p.m., $15 – $20, (619) 303-8176.
Buddy Blue is a San Diego musician, writer and all-around curmudgeon. His Blue Notes column runs weekly in Night&Day in the San Diego Union Tribune

See the full article by Theo Douglas at OC Weekly (excerpt below)

“I guess we are kind of an alt.-country type of band,” admits I See Hawks in L.A. singer Robert Rex Waller Jr., cozying up to a label that by now means whatever you want. When he says it, though, you can almost hear Faithless Street-era Ryan Adams sing ” . . . so I started this here country band,” yodeling a bit.

Hawks is that kind of band: high, lonesome vocals (they’re also a bit guttural and twangy) and sparse, spare, slightly psychedelic guitars.

See the full review by Ron Garman at Los Angeles City Beat (excerpts below)

“…wry tales of everyday West Coast life told with bittersweet Appalachian toughness and near-psychedelic instrumental flourishes.”

“The careful, layered instrumentation and traditional arrangements on their sophomore release, Grapevine, work remarkably well onstage, with songs like “Humboldt” (a dope-grower’s lament) and “Still Want You” pulling the plow like a Merle Haggard 45.”

Recording our new CD continues at Paul Dugre’s studio in Burbank, at what must be described as a leisurely pace. Where did March go? Between guitar overdubs, Paul L. has taken to puffing on Dugre’s classic tobacco pipe after seeing Rob enwreathed in a thick and fragrant cloud of smoke, quite a sight. Electric guitar, Rob’s lead vocals, backgrounds, dobro–the Hawks are almost done. Then it’ll be on to nitpicking, i.e. mixing.

Tommy Funderburk, reknowned session vocalist now kicked upstairs to executive at Sovereign Records, did several background vocal parts and some heavy metallizing on “Jackpot.” Cody Bryant and Rick Shea dropped by for a live recording of banjo and acoustic guitars with the Pauls and Rob, three takes of “Golden Girl” in a half hour and these scary pros were done. Rick also added some righteous acoustic guitar, electric guitar, and old time mandolin on “Byrd From West Virginia.”A few days later Dave Zirbel drove down from way up north and laid down his classic pedal steel lines on a number of Hawks songs, went on a hike with Paul L. in startlingly green and waterlogged Griffith Park, got back in his truck and powered home on the 5.

Next came our Sovereign labelmate Chris Hillman, who showed up at noon on the dot with his new Gibson mandolin and nailed “Golden Girl,” “California Country,” and “Hard Times” in two hours. The guy can play. At one point Paul L. realized he was giving direction to the man who wrote “Sin City” and got a little lightheaded, but recovered, hopefully didn’t appear too starstruck. Live shows have been sparse but good, including a show with Mike Stinson at the Echo in Echo Park, Coles with the always scary Kip Boardman and Tony Gilkyson, a March Coles show with equally scary Lisa Haley and her rockin acoustic Cajun band, and a great house concert at Jeff and Paddi’s Highland Park aerie.

April arrived and the four Hawks drove to Santa Monica and signed with Sovereign, in a business meeting/yukfest that promised a September release of the new Hawks CD. We were considering “Kill Whitey” as album title, now thinking about others. Suggestions from the people?

We love our drummer Shawn Nourse but by his own admission he needs a new stage name. What do you think his stage name should be? Send your entry to Name Our Drummer Contest. Our panel of judges will trim the herd down to three choices and a final online vote will take place Workers of the World Day, May 1st, 2005. The winning name author will win a dream date with the Hawk of their choice as well as live on forever in Hawk’s history.* So send those entries in!
*conditions and restrictions may appl.