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June 2006

THE MOST IMPORTANT MEAL

of the day is breakfast. And Santa Fe took good care of us come breakfast time. But before you can eat your eggs and drink your coffee, you need a shower. Especially if you’re a traveling, rambling, gambling, getting a little gamey country rock band. So a note on the King’s Rest: Bring your own towel. I had to dry myself off with a manila envelope sized, threadbare rag they called a bath towel. The AC was banging and vibrating, the TV had to be smacked to get the picture to come in clear, and the window shades made no pretense of being able to block out even the faintest ray of light. Somehow, I did get a pretty good night’s sleep though.

Okay, so back downtown we go, for a Sunday morning brunch at Pasqual’s. This award winning café had their credentials posted in the window by the door, along with their menu, which had our mouths watering before we even set foot in the place. Let’s get the bad news out of the way right now. There’s a wait for a table. But it’s not even that bad, because it’s a beautiful New Mexico morning, about 11:30 AM, and it’s not too hot, and it’s the touristy, gift shop section of town. Paul L did his part to bolster the economy with an injection of his massive cash wad, while we waited inside and outside the simple but charming corner location. When we finally got seated, we were treated to the attention of a friendly, helpful, and capable staff who gave us the details and the specials, got our coffee, tea, and water going, and took our orders pronto. They were always nearby if we needed refills, extra salsa, or a cappucino (served a little late to Rob with effusive apologies).Rob was the most adventurous, ordering the Smoked Trout Hash. A potato pancake cooked with smoked trout, chiles, and onions, topped with two poached eggs, some more bite sized pieces of trout, and a mild tomatillo salsa. The trout was delicate, slightly sweet and lightly smoked. Delicious. The potato pancake underneath was warm and slightly crispy on the outside, and tender on the inside; big enough to cover the bottom of the plate. Great!

Shawn and I had the Durango omelet. Perfect little pieces of carmelized ham, sauteed mushrooms, scallions, sour cream AND guacamole, folded into our three eggs, cooked just right, accompanied by tempting red potato home fries, browned to perfection. You get your choice of saucy topping, red or green, spicy or mild. For some unknown reason, we all opted for the tomatillo salsa. We were all happy. Paul L’s cheese omelet was fine, and improved by the application of said salsa.The coffee was real, the feeling was good, the food was outstanding, and afterwards we walked the merchant strewn streets and paths of Old Santa Fe feeling pretty satisfied.

25 NORTH IS 85 SOUTH

The Hawks are heading on 25 North, which is also 85 South, our goal being Lubbock, TX by nightfall. Four comfortable lanes through the transitional desert brush, up a rise, down a hill, up a rise.

KILLING AMERICA WITH KINDNESS

Santa Fe has moved beyond the irony of erecting statues to the noble Indians displaced by Manifest Destiny. It is now killing itself in a love fest of mediocre art in adobe galleries, new age loudspeakers, Euro tourism, and that which cannot be reversed, the instant walled suburb blighting the hills. May this all stop. It’s still a very nice town. Don’t move here.

CLOSE TO THE BORDER

It was hot the next morning, hard blue sky revealing the tough little Las Cruces neighborhood we were indeed in, unwatered or overwatered lawns and functional cheap homes, two of which are for sale across the street. We hit the road, ditching the as always hopelessly inaccurate MapQuest directions and finding I-25 north by instinct and asking at the McDonald’s. Northward in a gentle ascent through wide vistas of desert scrub, similar but different from our familiar Mojave flora, basalt capped ridges ringing our horizons, canyons half filled with ancient gravel on this 1500’s Spanish ghost trail.

We’re hungry. Paul Marshall felt a powerful draw from Hatch, a farm community in the basin of the here not so big Rio Grande, nestled a mile west of our highway view. We took a chance, wandered the half abandoned old streets of another declining rural town, found the Pepper Pot, a solid Mexican food place. We ate solid rellenos in small chiles, enchiladas and tacos. Headed back to the highway past little shops and stands selling braided red chiles, past chile fields and the muddy river.A beautiful drive through brown hills and small towns, some perfectly level sedimentary strata, more lava flows and jagged mountains on the horizons. We reached Santa Fe 10 minutes early for sound check at The Gig, a performance space run by Bruce Dunlap, who plays jazz on a nine string guitar and has played with Warren Zevon and other heavyweights. Bruce is gentle and kind and master of his domain, a great sounding little room with about 60 chairs and Bag End speakers and high quality mics.

We set up, played a few songs, headed for the old style Kings Rest motel on Cerillos, which we highly recommend as a taste of old Route 66, stucco Santa Fe classic low buildings with wood arches and blue doors, and cheap. Back to the gig at the Gig as the sun was setting. New Mexico specializes in beautiful and constant cloud formations, with a brilliant blue canvas. Next to the Gig is a hip coffee shop owned and run by teenagers (not making this up) who cheerfully announce that they’re not very good at making the coffee drink you’ve just ordered, and prove true to their word. But it’s a sexually charged scene, young adults on a mission, age specific and exclusive, unless you’re a country rock band on the road and oblivious to local boundaries.

Donald Rubenstein is a very talented free spirit and musician, singer songwriter, chaotically virtuoso pianist, who has scored movies for Ed Harris and others, escaped Los Angeles about four years ago for this clean dry land in an earlier stage of being killed with kindness. Less gifted artists strive to cultivate the eccentricity Donald was born with. He opened the Gig show with some beautiful new songs, and then the Hawks did a short then long acoustic set before a small but very appreciative audience. The room sounds just great.Our good pals Craig and Cynthia, aka The Believers jumped up and roared through “Subterranean Homesick Blues” with the Hawks, then joined us on “Humboldt.” Donald played piano on “Duty to Our Pod” and that was that. We said farewell to Donald and wife, Believers, who will resume their 16 month wandering, headed for California, and Bruce, who says come back any time and we will. Late night feastette at the Atomic Café with Rob’s witty artist friends Todd and Ede, a choreographer who has been hobnobbing with Laurie Anderson and Lou Reed in NYC.

There was much discussion of names for Ede’s dance troupe: she’d settled on 3-D, which all agreed was a terrible name. Rob had suggested Bunny Bunny Bunny Cake Cake Cake, which probably would have launched the troupe in a direction they could not have dreamed of. We all reminisced about the great Dot Com scare of the 1990’s-2000’s, when absurdly affluent Silicon Valley startups would try to outdo each other, hiring the Neville Brothers or the B-52’s as backdrop for CEO and code writer nerd dancing, and more importantly, video gaming in giant tents flanked by the uibiquitous air pump driven giant semi-inflatable dolls with screaming faces and flapping arms, and dance troupes and circus performers doing their ignored art in the shadow of the flapping semi-inflatable dolls. The last era of innocence in America, and good riddance.

Back to the Kings Rest, the two Pauls watch a poker tournament, not as riveting as the one they had to abandon for the gig Gig, but still pretty great.There have been many coincidences on this trip: the first four days of the trip at two Hawks were wearing identical articles of clothing; Eve of Destruction played on the Hotel Congress, right after our last Coles show with PF Sloane performing the very same. Paul M and Paul L were playing “Ghostriders in the Sky” while waiting for the Yukon to be repaired, and that night at the Deming haunted diner Johnny Cash performed the same on the video big screen; and last night we hung out with two couples who are wandering the country, ToddEde and CraigCynthia. Todd and Ede are journeying in a converted school bus, and Craig and Cynthia wander this earth in a Honda Odyssey, aptly named, their only link to the square life an unloved abode in Nashville.

And we Hawks wander, gazing northward as we head 25north85south, down to a red earth valley covered in pines, gashes of barranca spelling sentences through the desert color print. Shawn is wearing a red wife beater in honor of the red rock and the soil it becomes; he’ll wear it until we hit white sands, which will be somewhere between here and Lubbock.

IT WASN’T ALL THAT LONG AGO IN LAS CRUCES, NEW MEXICO

It’s noon. We’re back on the I-25 north, heading to Sante Fe. New Mexico feels good to the Hawks. The temperature is a mild 92F, skies are clear, and browning dreamy moonscape rock formations ring the valley we travel.

Last night, on the advice of our reliable and well-traveled friend Buck, we drove 7 miles off the highway outside of Demming to the Adobe Deli for dinner. We were skeptical as we drove south in the darkness toward the Mexico border past loaded immigration bus after loaded immigration bus. A shiny new bus is emblazoned “National Security.” Oddly enough they’re hogging the fast lane, not very secure driving. It wasn’t clear that we were going to arrive anywhere. But then we noticed the neon beer signs in a barn-like structure off the road a couple hundred yards. We ignored the “Hippies Use the Side Door” sign and went right in the main entrance.It was 9:45pm. A reluctant waitress looked at her watch as we came through the door. Knowing there were 15 full minutes left until the 10 PM cut off she seated us with warnings that the kitchen might already be closed. The welcome mat was not rolled out, at first.

The Adobe Deli is really a high-ceilinged, barn-sized steak house, formerly a rural schoolhouse. Black booths line the walls and huge racks of antlers and heads of elk loom overhead. Groups of ranchers in cowboy hats, off duty border patrol officers, and a few single women sat at the bar. We took a table by the bar and started the usual restaurant ritual. PL revealed his nervousness to the band by ordering a Coors. When PM ordered wine the waitress asked if we’d like to see the wine cellar. Ignoring our paranoid instincts, we said, “Sure.” She led PM and RW away from the dining area. They arrived at the Men’s room she pointed at it and said, “Wine cellar’s in there.” PM and RW exchanged uneasy glances. “Just kidding!” she said and kept walking. There was, in fact, a very respectable wine cellar just past the Men’s room. PM selected a young local sirah from a vineyard just down the road. It was rustic and rough edged and delicious. Buck’s advice was simple, “Order the ribs.” RW and SN took his advice. PM ordered Osso Buco. PL the salmon. Salads and French Onion soup came out first. It was exciting piercing the almost unbreakable skin of cheese in the French onion soup, the ribs arrived almost erotically mounted on gleaming steel spikes on home woodshop-carved platforms, and the world’s largest TV screen played an old Austin City Limits featuring Johnny Cash and his Music Man and Charvel guitar wielding interregnum band. June Carter’s video appearance, the wine, and the solid man food had the Hawks feeling good. Jill, a big boned beautiful cowgirl looking to liven up a Lordsburg adjacent quiet Friday night, told us she heard we were musicians and were we going to play or what?

We played sitting around the table with our ribs and potatoes remains, six or seven songs, Hawks songs, Paul Marshall drinking songs, Big City by Merle, Long Black veil. Jill and the waitresses and the taciturn huge cowboys at the bar enjoyed it, bought a bunch of Cds and t-shirts, bought us Weller’s whiskey. We chatted with the border patrol guys, an older guy in a cowboy hat and classic reserve and his younger hip hop partner. They both said that a California style 12 foot high steel fence erected across the entire Mexico border might slow down illegal immigration a bit. Skeptical of the big project, to say the least.Turns out that Van, the big beefy cowboy like bar owner, and Paul Marshal worked together in the ’60s. Van did the lights at a Strawberry Alarm Clock show that Paul Marshall played in Passaic, New Jersey in 1969 (of course this may have never happened; what they say about remembering the ’60s is true, unless you’re one of those indestructible and insufferable idiots savant).

Before the glow faded the Hawks packed up and headed for Las Cruces. Solid directions from Buck guided the Hawks through his backdoor and homey slumbers ensued. Camel and Moose were a little freaked out at first, understandably. But the country rock dog whisperers came out of each of us, the vibe calmed down. The lucky Hawks were once again on the receiving end of some kind New Mexico hospitality.

Q & As FROM A TYPICAL ROUND OF “DRUMMERS AND DRUMMING”

Mercy is shown us Hawks, in the form of cloud cover over the southern Arizona desert.

big clouds.jpgShawn Nourse the trucker’s son is at the wheel, silent and steady.

truck.jpgAnd soon the sun is way down, lonely headlights mark the darkness, and the Hawks retreat to the cerebral, their favorite highway game, a kind of rolling Jeopardy where the winner of the last question becomes the host.

gas.jpgThe game is called Drummers and Drumming, and this is exactly how it went:
Name one of the two Lynyrd Skynyrd drummers?
Artemis Pyle
Which Grateful Dead drummer is worse than the other one?
Mickey Hart
Who’s the other one?
Bill Kreutzmann
Which Willie Nelson drummer is worse than the other one?
Paul English
What UK drummer shares a name with an ISHILA member?
Paul Marshall
Who said, “if your drummer didn’t show up, call me, I can show up in 15 minutes and I’m better than no drummer at all.”
Carmine Sardo
Who is Louie Prima’s drummer?
Sam Butera
Who played drums on Traffic’s song “40,000 Headmen”?
Stevie Winwood
If you are playing in 7 in Bulgarian music what are the typical accents for a percussionist?
1, 3, and 5
Who played drums in the 80’s progressive country instrumental trio The Dixie Dregs?
Rod Morganstein
Who was the drummer that backed up Phil Collins during his solo career? (hint: this drummer also played with Frank Zappa during the early 1970’s)
Chester Thompson
Who’s the king of Afro Beat?
Tony Allen
Name one of Toto’s early percussionists?
Lenny Castro
I’m going to name three songs. Which song did Jeff Porcaro NOT play drums on?
“Dirty Low Down” by Boz Skags
“Roasanna” by Toto
“Peg” by Steely Dan

The correct answer is “Peg” by Steely DanWho was the drummer on Steely Dan’s “Peg?”
Steve Gadd
Who played drums in Queen?
Roger Taylor
Who played drums on “Take Five” by Dave Brubeck? (Hint: this drummer was the author of the book of drummer exercises “Portraits of Rhythm”)
Joe Morello
Who are the Allman Brothers drummers?
Jaimo and Butch Trucks
What brand of drums did Ringo play is his classic period? (this one’s easy)
Ludwig.

IT’S 110 F IN TUCSON, ARIZONA

The Hawks are adjusting to road life. The heat helps. It breaks you down quickly, stripping away the comforts of home in a fierce but merciful way.

The trip began as the Hawks gathered in Highland Park on the morning of the last day of May. With all the equipment spread out there in the driveway, it seemed we would have to jettison some precious gear to make it all fit. Boxes of Cds, instruments and amplifiers, books and magazines, posters and t-shirts and suitcases. As each band member pondered a personal sacrifice, lead singer and West Coast Pack Champion RW started doing the math in his head, assembling a three dimensional Tetris game of gear and bags. Miraculously, everything fit and we steamed out of Los Angeles around midday. We filled the Yukon with $75 of liquid gold (it still wasn’t full) and aimed east for (eventually) the green hills of Vermont. We will be traveling east until some point in mid-July when we turn and begin racing back towards the Pacific. The desert. We’re back. We’ll always be back.

mojave 1st day.jpgWe crossed the Colorado River on the big bridge, honked the horn, first of nine state border honks we’ll honk on this first leg of our tour. It’s blazing hot out there. Paul L remembers swimming in the river as a wee desert rat, with all the other rancher and bracero famlies, everyone staying close to shore because the current in the middle is fast and there was always the latest drowning to murmur about.

Traffic was surprisingly light all the way to Phoenix. Paul L inspired a Led Zeppelin marathon by thrilling us with tales from “Hammer of the Gods,” the Zep-biography he’s been unable to put down for the last few weeks. And I must admit, a strong case was made that the lyrics for “Stairway” are in fact meaningful and wise, not silly. Mid-Way through Zeppelin II we hit rush hour Phoenix traffic and had to switch it off. You simply can’t soar like a dirigible in desert grid-lock. After suffering through the worst of it we finally reached our exit, the 48th Street, Hampton Inn booked lovingly by PM’s wife Colleen. Not only can Colleen get the sweet deals, they seem to love her so much that they upgraded our rooms to suites for free. Rarely have the Hawks had the good fortune to stretch out in such fine lodgings at such reasonable rates.

After unloading the gear we headed to Recommended Food Stop One. Our fine friend Randall suggested a legendary hamburger joint he’d frequented in his undergraduate days in Tempe. Would it still be there? Would we like it? The Chuckbox was hidden behind a large Caterpillar Tractor working the summer shift replacing water pipes beneath University Blvd but it couldn’t hide from us. The Hawks were becoming belligerent from heat and hunger. The place was pretty empty. We walked to the front of the line and ordered. Raw meat hit flame grill and I knew everything would soon be OK. Randall had come through for us. Big delicious burgers. High quality onion rings. Ice cold beer served in mason jars, just like Randall told us. Nice work, Randy!

Satisfied, we headed towards the Yucca Tap Room, a small music friendly bar located in an old strip mall near the college. Older strip malls have developed a kind of nostalgia and architectural credibility somehow in the last few years for me. Call me crazy, but I’m really starting to appreciate a decaying strip mall. There’s something romantic in them. Perhaps what I like is that they are now crumbling. This too shall pass. A startling discovery as we u-turned our way towards the Tap Room: a drive through liquor store. Choosing the walk in option, we were further dazzled by the complex and sophisticated selection of tequilas and single malt scotches in the densely packed little liqueria. Oban 16 year old being $65, we turned to domestic bourbons and took a chance on Bulleit, because we liked the shape of the label. The $8 bottle turned out to be a boon companion, smooth and subtle.

Our friend Dave Insley hosts a weekly Yucca Tap Room show, and he was setting up his acoustic duo as we pulled into the parking lot and hauled in some of our gear. Tony Gilkyson and Kip Boardman, our tour mates across this great and vast land, arrived at the same time, and we exchanged hearty greetings. Dave and his name-to-be-recalled lead guitarist did some fine harmony singing, with a family portrait song of Dave’s called “Geneva’s Gonna Leave Ya” being a high point.Tony, Kip, and our own Nourseman Shawn hit the stage in a reuniting of the Old Yellers, a seminal L.A. roots rock unit, and they sounded great, a hard hitting power trio fueled by Tony’s always scary guitar and great vocal harmony parts with Kip. Tony’s fronting this combo, singing songs from his new and soulful “Goodbye Guitar” CD.

On the last song, a barn burner moved further down the line by Shawn’s signature train on the tracks beat, the club suddenly emptied out through the back door, the bar crowd responding instinctually to unseen trouble. Out in the parking lot, Dave’s wife Brenda had passed out and fallen, fracturing her skull (send your good thoughts to Dave and his wife lonesome@daveinsley.com if you know them). Dave took off in the ambulance with his wife. The Hawks considered packing it in, but then decided to play, and did an off the wall and cuff set with Tony sitting in on some tunes. We’re glad we played, it felt good to release songs into the Arizona atmosphere, and we wish Brenda a speedy recovery.

The next day the Hawks all managed to get up in time for the free continental breakfast, which is unprecedented. Shawn and Rob, the late risers of the band, are new fathers, with the new found skill of getting up after not enough sleep.It’s quite hot in early June in the Sonora desert, 110 to be exact as we re-loaded the Yukon in the near blazing parking lot. We drove off the beaten path to visit a nearby Yaqui reservation town, and it was mystical indeed: little adobe and old wood frame houses with stone and mortar shrines to the Virgin, dry branch lean-to type awnings over front doors, and an ancient colonial church with a vast white dirt parking lot with NO PHOTOS ALLOWED signs. Holy ground.

South to Tucson, a saguaro and rock outcropping lined journey. Many new offramp clusters of civilization have robbed the road of its harsh beauty—it doesn’t take too many prefab buildings and big plastic signs to obliterate the vibe—but the horizons are stark and menacing as ever, if you fix your gaze upon them.Two hours later and we’re in Tucson. Hotel Congress is an enlightened updating of a classic old Southwest institution, host to the swells and Hollywood stars of the teens, twenties and thirties, when Tucson was an outpost of irrigated farms and not much else.
congress logo.jpg
There’s a bar, a café with 4 out of 5 Hawks rated food, and creaking upstairs hallways with comfy, no-TV no AC rooms. We checked in, dumped the gear in the dark and elegant concert room, and headed to KXCI radio, housed in a great old rooming house a few blocks away. Tucson’s got everything you need within a few blocks. KXCI Programming Manager Duncan set up the mics with confidence and speed and engineered the session. Kristi, the Home Stretch drivetime DJ came in and ran the show with professionalism and kindness.

We play three acoustic songs, Kristi runs a brief and efficient interview, and it’s time to head back to the Congress for sound check. On the way, the Yukon threatens to overheat as the AC blows hot air. Damn, car trouble this early? Duncan provides a hookup to his trusted Tucson mechanic and schedule an appointment for 8 AM. The Congress show sounded good and the small but wiry audience was enthusiastic and appreciative. We even got a request for “Byrd From West Virginia” which we played with as much rock majesty as we could muster.

The night is both long and short. Our rooms are located directly above the hotel disco and the bass thumps loud enough to rattle the hundred year old plumbing. The building is apparently tuned to B flat an octave below middle C, and this note knocks things off the mantle. But the Hawks are tired and hardened to loud noises and drift off to sleep despite the racket. RW and PM raise the dead (themselves) before eight to get the Yukon to its appointment. The day unfolds an hour at a time. The temperature rises, then falls as welcome clouds roll in. cloud congress.jpg

The train roars past. Thunder rumbles, and the rain is falling. Where does it come from? Dry as a bone endless blue skies somehow conjure clouds. The seductive scent of rain on sidewalk wafts under the back door of the Congress as we await Rob returning with the repaired Yukon. Paul M and Paul L play “Ghost Riders In The Sky” as raindrops spatter the sidewalk outside the back stage door.Rob’s back. Load up, thank the Congress folks for putting up with our all day loiter, and we’re rolling east on the 10, sawtooth peaks and misted mountains and rainshadows making the way mellow.

Actual conversation in the Yukon:Paul L: Hey, Rob, are tapirs kind of like pigs?
Rob: I don’t know. I think it’s okay as long as they get permission.
I’m hoping the guy in Tucson can burn us a CD.

MIAMI NEW TIMES REVIEWS “CALIFORNIA COUNTRY”

On their third album, the core members of I See Hawks in L.A. are joined by Chris Hillman (Byrds, Flying Burrito Brothers), Rick Shea (Dave Alvin Band), and other heavies from L.A.’s alt-country gang, but it’s the songwriting of the principal bandmates that grabs your attention. Rob Waller, lead vocalist and guitarist; and Paul Lacques, who supplies the high harmonies and plays lap steel, dobro, and guitar, craft memorable melodies with lyrics that conjure up the dreams and nightmares of Californians past and present. “Raised by Hippies” blends bluegrass and rock to look at the past through slightly jaundiced eyeglasses. “Slash from Guns N’ Roses” is a sea shanty for people shipwrecked on the shoals of the Sunset Strip — a dark song delivered with considerable humor. “Hard Times (Are Here Again)” is an acoustic country blues that nods to Woody Guthrie’s working-class poetry with Hillman’s mandolin fills and Lacques’s wailing dobro adding to the song’s hopeless melancholy.

— J. Poet, Miami New Times