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Morning comes early for RW. He sneaks as quietly as he can out of the family room he’s sharing with PL at the Nottingham Travel Lodge. Down to the train station and onto a Virgin Rails train to Edinburgh where his family and in laws await. Good luck RW! See you Scotland!

The band woke with their usual leisure. Packing slowly but deliberately they made their way back to the minibus. There’s just no hurry today. It’s a driving day and we’ve got two days to go seven hours. In the USA, ISHILA would undertake such a drive in an afternoon, hope on the wide straight highways of America, set the cruise control at 85 and roll. But things are different here in Britain They left side driving, for instance, the roadabouts, and the wide narrow roads. So we’ll take our time. Further, we just like to adapt as much as possible to whatever region we are visiting. Things move a little slower over here and so shall wee. So it goes for this anti-global, international-traveling country rock band.

Robin Hood references abound. Our Travelodge is on Maid Marian Way. Statues of archers and merry men are everywhere. The Sheriff of Nottingham does not arrest us as we drive madly down the incomprehensible roads, trying to find the motel and the gig. We’ve violated many traffic laws, and circled endlessly through unmarked streets. We’ve passed that corner four times already. Shawn, Rob, and PL seem to have mastered the right hand drive from the left hand lane, but we still can’t follow the directions. Lookout for that roundabout! A great castle sits on a rocky hill overlooking the city, There’s a pub called the “Trip to Jerusalem” built into the base of one the cliffs at it’s base. The pub itself is connected to network of tunnels that rum beneath the old castle. You can sit and drink your pint at a table in the limestone caves.

The gig turns out to be great. To our delight and surprise, the house is full of enthusiastic ISHILA fans and new converts. One guy has driven 100 miles to see us (quite a long distance in the British Isles). We’re surprised and grateful. The staff runs out to get us great, huge, paper wrapped fish and chips. When Shawn opens his package he exclaims, “Oh my god! There’s a whole fish in there!” Indeed, there is. We devour the very hot food in the cold, half-outdoor dressing room. Yum. The amps don’t blow up, yet. Post gig we hang with the locals, drink tasty ales. RW gets bought shots by a Polish guy and his Greek brother in law. In younger days, RW would’ve tried to catch up with how drunk they were in an act of international cooperation and competition—sort of treated it as an Olympic gathering of drunks. But times have changed and the responsibilities of fatherhood, lead singing, and co-tour managing ground him into a two shot minimum.

We pack up the minibus, find our way back to the Travel Lodge only hitting two fast-moving British curbs, unload, even park with a new found confidence. We’re getting the hang of this.

The weather has been spectacular since we stepped off the plane. Balmy, with puffy clouds in blue sky, and it feels very, very good. We motorway through very dry fields bounded by rows of trees, and forests, glimpses of Celts, Picts, Saxons, Vikings, Normans, and Angles in the dark shadows among the green. England, like much of northern planet Earth, is suffering from a drought. A golf course is mostly dry brown with patches of green. Northward. .

London is a swinging town. At sunset all the birds are out in their short shorts and mini-skirts, enjoying this fleeting summer bliss, with their Arab sisters in full veil, some with faces covered. Every nationality imaginable passes in moments on the crowded little streets, ancient stone buildings shadowed by modern concrete and glass highrises and towers, some actually quite beautiful. The energy is relaxed but charged up. Burberry, Camper, Starbucks, MacDonalds—they’re all here, but so are the Algerian brothers serving top notch pizza, and the fish & chips and the swinging fashion boutiques, and a row of vintage guitar with prices a bit too dear for all but the rock stars and the accountants and the lawyers. It’s London, spiritual child of swinging London.

It’s high noon and we’re on the motorway back to that which draws all roads, London. We’re going to circle the massive metropolis on the A25 and then north on the A2 to Nottingham, four hours north (pronounced “Notngm”). Rob is driving on the wrong side of the road with style and confidence. We’re feeling good. The kindly Victor Car Hire folks who have rented us this bulbous 8 passenger van have also given us a UK Atlas. Oops, we missed our turn. Do we exit Bexleyheath? We do.

Shearness is actually an island, where the mighty Thames becomes an estuary and merges with the English Channel and the Atlantic. It’s surrounded by the classic names from WWII and earlier times of invasion, rape, pillage, and flotilla: Southend On Sea, Portsmouth, Dover. Mark drove us along the massive concrete seawall and pointed out the ancient gunnery towers far out at sea, home of pirate radio Caroline in the 1960’s. In the harbor is a sunken American merchant ship loaded with unexploded shells from the Greatest War. This is where the Vikings made landing. Behind the seawall is an older seawall that protected a firing range, still a wide pasture. Mark’s mother manned (womanned) a search light in the WWII nights. War and its practicalities (including a no nonsense breakfast of runny eggs and sausage, time to get on with it) haunt this otherwise pastoral lowland. England’s countryside is yielding to motorway lights, housing tracts, and power plants that dominate the view. The cows and furrowed fields seem like an afterthought, living on borrowed time. Although we must eat.Paul L has suffered from severe jetlag (worse when traveling east, defying nature in even more egregious fashion) his whole life, and was in mortal fear of having to do a gig and traveling while in a near vegetative state. But he has escaped jetlag almost completely this time, and wishes to share his recipe:

Get a good night’s sleep before your flight. Pack two days before so you’re not panicking as you leave the house. Take an evening flight, in this case to London Heathrow. Purchase No Jet Lag ™ at Trader Joe’s and take your first pill waiting for your flight at the airport. Treat the ritual humiliation of electronic strip search with bemusement. Bring two bottles of water and chug from them obsessively. Take the No Jet Lag pill every two hours. An hour into your flight take a half a valium courtesy Paddy McCorkle, rogue pharmacist. Fall asleep.Wake in time for your croissant and yogurt. Don’t eat the yogurt. When you get off the plane, do not fret over the fact that somehow it’s now 3:30 in the afternoon. Enjoy the sights from Heathrow into London. Set up your gear in the rock club, drink beer and tequila, have pizza, and play an electric country rock show. Have a midnight falafel. Drive one and a half hours to your late night accommodations. Smoke hashish rolled into stinky tobacco and drink more beer with Russell, your kindly host, a 62 year old Shell Oil retired engineer with stories to tell. Chat till 3:30 a.m. whilst watching VH1’s band reunion show, starring the entire original lineup of Berlin. Curl up on the settee (a couch that’s too short to sleep on). Drift off to sleep while your host continues to watch TV, which appears to be a series of electronica videos. Dream of nothing.

Wake at 11 a.m. Watch British morning TV, which is actually more vacuous than American, have a coffee with Russell. Join your mates down the road for eggs and toast at the amusement arcade. Hit the road. You’re cured. Jetlag-free.Russell’s philosophy on drinking: Vodka. Pure and simple. With lemonade. Single malt scotch is nice, but not for an evening of drinking. Stick to the pure stuff. Same with Guiness. You can only drink one, not worth the stroll down to the pub.

Russell is a good pal of his younger friend Mark Ellen, our gracious host. Mark dumps excess band members at Russell’s house. Mark works on Russell’s car when it needs the odd repair. British communalism. Mark is the drummer with Vanity Fare, who had two huge hits in the late 60’s, including “Hitchin’ A Ride” (“ride, ride, ride, hitchin’ a ride; gonna make it home; to my baby’s side”). Russell shows Paul L a video of the band, and they and Mark rock. See them if they come to your town. Mark also is a talented singer and guitarist, and has made a record of old cowboy songs set to a rave beat. We’ll see him again at the festival up in Scotland, his ancestral home.

Sheeness, to be precise. We’re headquartered at our buddy Mark Ellen’s, brother of Rob Ellen – the Scottish promoter and grand master behind this entire affair. Mark lives about an hour and a half east of London where the Thames opens up into the North Sea. Just across the street from his flat there is a sea wall. Go UP the stairs and you’ll find the ocean. So it seems we must be below sea level. Kip Boardman and Rob crash in twin beds in the upstairs bed. Shawn takes the ladder up to the attic. There’s a guy named Jim on the coach in a blue bathrobe watching TV. Tony Gilkyson and Paul M are in the most comfortable quarters at a B&B down the road. Paul L sleeps down the lane past the pub at Mark’s buddy Russell’s basement flat. Paul L bravely wandered into this stranger’s basement. But the biggest risk can offer the biggest reward and don’t you know it: Paul L arrived past noon this morning with tales of indulging in the sweetest of Moroccan fruits.

Last night’s gig turned out great. The Borderline is a stinky basement club in one of London’s oldest neighborhoods that has hosted many great bands over the years. We see posters for Tony’s sister Eliza, our friend’s, Dave Alvin, The Believers, Gina Villalobos, Carlos Guitarlos, and bands that made the MTV cut: Janes Addiction and the like. There’s people there and they like the music. We see friends from Cole’s: Chuck and Georgia. Holy shit, globalization is real. Rob’s sister’s friend from Paris is there with a gang. And then there’s folks who’ve heard us on the BBC, including an L.A. native who does the Production Design for the Cohen Bros. Movies. He arranged the Clansmen during the cross burning scene in “O’ Brother…” If only he know, we’re their biggest fans. Tony’s set is rousing, the crowd cheers enthusiastically. The Hawks get a big encore, and we all sell lots of Cds. We may avert losing our shirts on this tour, knock on bar counter wood.The solid state Fender amp blew up on the Hawks’ last song, as did the bass amp. Mark Ellen did a quick switch this morning. Now we’ve got a solid state Peavey.

Somehow jet-lag doesn’t seem to be slowing us down too badly. Was it the No Jet-Lag pills PL and RW chomped every 2 hours all the way across the Atlantic? Was it the overnight flight? Was it the lamb kabob from the shop across from the club? Whatever it was it seems to have worked.

I’ve never been one to allow extra time at the airport. All my life, I’ve cut it as close as possible. Why waste time sitting at the airport?, I thought. In fact, the last time I SEE HAWKS IN L.A. took a flight back from the East Coast, we missed the flight due to our overly-chill attitude. It really was the fault of the Waffle House, and I don’t blame the Waffle House for much ever, but this time it was the Waffle House’s fault. No it wasn’t. It our fault for thinking we had the time to stop. But enough about that. Here I am, almost three hours early for my flight. Following the terrified post-9/11 mode of thinking that has seeped across the entire culture. Surprisingly, it’s not that bad. Being here early, that is. I’m well ahead of all the other rockers, with the exception, of course, of Paul Marshall. But he’s always ahead of schedule.

Now I’m sitting in the Travel Right Café across from Gate 43 (that’s right, good omens are flying). Drinking a glass of Pinot Grigio, typing at my laptop like all the orther business travelers. Am I a business traveler? Maybe so… And just then, PM wanders into the Travel Right Café ™. He’s got his cowboy hat on and he’s carrying a briefcase. My God, I am a business traveler. According to PM’s report all other L.A. country-rockers are present and accounted for.

Echo Park is the true geographical and spiritual home to I See Hawks in L.A. RW and PL were both bachelors living in the Echo Park hills when they began writing songs together at the turn of the millennium. And we feel that connection as we walk down the hot sidewalks by the lake behind the Angelus Temple. The smell of tacos is in the air. In the distance banda music plays loudly through a brightly lit juke box. Two cops question a woman out in front of the 99 cent store. Yes, this is it, familiar, homey Echo Park.

The Echo is at 1822 Sunset, just east of the newly gentrified Bright Spot cafe, in case you’ve given up on finding it. In classic L.A. slacker style, the owners haven’t put up an Echo sign out front. Instead there’s a faded neon sign: Nayarit. But it’s the Echo.Inside, the Echo is dressed up in its country best. Girls in flowery dresses and guys in western shirts and trucker/cowboy hats gather by the bar. Some may say L.A.’s country scene is phony, a put on. Well, we can tell you there are many other cities and states that have a much more damaged and damaging relationship with the cowboy hat. We’ve been there. We’ve suffered that injury.

And it just feels damn great to be here. The Horsepainters rock out hard. The Dime Box Band sings and looks beautiful. Triple Chicken Foot plucks it up on the patio beneath the bare bulbs strung above the black picnic tables and barbecue pit. We see friends and comrades from Coles to Burbank, Santa Monica to Covina, Long Beach to La Canada. Rick Shea joins us on pedal steel and we let the country rock fly. We’re in musical heaven, playing a damn good show if we say so ourselves. Rick’s sweet steel lines are perfection, weaving through our road hardened arrangements. It’s tough on the road sometimes, introducing yourself and your music to strangers. Tonight we play songs people know and sing along to. It’s a fine homecoming. We drink beer and smoke cigarettes and talk with friends out on the patio until they kick us out so the dance club can start. The air feels wonderful. Los Angeles is our home.

But it is only a short stop and early next morning (well, 11 a.m.) we’re back on the road, Rob, Paul M, and Shawn back in the Yukon flying up the I-5 to San Francisco. Shawn has the seat reclined and he’s trying out the rings on his cell phone. He’s chosen Ring One. This is how you kill time in the car after you’ve driven from L.A. to Vermont and back. Paul L and Victoria have left at about the same time in their humble Honda CRV, and challenge the Yukon to a race to the Bay Bridge.It’s a beautiful day on the Grapevine and down into the San Joaquin valley, drying up nicely in the last few weeks of inferno like weather. The mysterious marshes are prevailing through the heat, with big white migratory birds winging low over the tule grass and glassy water. Quite beautiful.

The 5 is a long haul with terrain that changes incrementally, a rise out of the fields into brown hills, a dip down and along the surreally uniform California Aqueduct, past more cotton fields, tomato fields with giant sorting machines, splotches of spilled tomatoes on the road from a caravan of open bed big rig trucks rolling north. Spillage is part of the process. Tomatoes unpicked by machines rot in the field. Agricultural water is used about as sparingly as by swimming pool owners or people hosing down their driveways in L.A. This is the land of more than plenty. So far.But we digress. Which you do on the long five drive. Five hours later, it’s 580 west, past the windmills, abrupt cultural shift into Hayward’s new highrise condos by the Lawrence Livermore nukeland, then the mellow and moist Bay Area. This is the first cool weather we’ve felt since Vermont, and it feels almost chilly.

Over the bridge, and the two Hawks vehicles are within a half mile of each other heading into San Francisco. Paul L gets lost, winds up in what might be Daly City. We’ll never know. Paul L’s greatest phobia is getting lost in San Francisco. Despite a thousand family and band visits to this fair city by the bay, he couldn’t possibly find his way around without a map and a cell phone call. It’s a psychic block that will likely never dissolve. The San Francisco Bay Area contains more Hawks’ relatives per capita than another other U.S metropolitan region. And thank god for them. The Lacques Clan alone can nearly fill most a mid-size club. The only problem, of course, how to squeeze as many as possible onto the guest list.

The Independent is a great music room on Divisadero in the heart of SF. This classic SF venue has had many names over the years. When RW lived around the corner on Grove Street in the mid-nineties it was known as the Justice League and served up a mix of dance, hip-hop, and reggae most nights with the occasional kick ass rock show and from the looks of the calendar the new management is keeping up a similar mix. These folks know about how to do a show. They’ve saved two parking spaces for us, in front of the huge gleaming white Cross Canadian Ragweed Prevost tour bus. The CCR guys are traveling in big American rock style. Inside the club is an almost perfect cube, cool, dark, intimate but spacious. We quickly unload with our 7 weeks on the road brutal efficiency, load into the Independent. We stack our amps and drums up next to the stage. Next to CCR’s mountain of gear, our little pile looks modest, almost ecological in it’s limited scope. When you have a big tour bus, massive road cases, ten guitars on the rack, and a full on road crew, you take a very long time to do a sound check. Which CCR has and does.

So the Hawks and Victoria repair to a nearby excellent Thai restaurant, dining and answering many cell phone calls from our NorCal loved ones coming to the show. We walk back through chilly teeming city blocks, just in time, crowd our gear onto the Independent stage, a quick sound check, this is going to sound good, greet the family streaming in early to the room, retreat to the dressing room, goof around, make set list, blog, a headset wearing Independent guy gives us the call, exit dressing room.The club is packed with Cross Canadian Ragweed fanatics and hardened Hawks fans. Young girls hugging the stage clutch hand written valentine placards for the headliners. Us less famous Hawks are bemused, perhaps a little envious of CCR tour bus level success, as we plug in guitars and adjust drums. On stage right is pedal steeler Dave Zirbel, whose virtuosity graces our new CD “California Country,” and who has graciously driven down from Santa Rosa. Dave is unflappable and terminally affable, as far as we can tell. Hire this man. He’s a badass player and a virtuoso human being.

It’s great to play a big time stage. This place is bigger than its dimensions. The sound coming back at us off the back wall is thunderous. The lights are heroic, arena like, and we are country rock gods. The Hawks fans cheer, and best of all, the CCR fans are transformed before our eyes from tolerant to enthused. We close out with “Humboldt,” and the young valentine girls are flashing the heavy metal horns, and the crowd roars. Thank you, Independent.We change into our identically dressed twin brother roadie personalities and haul our gear offstage, dump it in the Yukon out front. Shawn has an 11 a.m. gig the next day, and Paul M has a Barndance show that night. The twin country rock heroes drive off into the night.

Rob and Paul L are immersed in family and friends, and new fans. There’s a love fest party out on Divisadero Street. This is great. Farewell, Dave Zirbel. We catch a bit of Cross Canadian Ragweed, earnest rock with some country thrown in, mysterious mainstream appeal that the Hawks will never be. We exit. Paul L and Victoria join their ultra cool 21 year old nephew Gabriel and his perhaps even cooler girlfriend at a nearby hookah parlor. Gabriel is a master of the rules of human relations, and has showed up unannounced at the Independent and scammed his way in. Now he reclines at a parlor table puffing on jasmine scented Turkish tobacco. Paul and Victoria join in the hookah toking, and are soon buzzed on potent nicotine. Ah, they grow up so fast.

Morning. Hot. Shades drawn. Where are we? A squinting glance outside reveals a hilltop vista, St. George, Utah; off to the right below, amidst trees is a large and eerily white 19th century temple, first big Mormon edifice in Utah. We are lords of all we survey. Alas, it’s not enough. We pack up, drive off without Paul M, come back and get him, make a beeline for the nearby Starbucks, obviously a critical stop.

This Starbucks, tucked into a maxi mini mall, has the innocence and high energy of the first Starbucks openings in California, pardon our indulgence in 1990’s nostalgia. The place is packed. The Utahans are excited to be here, and we groggy Angelenos are not. We are here to inject awareness into our spent neurons. The thrill is gone. To go, please. Oh, that’s right. It’s all to go. We drive. Utah is perhaps the most beautiful state in the country, if your tastes lean to the desert end of the spectrum. I-15 south disputes the notion that there’s nothing to see on the Interstate system. The road plunges through spectacular sedimentary rock formations, some twisted into steep angles, and we watch the Yukon’s outdoor temperature gauge climb from 108 to 114 as we hit the lower upper desert floor. We’re crossing a vast desert plateau.

Gas in Mesquite, NV, our 30th state of the tour. The plan was to stake Paul M to $100 and set him loose at the poker tables, but home beckons. Maybe we’ll stop in Las Vegas.A while later, we murmur, sighting the hazy distant skyline of Sin City. This is our last chance. Much debate as we approach, pulled by the attraction between the fabricated gravitas of Gomorrah and our own gambling lust. Paul L suggests putting the cash box on red on the roulette table and letting it ride. We could double our money, then double it again. Naturally, objections are raised to this simple plan.

Now we’re approaching. Now we’re in the city limits. Now we’re considering offramps. Rob, perhaps the most deeply conflicted, is at the wheel. Is he going to pull off? Shawn urges no. Tortured ambivalence from the two Pauls. What’s going to happen?Rob lurches off the freeway. This is no surprise to anyone. He proposes a faux sensible plan for breakfast at the Golden Nugget. Then we’ll see what happens. The weak willed Hawks assent. We circle downtown. There’s no parking. It’s blazing hot. We get back on the freeway. Oddly enough, the freeway entrance is not as well marked as the offramp. But we find it.

We’ve done it. We’ve resisted Las Vegas, for the first time in the Hawks tour history. It feels okay. Not great. Sober, sensible, not great.There’s a last exit before the open desert heading southward to L.A., and we take it, get adequate breakfast at an adequate restaurant. Paul L loses a nickel in a video poker game. We drive.

This trip has been memorable as always, but we feel we’ve struggled against a wind of mildly bad luck. Many little incidents have dogged our path across this vast land. Probably wise not to further test the spirits in Las Vegas. But we’ve prevailed, with our spirits and beings intact. Big thunderheads flank our corridor through the Mojave desert. We’re in heavy Sunday afternoon traffic. It’s amazing how many people drive to Las Vegas on the weekend. Somewhere before Baker a miraculous rain falls upon us and our fellow travelers.Traffic opens up. We stop at an apocalyptic gas station just outside Victorville. Mad Max was a prophetic vision. Shawn Nourse threatens Victorvillean Neil Morrow, a ’50’s oldies singer he works with, with a visit, then lets him off the hook. We drop down the Cajon pass, make it through the Inland Empire on the 210 in record time. L.A. looks balmy, a more muted and soiled green than the mountain and midwest green we’ve been immersed in for weeks.

Suddenly we’re at Chez Nourse. We open the Yukon doors. Surprise. It’s very hot and humid, like Chicago was. This is not regular L.A. weather. These are strange times. Strange and good to be home.