Johnson City, Tennessee

Johnson City, TN is way up in the mountains just on the other side of the North Carolina border. The city is made up of old brick buildings and pretty two story wooden homes with classic porches. The air smells great and it’s actually cool as we unload the Yukon. The Down Home is celebrating its 30 year anniversary and we’re kicking off the weekend. The Gourds will be here tomorrow. The local paper has put together a nice bio sketch of the band piecing together all the things we’ve said about ourselves into one article. The place is made entirely of wood. Ed Snodderly, a folk music legend himself, greets us kindly. They feed us. Give us pitchers of beer. There’s cute tattooed waitresses and a good sound man. There’s even a quiet dressing room far from the bustle. Jaime, a friend of Paul’s wife Victoria from L.A., surprises us with a greeting. This is a good place. Firebugs light up the old, graceful neighborhood around the Down Home as Tony and Kip begin their set. It’s getting near longest day of the year, kind of nice to play music with the sun on the horizon. Johnson City is down home.

Athens, Georgia

So we roll into Athens for the first time late as hell. We have a radio gig at 4pm. Not until we’re almost to Athens do we realize we’ve lost an hour thanks to our old friend the Eastern Time Zone. Shit, we’re going to be late. We listen to the station we’re scheduled to be on. Weirdly, it’s a classical music show. 4pm rolls around, we’re still not there, and WUGA is still playing classical music. The DJ comes on, says the four o’clock concert guests are running late. Then puts on a classical guitar quartet. So we’re stressed. We’re missing our radio gig, and we guessing they’ve misidentified us as a classical group. Could this really be? We bust ass across the campus of the University of Georgia and arrive at the station at 4:22pm. The DJ throws up a mic and hits the button. He’s a pro. We’ve got 8 minutes. We play the Fern song, talk a little bit, and it’s over. The DJ puts on a Bach symphony and says goodbye as if this is all very normal. Maybe it is. We’re a bit spooked as other than the DJ and a few plain dressed civilians, the campus is largely deserted. It’s summer. It’s hot. The students have headed for the beach or mom and dad’s air conditioned house. The only signs of life are around the club next door to the one we’re playing. Beck is there tonight and his big silver bus is parked out front like a big silver bomb. We suspect this is trouble for us as any surviving music lover in Athens is more likely going to see the Beck show tonight instead of coming to see us.

Our fears are confirmed as show time nears and the club, Flicker Bar, remains quiet. We flee the club for a high concept restaurant next door called Farm 255. All the food they serve is raised on their farm just outside of town. We eat beets and bread dipped in olive oil and Vidalia onion rings. There’s organic beef and shrimp and grits. It’s a great concept this farm to table thing. Can’t believe we ever got away from it. If Athens has taught us anything it’s to eat farm fresh foods. Well the good news is, Flicker Bar is a great little room for acoustic music. A cool red curtained cave, with great sound. Tony and Kip do their acoustic duo, sound magnificent. Coles listeners, you missed a good one tonight. The Hawks do a very nice set as well.

Bad news: Pretty low turnout.Are Americans staying home with their mega entertainment centers? Watching Beck and old Merle Haggard clips on YouTube, while today’s country rock heroes toil in obscurity on $3 gas? Americans: abandon your Hi Def TVs, get in the car, accelerate slowly and brake infrequently, and come down and see the band!

Nashville, Tennessee

Holy shit, we’re back in Nashville. Somehow it’s not nearly as scary this time. It doesn’t feel like the Death Star or anything, just another desperate town of desperate entertainers not too unlike L.A. But we’re playing our good friend Billy Block’s Western Beat and that always makes for a good time. Billy is dressed in his own take on classic Nashville style: cowboy boots, jeans, cowboy hat with long white hair flowing out, bolo tie, and a hot pink t-shirt that says, “Got Bail?” He looks great. This guy is a real showman. And he can play drums.As we wait for our slot, RW and family stand on the corner outside to escape the smoky bar. Suddenly a white Mustang comes flying around the corner and smashes right into the Waller vehicle. The Mustang backs up. Sits for a moment. Then speeds away. A partial license plate is all we got and the cops don’t want it anyway. Too much trouble. The damage isn’t as bad as it could be and it offers a perfect opportunity to sing “Stop Driving Like An Asshole.” Will our luck turn?

We stay at Kregg Nance’s brand new tract palace perched on a steep embankment carved out of the Tennessee woods. Which are now a part of outer Nashville, they’ll be happy to know. Kregg and Paul had a touring country rock cover band, Straight Up, in the late 70s, back when Cuervo was the only tequila, and you got $100 a night for doing six sets (at least some things never change!). Kregg has gone Nashville, has a song pitcher, writing partners, and a better voice than some of the artists he’s pitching to. We hope he remembers those country rock heroes banned from inner Nashville when he hits it big.

Lafayette, Louisiana June 11

The Blue Moon Saloon and Guest house is quite a place. Located in an old two story Victorian with a wide wrap-around porch and expansive grounds, it’s quite a bit different from the city club scene we’re used to. Funky wood walls with found and forged art, the Virgin Mary prays under ivy in the back yard, and the band plays on the porch.

It’s hot and humid as we put our gear on-stage but we discover a cooler of ice and Abita beer is already waiting for us. They know how to welcome a band in Louisiana. The sound man tells us there’s a good write up in the paper and there is. Instead of being thrown in the cosmic burrito bag this writer calls up Townes Van Zandt and Ray Wylie Hubbard. We’re thrilled. Check out the full text here.As Tony and Kip set up the folks start to roll in. There’s white folks and black folks and young folks and old folks. Frat boys and their girls. Serious dancers types who trade partners and keep their feet moving song after song during the Gilkyson/Boardman/Nourse power trio set. Military looking wives there by themselves.

On stage there’s a salvaged door scarred with the big red spraypaint FEMA “X” Someone has painted a New Orleans street scene on it in an effort to commemorate this great lost city and culture. You can really feel the loss and the pain just over the tops of the bayou trees.

We realize early this crowd likes loud, long guitar solos. So we serve them up one after the other. We bring Tony up and he adds his thundering Super Reverb to the mix. Humboldt is particularly stirring and suddenly there’s shots of whiskey being handed up on the stage. A dog wanders through and we sing him his tune. The owners have offered us accommodations in the band bunkhouse but we’ve got to get to Memphis to have the AC fixed the next morning. Reluctantly, we hit the road after a late night dinner of crawfish etouffee and rice. Paul L stays behind to enjoy the steamy Lafayette late night atmosphere.Paul, Kip, and Kip’s GenXYZ cousin go on a late night walk through back streets of Lafayette, walk on campus, where there’s a 5 acre swampette complete with 2 alligators, surrounded by classroom buildings. Kip’s cousin regales us with tales of his volunteer work in New Orleans, living in a crazed modern hippie den with dreads, outsized egos, and altruism in the soup kitchen. It’s hot and humid at 2 a.m., but the mosquitos aren’t bad.

Next morning we meet the owners of the Blue Moon, a beautiful Cajun queen and her husband and her child. Their other lodger is a geologist with Halliburton. He’s hopefully moderate in his political views as we drink coffee, says he believes change can happen through the electoral system. “Hey,” says Cajun queen. “They’re corporations, right? Shoot ’em. Just shoot ’em.”

“Just shoot ’em,” repeat Tony, Kip, and Paul, as they drive north through a highway tunneling through endless woods, bound for Memphis under muggy blue skies. A discussion ensues on the decline of regional differences and accents, and as if to prove the point, we pull off the highway seeking food. A fish store proprieter gives us directions in a Mississippi accent so thick that we can only nod in fake comprehension. Regionalism lives!

We’re trucking down clear Texas highways towards our evening gig in Lafayette, LA. Shawn the trucker’s son is at the wheel and we’re calm and confident we’ll make it to the show. We’ve been watching “Team America” on the computer. Jesus, it’s funny. Now we’re listening to “The Handsome Family”. Hands down some of the finest and most delightfully strange lyrics on the scene today.

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We roll into the city that killed Kennedy ahead of schedule for our afternoon appearance at Bill’s Records presented by KHYI 95.3 FM. Bill’s records sits quietly in a dying mall in the suburbs of Dallas. There’s several abandoned store fronts, a strange restaurant called simply “Chicken and Rice” and cavernous Bill’s warehouse. A big orange sign in the doorway announces they are preparing to move the store to a new, upscale downtown location. We’re glad we get to play at this one. When we walk in, it seems imaginable how they will move this store. In the same location for almost 30 years, Bill’s records is a Dallas institution. The place contains miles and miles of LPs, 45s, CDs, posters, bumper stickers and buttons. There is a piece of rock memorabilia from every moment in American pop music history. No of it seems to be organized according to any system we can identify. We linger over a poster of Tiffany and a original Doors sticker. There’s a freezer in the corner with free ice cream. We’ve heard about this freezer. Shawn has found it and unwrapped an ice cream sandwhich before any of us miss him.

Two other bands arrive, a curious mix of cowboy hatted young trailer park beauties and older guitar dudes, and the gear starts to stack up by the rear entrance. This wise and road-hardened band jumps at the chance to play first. We set up as a surprisingly thick crowd gathers. There’s a barefoot bearded guy near the front wearing a Jimi Hendrix t-shirt with flowers in his hair. He’s carrying a basket of more flowers. This is interesting. He’s an original hippie, for sure. We go electric and the room sounds good. Folks are smiling and even singing along to some songs. Everyone in the audience seems to have brought their own case of Natural Light, or Natty Bo’s as we used to call them in college. Do people drink in record stores in the middle of the afternoon other states? We just don’t know. Friendly Dallasonians offer us beer and smokes after our set. Bill himself, a kind white-haired man smoking Marlborogh Light 100s buys a bunch of CDs for the store. Where they’ll end up, no one knows. Bill was an early champion of Ben Harper, gets very emotional as he points out a gold record on the wall. What a guy. We pack up and wish our new friends farewell and head for our $39 Quality Inn rooms arranged by the finest club owner in the Southwest, Mike Snider of the Allgood Café. After a quick check-in in the 100F Dallas heat we head over to the Allgood for dinner. The food at the Allgood is homey and filling. We order Chicken Fried Steak and Beef Short Ribs and mashed potatoes and green beans. Mike has the wisdom and good fortune to hire the kindest and most beautiful waitresses in all of Dallas, and that’s saying something. Devin and Haley take good care of us, filling our wine glasses and getting us whatever we need. Few establishments treat bands this way. We feel like kings at a feast.

Unfortunately, the night takes a bit of a turn. At show time the room is thinly populated. We just don’t get it. The Hawks got a good write up in the Dallas Observer and Tony got the big pick in the Dallas Morning News. Even the radio play has been pretty good. Yet it appears to be the lowest turn out of the tour. Perhaps it’s the stiffling heat and humidity of the Dallas night, the temperature still hovering in the 90s at 10 PM. Perhaps there’s some other big L.A. country rock outfit stealing our thunder. Perhaps we’re purveyors of a dying craft, like jazz musicians grousing about the Beatles. Should we purchase samplers? We’re all a bit baffled but somehow Mike Snider and the staff of the Allgood Café make it all fun. We laugh and rock and drink more wine. The lucky folks who are there hoot appreciately. As usual, Mike takes better care of us than we feel we deserve. We leave the gear on stage and make our way past Dealey Plaza to the hotel. We could’ve had a worse day in Dallas for sure.

In “Waiting Around to Die”, Townes Van Zandt sang about his new friend codeine. Zandt was a stellar weaver of song, taking country music into new places — finely worded and evocative poetry. The boys in I See Hawks in L.A. (playing the Blue Moon this Sunday) share Zandt’s song writing approach … and perhaps his friend. Formed during a philosophical discussion/rock throwing session in the Mojave desert, I See Hawks can’t help but gaze directly at the sun — an edgy country rock reminiscent of the 1970s, the Flying Burrito Brothers and Gram Parsons. With their three-part harmony and a knack for songwriting rivaling a mix of Zandt’s poetry and Ray Wylie Hubbard’s smart, heady material, they also incorporate sly near-comic genius in their story tales songs. Modern troubadours of descriptive narratives and stand-for-something songs, their dreamy alt. country/country rock drifts towards the heavens like embers from a campfire dancing in the wind of a desert night. While remaining grounded in country music, the band takes it on a ride — music for the open road and the open mind.

— Nick Pittman, Times of Acadiana

We left Geoff and Sally’s tranquil riverside estate almost too late to make it to our noon downbeat at KUT radio. We struggled to pack the Yukon in the rising heat but we did it quickly and got on the road. The winding hill country roads now familiar, we sped towards the station. Geoff’s directions were true and we arrived at the station in time. A formal and elegant man in his mid-fifties, John Aielli is a vocal and singing coach at UT who has been hosting Eklektikos for the last 25 years. Hearing stories of his sometimes curt treatment of bands, we were a bit nervous. Rob was bound and determined to sing every note dead on.

We set up quickly in the station studio and as the clock hit noon we were ready. John walked in, sat down at a table with microphone in front of us, and went through the pronounciations of each Hawks name, saying each syllable slowly and looking to us for acknowledgement that he was saying it correctly. When he got to Shawn he said, “How do you say your name, Shawn?” Shawn replied, drummerlike, “Shawn.” We were all laughing heartily as the red light came on. It was a good start to the show and things only got better. During each song John closed his eyes and listened closely to the words (and pitch of our singing). It felt like we were performing for a jury of one to grant us our Master’s in music. RW was concentrating so hard on pitch perfection he forgot a line in “Byrd from West Virginia.” Luckily, the words returned quickly, and only Kip Boardman noticed out in radioland. You can listen to this moment and the rest of the interview here. John didn’t seem to mind and politely and professionally neglected acknowledging the blip. Overall, it was a great time and a fun performance. From the station we fought our way though the heat to our cheap south Austin motel on the Interstate. Trouble arose when only one room was available. We walked next door to an even more derelict under construction motel. Broken windows and a poorly lit parking lot almost didn’t scare us off. At the last minute we reconsidered and headed for the Clarion across the highway. It was twice as expensive but didn’t possess the air of potential danger and confrontation. The four of us camped out in the good room killing the afternoon before our late gig at the historic Cactus Café on UT’s campus. We watched cooking shows, emailed friends and family, sat in front of air conditioner, swam in the over chlorinated pool, slept.

At 9 PM we start the process of dressing for showtime. On the way to the gig we stop for the first of five meals at the Magnolia Café. It’s an Austin institution. Almost always packed, we’ve hit them at a slow time after the dinner rush and before the late night post-bar crowd rolls in. The Magnolia is open 24 hours. The Magnolia has a menu of southwestern favorites and good old hippie food. It gets a solid ***Four Chilies Hawks Texas*** rating. We order squash and brown rice and tofu and stir fried vegetables and pasta. Full and happy and momentarily feeling like we are treating our bodies with care and respect, we head to the Cactus. Cactus Cafe is located in the Texas Union on campus. Parking is tricky. We opt to drive up on the sidewalk as close to the door as possible. We carry our guitars down the hall lined with posters of all the greats who’ve played the Cactus before us. Townes Van Zandt, Ralph Stanley, Bob Dylan, Guy Clark, and on and on. It’s got some of the same ghosts that live at McCabe’s. Despite some sound difficulties at first, the show turned out grand. The dark room of friends and fans came along on our ride, welcoming solos and silly lines with warm hollers. Folks came out who’d heard us on the radio, which continues to surprise and thrill us. After a couple encores, we packed up, threw away the parking ticket beneath the wipers, and headed to the Magnolia for a late night desert of cherry pie and penaut butter pie and ice cream. PM like his pie cold. PL likes it hot, although it melts the ice cream rapidly. There’s lively debate on whether or not the ice cream should touch the pie. Sleep comes quickly to the Hawks who arrive at their cross-highway motels around 3 AM.

Another day of motel time-killing arrives. PM takes the car out to the hills to visit his gold record winning producer and pedal steel playing friend Tommy Spurlock at his hilltop compound. It’s motel pool swimming time for the other Hawks. A few even venture to the workout room and overdo it on the stairmaster, driven hard to combat the deep sense of lethargy that can only come from riding in a car for 2500 miles and sleeping until noon. PM calls in the late afternon to report his flat tire on the outskirts of Austin. He heroically changes the tire by himself at the hottest time of the day. Drenched in sweat he makes it home as the Yukon air conditioner stuggles to cool him off. He comes through the motel room door looking weary but victorious and heads straight for the bourbon. After cleaning up and cooling down we head to the late night gig at the Continental Club. This is the gig that got the nice writeup in the Austin Chronicle and we’re excited to be doing a good night at a great club in the big music town. Tommy Spurlock joins the Hawks and adds his Sneaky Pete-ish tuned pedal steel to the mix, like he was born to the band. Hire this man. It’s a rocking night at the Continental. We take the stage to a full room at midnight and people are still coming through the door. We open boldly with Humboldt and rock out. PL takes an epic outro (term coined by Paul Marshall) solo and actually levitates nearly six inches off the stage. It’s just that kind of night. Getting on stage at the Continental is like getting on a roller coaster rider. It’s as if the stage possesses a musical momentum of it’s own and you just have to hold on and try to match its energy as best you can.

People want to dance so we play our danciest songs. Pretty Texas girls in flowy sun dresses spin around the floor with their well-trained cowboy partners. It’s fun to watch from the stage and we stretch out solos and let the couples shuffle and two-step and sway. Our good friend Johnny Fargo is with us. The X-Taix lounge booker has wisely relocated to the best of Texas cities. We drink shots of Jagermeister at the bar and reminisce. We miss you Johnny. Back to the Magnolia for one last late night dessert. We get it right this time. Brownie Ala Mode. Damn it’s good. Austin treated us well.

“These freewheeling lords of California psych country approach their music as if it were a portal, an unseen threshold that, once crossed, promises a wholly unpredictable experience. The Hawks’ singular style operates on an epic scale, exploring weird panoramas of hallucinatory metaphor with a sound as much traditional hillbilly as it is accelerated lysergic-rock spontaneity. Any flight taken with I See Hawks In L.A. assures a view to startling new perspectives. Up, up and away.”

— Jonny Whiteside, L.A. WEEKLY