News & Opinion

October 11, fall of the west 2006

Western Beat on at Highland Grounds (on Highland, of course, just north of Melrose, and just west of an alley where a homeless man has been defying death for years by sleeping next to a fence inches from late night DUI drivers rolling past) has been happening once a month for fifteen years.Tonight Bliss is the gracious host (check out her invaluable guide to local roots music of all styles at americanarootsla.net), and her good vibe, as usual, permeates the room. L.A.’s finest alt roots country acts get 20 minutes each, and a very attentive crowd cheers, surrounding the stage. The Hawks lurk in a corner settling up the last of summer tour money, nursing their Makers Marks. “Good pour,” notes Rob, and indeed it is a generous shot of amber liquid in the glass. “Big Whiskey,” we decide, is a good alternate name for the good pour.

Clair Holley and Rob Seals precede the Hawks, and they are a masterful duo, Clair’s super pro picking and velvet voice filled out by Rob’s ace solos, which the crowd digs. The Hawks play electric sans Shawn, who’s out whoring, backing up a San Bernardino welder at a Moose lodge in Idlewild, playing Elvis and Toby Keith songs. The Hawks do no Elvis, but play their eponymous theme, A Dog Can Break Your Heart Too, Carbon Dated Love, and Libre Road. No country rock tunes, and it feels somber and great. The crowd seems to dig it much. Thank you Bliss, for who you are and what you do.

October 2 ’06

Paul L and wife Victoria, who joined the Hawks in Chicago, are driving back to the Windy City to visit Victoria’s old haunts. They stop for a Dinkeytown (Minneapolis, early haunt of pre-self invented Bob Dylan) breakfast at Al’s, which is just as delicious as it was on the Hawks previous visit, a long narrow womb with just a counter and a brilliant fry cook. Eggs Jose, a peak of breakfast experience. They wander back roads to the western bank of the Mississipi, which is showing off its Huck Finn wide majesty and fall colors, on an eerily warm Indian Summer day. Lazy, in haze, to end of day.East towards Madison, and into a towering and glowering black sky, and as the sun drops big lightning fills the horizons. Big hailstones fall, and traffic on the Interstate stops–these things could break windshields. On and off downpours into Chicago, where it really cuts loose. Victoria’s old neighborhood is flooded, too bold drivers trying to push their cars out of street ponds, fire engines screaming in all directions. Pretty exciting. Victoria and Paul are the only customers in LaRosa’s Pizza on Dempster in Evanston (or are we in Skokie?). This is the real Chicago pizza, not deep dish, but very thin crust, beats L.A.’s best by a mile. The owner entertains by mocking his delivery men, who have both gotten lost and then stuck in flood waters.
At the same time, Paul M is trying to get comfy on a bench at Chicago O’Hare airport. His flight to Omaha to visit son Scott has been canceled by the mad storm. Shawn and Rob are home. As will be the two Pauls and Victoria soon enough.

October 1 in the year of farewell to habeas corpus 2006

As we cross into Minnesota we honk the horn in celebration as we always do when crossing a frontier. But RW’s heart is conflicted as it always is when landing in the state where he was born. Minnesota. It looks like home. The air smells like home. The fall weather as is a familiar is it could possibly be. But a Minnesota homecoming is never a purely happy experience for RW. Haunting would be a better description. But as we push onward towards the Cities, jacked up on pie, with time to spare until our gig, things are pretty mellow. The dusk air is unusually warm for the first day of October. We aim the rental minivan for the 400 Bar, Dinkytown adjacent, backed up against the University. We load in and find the “dressing room,” a musty basement below the stage bearing graffiti from generations of Twin Cities rock shows. This place has the funk.

Things are looking pretty sleepy even for a Sunday night as we approach gig time The most activity is going on at the Muslim bakery next door to the club. It’s Ramadan and the sun has set so folks are coming out to eat and socialize, in caftans and caps, women in full veil. There’s no “Clash of Civilizations” going on here. The Minnesota Muslims are cheerful and welcoming. RW hangs in the parking lot with cousin Ben and his girlfriend Carolina. Old friend Jim and wife Katherine pull up. Dave Cox of Rochester, MN even shows up for a surprise. Cousins-in-law Alix and Caulder roll in with their spouses. Dennis P, Hawks’ counselor/enforcer/executive producer lingers in the shadows. Yes, there’s some fine folks here in Minnesota.

The 400 Bar is as bare bones as a rock club can be, but as the lights dim for downbeat, it’s suddenly atmospheric. The club hits a respectable threshold of attendees as the Hawks take the stage. It’s a reflective set with moments of rockness closing on a downbeat Midwestern version of “Houseboat.” Hiawatha, I hardly knew ya. Kid Dakota follows with a power duo–nice electric guitar work and tunes that are long odysseys, a pre-White Stripes White Stripes–but instead of a wraithlike female drummer with tentative command over the kit, a monster lurks, hunched over the drums, black hair dangling in his downturned face, filled with the spirit of Baker and Bonham, with some DeJohnette elbowing in amidst the thunder, some dainty cymbal work in the quiet interludes between merciless pounding. Ian Prince is his name, and he’s a rock drummer.

The Hawks slip away into the night, bound for different destinations.

Madison to Minnesota on this late September day is a textbook study in fall beauty. The woods redden and yellowen as we roll north and west on I-94. Dead corn stalks wither among the green fields. All is bucolic, with a few jarring intrusions–giant indoor water sports empires with family lodges and Ralph Lauren and Nike outlet stores that sprout like spores.

We’re sixteen miles from Osseo, WI, tiny town in the woods, home of the Norske Nook, pie restaurant extraordinaire and hotbed of Norse American ethnicity. Shawn Nourse is particularly excited and keeps calling out from the far back seat, “How far to the Nook? Do you think we missed it?” Oh no, Shawn. We have not missed it.*Minutes later we’re knee deep in pie. Apple pie, blueberry pie, and even Shawn’s chocolate mint pie — one bite of which could throw a healthy grown man into a diabetic coma. Thankfully, Shawn is not a healthy grown man. As the sugar takes hold the cute young and older waitresses seem to dance around the tables, floating through the air with de-caf coffee pots and carafes of ice water. Dressed in traditional Swedish gowns, they take on the form of Scandinavian Angels in this Pie Heaven.

As we resume our drive westward toward Rob’s home state, Shawn peacefully snoring in the back seat, the sun beats us to the horizon, a long and complex sunset, like a Speyside single malt from a cherry cask (sorry, Scotland casts a long psychic shadow). We approach the Mississippi in shadow.*Shawn’s Norseness is of undetermined degree; he’s more Irish than anything else, some believe.

September 30 06

The Old Town School of Folk Music is housed in a converted public library next to a beautiful park in a quaint and long established Chicago neighborhood of tree-lined streets and corner pubs. The auditorium is in the shape of a half circle. Above the stage is an original WPA mural representing Man, Industry, Agriculture and Learning. It’s a gorgeous room with high ceilings and tall balcony. It’s reminiscent of a Frank Lloyd Wright Unitarian Church. We unload and breeze through a near perfect sound check. This is a rare pleasure we all savor: a knowledgeable and tasteful sound man, high quality mics, a great sounding room. Tonight will be fun. We slip away to a nearby Mexican restaurant recommended by the sound man. It’s homey and quick and delicious. It’s no Red Iguana Café but it’s quite good, especially for those who skipped breakfast and haven’t eaten all day. We wolf our food and get back to the gig with about 15 minutes to spare.

The first set starts promptly at 7:05 just as they printed on the schedule. This is place is super organized. There’s even a big clock on the floor by the monitors to keep the band honest. The show is great. We’re all acoustic with Shawn playing his trademark ultra sensitive backup, wisk brooms on snare drum. It’s wonderful to hear the vocals so clearly and the audience is super appreciative. It’s a full house of 400 souls and they seem to like these new sounds out of California. Chris Hillman and ace guitarist Larry Park run through a dazzling series of tunes from Chris’s epochs: Byrds, Burrito Brothers, the under-heralded Manassas, Desert Rose, and solo. This guy wrote or co-wrote “Sin City,” “Wheels,” “It Doesn’t Matter,” and hearing these songs from the Country Rock Canon straight from the horse’s mouth is more than a little thrilling.

Did we mention that we’re having fun? The Hawks close out the night, and the late night crowd is smaller, and somehow mysterious peppered with Coles regulars, our good old (young) friends whooping and hollering: “Yeah, Paul Marshall!” ritual cry is raised, to our hometown amusement. We say farewell to Chris and Larry, to our Coles friends, and we hit the road, late night laborious drive down one lane of under construction highway to Madison, Wisconsin. We arrive bleary eyed at the outer Madison home of Rob’s in-laws, the Williamses, music and art aficionados with comfy beds. Good sleep, good breakfast and conversation with Jane and Elliot, and we’re off for Minneapolis.

September 30 ’06

The Hawks are back on the road. Specifically, the I-65 north, rising and falling through rolling midwestern hills and browning corn fields. This is the heart of Indiana, the trampled and discarded soul of America. Do these good people really support torture, the end of habeas corpus, wiretaps and secret prisons? I just can’t believe it but perhaps we have all been that effectively terrified. Terrified not by Osama and the Beheaders (Sony/BMG), but by our own cowardly leaders. Men and women who lack the moral courage to face down the hijackers and the suicide bombers with the rule of law and old fashioned human rights. Yes. The heartland. That’s where we are. But we are far from these grim thoughts most of the time. We talk of drummers and drumming as we always do when packed into a van. Our gig last night in Louisville was dreamy and surreal. The Phoenix Hill Tavern is a converted River Boat factory in an old part of town where brick buildings line narrow streets all leading to the river. The club is enormous. Three floors of brass and ferns, tchotshkis and retro-flair. We’re up against The Rolling Stones tonight who are out at Churchill downs. Tough competition.

Our superstar hosts Bill and Rebecca have booked the show, picked us up at the airport, regaled us with details of local Louisville lore, and fed us in a band guest house that’s been hermetically sealed since the 70’s. Floor to ceiling deep ply carpeting, mirrored tables with vintage cocaine residue–essence of the decade dedicated to pleasure and androgyny. Rob’s hometown buddy Mike and his great girlfriend Sonia join us in the hospitality lounge to eat sandwiches and drink grapefruit juice. The couple has driven down from Bloomington for the show. They’re both graduate students at the university. Mike studies philosophy, Sonia, Public Health and Human Sexuality. She shows the band an easy way to find the g-spot. If only we’d have known this crucial information in High School. We’re greeted in the Phoenix Hill fern/concert room by Denny Anderson, who hands us a welcome to Kentucky gift that can’t be beat: a bottle of Woodford bourbon and a bottle of Knob Creek. We immediately break open the Woodford, which is a distilled spirit to rival in sophistication any of Scotland’s finest. Hail, Denny, and wife Barbara.

Louisville is one of those towns the Hawks feel an immediate kinship with. There’s not a hint of pretension among the many fine folks we meet tonight. The landscape is mellow and mysterious, large stone and brick 19th century middle class palaces tucked into river bluffs under great old trees, lonely warehouse blocks where the midnight trains roll through.The show is good, we rock a modest sized but very enthusiastic house, co-billed with the Trustees of Modern Chemistry, who are like ourselves big Big Lebowski fans and do politically informed rock with twang and djembe. We’ll be back for sure, Louisville. The plan is to play a Derby Party to finance the trip, then do Louisville and adjacent shows. This Louisville/Chicago/Minneapolis tourette is a test run of a touring model: secure a good paying show, fly in and do regional shows. So far so good.

Our gently decaying Soviet apartment block-style Days Inn is packed with Rolling Stones fans who have flown in from all over the country for a rare appearance of the Devil’s apprentices at Churchill Downs. Matrons with the giant red tongue covering their matronly front wander the balconies looking for ice, and weathered bleach blondes of all genders pose rocklike in the lobby. It’s a scene.Rob is eating an O’brien Cheddar and Beef stick. There’s a leprechaun on the package. “Taste the Magic!”, he cheerfully calls out. Somehow the two have been married in a homogenous brown cigarillo sized sausage. Rob gives it one thumb up in the Hawks Do In A Pinch Road Food Evaluation. We’re on a tight (i.e. running late) run up to Chicago, under mellow Hoosier skies.

Patrick, son-in-law of Paddi and Jeff, who do great house concerts in Mount Washington, is a former all star college linebacker and baseball catcher now in the commodity trading pit in Chicago. His sister Kerry is also a big league talent, won a cheerleading (i.e. gymnast) scholarship to Louisville, and won the national championship. Patrick and fellow commodities trader and Vermonter Mark are driving us to Chicago in a mini-van that we’ve packed with our gear and our selves. Fear The Reaper by BOC is playing for the second time this morning. In this version they’ve edited out the long faux flamenco guitar interlude, much to Paul L’s dismay.

Classic rock has been our soundtrack since landing in Louisville. At Phoenix Hill Tavern high quality 70’s rock blasted the house before we played. Heart’s “Crazy On You” was a revelation on the big speakers. Ann Wilson is an amazing singer, and the band rocks as big as the biggest. Heart, we never knew ye.

NPR (No Problems Radio) just did a story on big pot growers on national forest land. The message is clear: grow your own. Mega growers use pesticides and artificial fertilizers, leave massive garbage pits, and contribute to stream runoff in the mountains. Your backyard shrub is your best guarantee of quality and purity.

Ya know–you can’t really influence global political-economic relations and events from your computer blog, or onstage in an alt alt country rock folk band. But we try. And if the last few diary entries appear a bit grim and earnest, we’ll try to cheer up. All this madness will pass, and as our good friend Brian Mello’s art predicts, bears will roam downtown L.A. once again. Humans won’t have to travel the globe to see wildlife. They’ll be an element of wildlife once again.
So here’s to philosopher Willie Nelson, whose zen-like ways just enabled him to get out of a one and a half pound pot bust in Louisiana with just a misdemeanor.
In his words we can find a bit of comfort and comraderie:
“Cowboys like smokey old pool rooms and clear mountain mornings
Little warm puppies and children and girls of the night
And them that don’t know him won’t like him
And them that do sometimes won’t know how to take him
He ain’t wrong he’s just different
but his pride won’t let him do things to make you think he’s right”