Hawks

We’ve escaped San Francisco. Just barely, but we’re out. The heavy fog disoriented the band. It was 105 F at the Fresno County Line. In forty short miles, over the Bay Bridge, and the temperature drops to 55 F. A fifty degree drop. How can anyone expect a country rock band to deal with this kind of temperature fluctuation? San Francisco is a strange city for me to play now. It’s full of ghosts. Some good, some bad. But it’s just damn cold there. Especially in the summer. The gig at The Parkside was all right but, Jesus, it was so cold. Anyway, it’s all miles behind us now.

We just stopped in Williams, California for lunch. Thank God, we found a gem. Roberta’s Taqueria. HAWKS NON CORPORATE FOOD RECOMMENDATION. It’s the real deal. Excellent, homemade Mexican food. If you’re traveling north on the I-5 take the 2nd Williams exit. Go left. Roberta’s is the yellow stand at the corner of 5th and E Streets. Dave Zirbel and I each had the Chicken Super Burrito. I really like my chicken burritos to have a lot of sour cream. And it did. Damn, it was delicious. PM had a Carnitas Torta. He sat there with his glasses off, savoring it, his eyes showing his love for the Mexican sandwhich. SN had the Carne Asada Super Burrito. He nearly ate it in one bite. Everything was delicious. Man, we really needed a good lunch. We were all pretty starving. We got up and drove too long before eating. Sometimes on the road a midday meal can either make or break your day. We scored today.

I
The broken pillar of the wing jags from the clotted shoulder,
The wing trails like a banner in defeat,
No more to use the sky forever but live with famine
And pain a few days: cat nor coyote
Will shorten the week of waiting for death, there is game without talons.
He stands under the oak-bush and waits
The lame feet of salvation; at night he remembers freedom
And flies in a dream, the dawns ruin it.
He is strong and pain is worse to the strong, incapacity is worse.
The curs of the day come and torment him
At distance, no one but death the redeemer will humble that head,
The intrepid readiness, the terrible eyes.
The wild God of the world is sometimes merciful to those
That ask mercy, not often to the arrogant.
You do not know him, you communal people, or you have forgotten him;
Intemperate and savage, the hawk remembers him;
Beautiful and wild, the hawks, and men that are dying, remember him.

III’d sooner, except the penalties, kill a man than a hawk;
but the great redtail
Had nothing left but unable misery
From the bone too shattered for mending, the wing that trailed under his talons when he moved.
We had fed him six weeks, I gave him freedom,
He wandered over the foreland hill and returned in the evening, asking for death,
Not like a beggar, still eyed with the old
Implacable arrogance.
I gave him the lead gift in the twilight.
What fell was relaxed, Owl-downy, soft feminine feathers; but what
Soared: the fierce rush: the night-herons by the flooded river cried fear at its rising
Before it was quite unsheathed from reality.

* Thanks to our friend Kathy who sent in this great poem.

“The current is becoming wilder, more capricious. It’s all absurd, and I’ll never understand why I set out on this enterprise. It’s always the same at the start of a journey. Then comes the soothing indifference that makes everything all right. I can’t wait for it to arrive.”
— Alvaro Mutis, from The Snow of the Admiral

PM, Shawn, and I are back in the Yukon heading north. PL and Victoria are up ahead somewhere in their own vehicle. We’re picking up our badass steel player, Dave Zirbel, in SF tonight. Stage two is underway. Right now we’re listening to The Herbivores, the Hempfest organizer’s band. It’s jammin’ reggae/ska with a John Scofield-like rhythm section. The Herbivores go on at 4:20 pm. They’re right after Leon Hendrix (Jimmy’s brother) who’s right after us. We’re getting psyched up for the fest. It’s really the focus of this leg of the journey. What the reality of the scene will be none of us can know.

I-5 is so familiar it doesn’t feel like we’re leaving anywhere yet. We tried to gas up in Grapevine but they were gouging at $2.59 a gallon. Not cool. So we got ten bucks worth and drove down the road. I passed an ARCO offering $1.98 so we hit the breaks on the Yukon and took her into the median for an illegal U-turn. Lucklily, no cops. Got the cheap gas. Fucking gas.

The alarm cruelly sounded at 7 a.m. at the Quality Inn in a funky zone of Dallas, and the band lurched to the breakfast Continental in the lobby and speed-loaded Raisin Bran, pastries, and coffee into their systems, speed loaded the Yukon and drove north towards Denton and a rendezvous with the 281 to Amarillo. The 800 mile drive took the predicted 13 hours, but the Texas/New Mexico dry country was a gentle green from a rainy summer, and beautiful rolling hill scrub pastures and red earth muddy rivers guided us westward. It was a good vibe drive. A final Waffle House visit east of Tucumcari: Paul Marshall orders the bacon and one egg, hash browns smothered, coffee (several refills), and raisin toast; Rob has the pork chop sandwich with hash browns smothered, peppered, and covered, and a diet coke; Paul Lacques has his customary cheese omlette and hash browns smothered and covered, and of course raisin toast and coffee; Shawn takes the ham and cheese omelette with grits and raisin toast, just water, please. It was good.

We reached Gallup, 6500 feet in altitude, near sunset, and the red earth glowed under silver clouds, crossed over a railroad line and the Puerco River and pulled into the parking lot of El Rancho Hotel, a 1938 extravaganza, home to movie stars filming westerns in Monument Valley, with the neon entrance motto: “The romance of yesterday, the convenience of tomorrow.” Rob’s old friend Buck set up the show in the El Rancho and introduced our record to KGAC, All Navajo All The Time radio. They’re playing it, and we’re psyched. Buck greeted us at the El Rancho, and he and his lovely wife Liz helped us set up the P.A., and we got our cool rooms (the Burt Lancaster and the Dennis Morgan) in the momento and turquoise and Indian Art bedecked hotel. The show was mild anarchy and just great. The audience is a mixture of Navajo locals, hippies, Caucasians of category defying origin, and the obnoxious British correspondent from CNN, who looks and talks exactly like he does on TV. The band got an extra charge from a customary round of 101 Wild Turkey due to the high altitude, and dug into the songs with extra abandon. The beer flowed like wine from our listening friends, with much rough edged banter, and the Hawks soared ever higher. Just before the end of the first set we play “Dog.” Spontaneously, several members of the crowd begin to howl and bark. We’re pretty sure they’ve never heard this song before which can only mean they are listening and responding. This kind of thing doesn’t happen in New York City. The crowd was great. Gallup has soul. We mixed Waylon and Merle into the set list, and the crowd was well pleased.

Deep into the second set, we realized that we might be in for a long (or much shorter) evening, when the bartendress, of noble bearing, was abruptly hauled off in handcuffs past the stage, on to jail. She apparently was entrapped by undercover cops who got her to sell a drink to an “underage” narc. Paul Marshall did a very kind and effective announcement to the crowd, who promptly evacuated the room as if it were burning down. No booze, no show in Gallup. We hung and chatted with folks who stuck around, including a cool Navajo guy who told us about Canyon de Chelly. I hope we can play a reservation on our return. Late night dining at Christy’s diner, and our last night of this leg comes to an end.
I must say, I being Shawn, the sandwich I ordered was top notch, perhaps the best diner sandwhich I’ve ever had in my life. It’s called the Aztec sandwich and it rules. Basically it’s a grilled cheese with bacon and Ortega chiles. But it was something else too. While I’m doing this entry Rob say’s, “Hey, are you assholes ready to find out how much money you lost on this tour?” Well I don’t know if I’m really ready…but here we go.

And then, after all is said, done, and paid for (gas, lodging, booze, etc. etc.) we discover we’ve avoided the very real possibility of totally losing our ass and have actually come out ahead.

But back to Texas. Dallas in fact. We left Austin feeling strong, well-loved, and even well-rested. The drive to Dallas was brief for this trip (3 hours or so). We stopped midway at the famous George-0’s in Waco. This tour has turned into a real celebration of regional foods for the Hawks. We ate Queso, big burgers, Shrimp Poor Boys, Peach Cobbler. It was great but we felt a bit out place in this joint. The walls are covered with photos of members of the current administration (in order of actual power): Cheney , Condi Rice, even W. himself. A elderly couple sits next to us. The wife is criticizing the way her husband eats. Her voice sounds as if she smoked filterlesss Lucky Strikes for the last 75 years or so. She growls things like, “Don’t play with it! Just eat it,” and “You don’t know what you’re doing!” The old man ignores her. He seems to have cultivated this skill very well over the years. The whole scene is entertaining but also sad and a bit scary. Marriage is a powerful institution.

After lunch, we make it to Dallas. The accurate directions provided by Mike Snider of the All Good Cafe take us right through Dealy Plaza to the giddy delight of PL. There’s nothing like the Grassy Knoll. When we arrive, Texas singer, songwriter Max Stalling is thrilling the crowd. Mike helps us in with our gear. He’s a real gentleman and one of the finest, nicest, most generous club owners these Hawks have ever had the good fortune to work with. He feeds us, keeps our glasses filled with beer, gives us a great introduction and off we go. Bubba from Brave Combo sent a few cool folks our way, and we have a few true fans in Dallas who seem to know the words to several of our tunes. It’s always a trip to wander into a strange city and have that experience. We play a long set then hang with Mike and the All Good staff in the back. He pulls a bottle of whiskey from his desk drawer, gives us more than the guarantee, and passes some righteously twisted Texas truth. This is what it’s all about. Texas, you’ve been good to us. We’ll miss you.

Kudzu appears to be creeping well over the Louisiana/Texas state line. Onward we drove through the swamps of east Texas, speculating on how long the endless I-10 bridges over alligators and turtles might last before Nature pulls them under. Darkness reminded us of our possibly out of reach downbeat as we cut northwest through La Grange. The outskirts of Austin finally greeted us.

We pulled up at the Hole in the Wall at 10:20pm, just a few minutes late. We piled out of the Yukon dazed and disoriented, were greeted by L.A. expatriates Gil T., Johnny Fargo, Laura I, Laura II and Todd, and Lacques brother Peter and his sweetheart Dr. Dana. We unloaded and set up quickly and gradually sunk our feet into Texas one song at a time. A grand time was had by all, two sets including an epic Humboldt. Stony steel guitarist Gary Newcomb (from Lil Capn Travis, more about them later) strolled by the club, came in and dug some tunes. Very cool club and we’re coming back soon. A late night of migas and other local cuisine at Kerby Lane, and the Hawks headed to the Holiday Inn and Dr. Dana’s graceful creekside Austin abode, to sleep perchance to dream.Next day was a free day. God knows what Rob and Paul M. did at the Holiday Inn, something involving herbally enhanced chocolate sludge. Shawn and Paul L. went down to the river with Dana and Pete at Red Bud park, paddling around in the shore waters. Dana and Pete decided to swim across the river, a 75 yard dash against a strong current. Caught up in the enthusiasm, Paul L. plunged in with them, and 2/3 of the way across realized he’s not exactly an Olympic caliber freestylist, and paused to catch his breath. The current dragged him downstream with impressive speed, to where the river opened up another hundred yards in width. Okay. No swimming back to the shore of departure. Noting Shawn’s helpless and quietly panicked expression on the distant shore, Paul briefly considered the public embarrassment of drowning in a municipal park, then flipped on his back and struggled to the far shore, the welcome sight of overhead branches signaling his reprieve from the meeting with the Maker.

Dana lent Paul her sandals, swimming back across with Pete, and retired swimmer Paul stumbled and cursed through native Austin Cliffside foliage, destination the distant highway bridge. A shortcut through eerie UT student housing lawnage, the shrieks of distant children at play wafting through the air, led semi-naked Paul, doing his best non-pervert imitation, to the highway. A sense of triumph took over, as cheating death usually does, and Paul’s step was downright jaunty as he rejoined his shoreline friends.The band and friends dined that evening at a legendary Austin eatery, which gets a
HEARTY HAWKS NON CORPORATE FOOD RECOMMENDATION:

I, Chihuahua is a nouvelle TexMex joint opened by Doug Sahm and Roky Erickson of the 13th Floor Elevators in the mid-1970s. Buddy Holly’s eyeglasses and left femur are on display in a glass case, and a dobro signed by virtually all of Texas music royalty circles the log cabin walls on a model train track. The bar is simulation of the Brazos river, where giant beer schooners are floated downstream to the barstool sitters. A Ralph Nader video loops constantly (on Tuesdays it’s Noam Chomsky, on Wednesdays Jim Hightower) on monitors embedded in Lyndon Johnson toilet seats, and a petting zoo with pigmy bison keeps the kids entertained. In an interesting twist, the beautiful waitresses wear heavy dresses made of Austin limestone slabs. The 7 page menu includes a calf slaughtered and smoked at your tableside, unwashed homefries still caked with red clay, jalapeno meringue pie, and defibrillator stations for the 72 ounce steak eaters. We chose to sit in the universal smoking section, where Our Lady of Guadalupe (pronounced “Guada-loop”) candles cut through the thick haze. No one remembers exactly what happened next, but all agree it was a place worth returning to.

Next morning the Hawks rendezvoused at KUT, where a big league engineer set up a great acoustic sound in the studio, and DJ Jeff did a brisk, pro interview (other than describing the song “I See Hawks In L.A.” as a refreshingly positive song about Los Angeles, check out the lyrics closely, homie).That night proved to be a memorable highlight to the tour. The Hawks did an acoustic set to a music lover audience in the legendary Cactus Café on the UT campus, hallowed ground where Townes Van Zandt and Ralph Stanley posters gaze down like Emperor Constantine. Sound man Jeff (no relation) knows what he’s doing, and we reveled in the sweet acoustic sound. Wise booker Griff has put together another fine combination of bands at the Cactus. Quirky nouveau-waver Jerm Pollet followed with a tightly arranged and damn funny inwardly pointing shoes Elvis Costello homage, with a drummer Stacy looking on from her throne like a bemused aunt at the Jerm antics. Li’l Cap’n Travis then took and commanded the stage with a truly psychedelic country rock set, and the Hawks knew we’d found another musical ally for the slow but relentless assault on the Nashville death star: rich harmonies, sprawling arrangements, spacey and super creative steel and guitar, and low key humor throughout. LCT is a force to be reckoned with. Floating into the Austin balmy late night air (uncharacteristic norther cold front) on a spiritual lake of Shiner Bock, the Hawks returned to their abodes.
Rob’s fucking with my cell phone infrastructure, how’d he get in so fast.

Waterbury, Vermont. Taking advantage of one of the perks allocated a touring country rock band, we dine between sets at Waterbury Wings, a local watering hole where we’re set up on the floor in a corner by the bar. It’s incredibly hot and muggy inside the building, more so because they’ve brought in some semi-professional stage lighting, so that, even without an official stage, we’ve been standing under white and yellow lights that would keep your French fries plenty toasty. We’re sweat drenched. The truly curious have come inside to hear us play, but the more prudent are enjoying our music from the safe distance of an outdoor patio, where it’s a little less hot and stuffy. Eventually, it will rain, increasing the humidity.
We enjoy burgers, fish sandwiches (PL), and the “Waterbury Wings”: some really spicy chicken wings. More beer, please. After the show, a guy named Steve introduces himself, and gets to talking about Strawberry Alarm Clock history, his past musical career, I See Hawks on the road, and the general difficulties of touring. He says he’d like to help us out by treating us to a dinner at his restaurant. He says it’s the best restaurant for miles around. We are not about to pass this one up. So we agree to show up for dinner the next night.
Steve’s restaurant turns out to be well known among the locals, and everyone agrees that it is one damn fine restaurant. They compliment us on our good luck, and we end up bringing Mark, Eric, Carter, Chani, and the baby (Elvin) along with us.
It’s called the Mist Grill. It used to be Waterbury’s old Grist Mill. Cute. And beautiful. It’s got old timbers from the old mill. One wall is all native rock, laid without mortar, and the banquettes are carved from wood from the original building’s interior.
Steve is an incredible host. And the restaurant is 5 stars, no doubt. He brings us appetizers of small, delicious vegetarian pizzas made with chanterelle mushrooms picked in the woods behind the restaurant, and the best gazpacho I’ve ever tasted. Our entrees are unbelievably delicious. I had a rib eye with an incredible raspberry glaze. PL’s soy salmon was as good as salmon gets. I sat next to Eric, giving me a chance to steal a bite of his pork chop. Great! And the accompanying potato and vegetable sides were mouth wateringly good. We enjoyed a French Cotes du Rhone white wine, and a California Pinot Noir, and topped it off with some decadent desserts. Turns out that Steve’s Grist Mill has been featured on the Food Network, and that grillmeister, Bobby Flay, has done a feature with Steve. If you’re ever near Waterbury, Vermont, The Mist Grill is a Hawks recommendation. Thanks, Steve. Life is good!
When I was touring the country in the late ’60’s and early ’70’s, I was more interested in other things the road had to offer. But now, food seems to occupy my thoughts. In Nashville, we hit a food and family home run, courtesy of Billy and Jill Block.
Driving in from Atlanta, we had a few hours before our gig at Douglas Corners. B & J invited us over for a BBQ. Jill filled up a bowl with fresh fruit. Out of California and dependent on late night restaurants, fresh fruit is a precious rarity. We began to scarf. Chips and homemade guacamole were next.
Billy and Jill have two great sons, Rocky, age 7 and Grady, age 4. While we waited for Billy to get home from work, we played baseball in the backyard with Rocky and Grady. The team of Rocky, Grady, and Shawn ended up outscoring the team of Rob, Paul and Paul, but it was close. Shawn’s home run over the back fence was the difference in the game. Billy might have thought that we were degenerates from reading our other journal entries, but we managed to rehabilitate our image by running around in the backyard with his kids. I See Hawks In L.A.: A wholesome band and not at all dangerous. Wives and children are safe with us!
As the game raged on, Billy BBQ’d up burgers, sausages, chicken, and veggie kabob’s and Jill made a giant salad. Play was suspended while we ate and drank and talked and enjoyed the best weather Nashville had to offer. A beautiful evening. Shawn was really in his element, sitting on the lawn eating with Rocky and Grady, and then getting roped into hide and seek. Finally, Grady taught Shawn a thing or two about drumming, and we drove off in the sunset to our final Nashville gig.
Douglas Corners was good, giving us the feeling that we had vanquished The Dark Force. Mervin, Kacey Jones, Matt Rieser and Richard Ferreira gave us love and hope. But we left nothing to chance, and decided to drive straight to Memphis rather than risk sleeping in Nashville. We could sense the swirling Nashvillian vortex revving up, as the trusty Yukon roared through the darkness toward Memphis, Beale St., Graceland, Stax, Sun Studios, and ultimately, some world famous catfish in Taylor, Mississippi.

Oh, and just to set the record straight, I never touched the piss bottle.PM

We get off the road in Birmingham. The Mapquest directions take us right through what appears to be the main Housing Projects of Birmingham. One of the units, right next to the club, is burned to the ground. There are five people in the club. Two bartenders, a couple guys at the bar, and a baby. Not sure who the baby belongs to. This is weird. There’s no sign of our posters. Nothing in the press. We know of no local radio support. We thought we were opening for Daniel Johnston. It’s Daniel Johnson, local singer-songwriter and he’s opening for us in a town where we know no one. When the sound man finally arrives he tells us we’re on at midnight or later. We have a 13 hour drive ahead of us to Austin where we have friends, press and radio support. We decide to bail. The booking agent is understandably pissed. It gets ugly. There’s no way around it. Birmingham is a fucked-up situation. We try to find the freeway. We can’t. Eventually we find our way to Interstate. Let’s get the fuck out of Alabama.