May 2012

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Ein interessanter Name: I See Hawks In L.A.. Was assoziiert dieser Bandname? Sehnsucht, Freiheit, Leidenschaft und ein Rest von Natur und Wilderness in der Betonwüste. Ein kurzer Blick auf das Albumcover bestätigt die Antwort auf die Frage. Zu sehen sind die drei Silhouetten von Rob Waller, Paul Laques und Paul Marshall. Die Herren stehen mit ihren Gitarren inmitten wilder Natur, umgeben von Büschen und Pflanzen, im Hintergrund zeichnet sich eine untergehende Sonne ab. Doch bestätigt auch der musikalische Output des neuen Albums, den Eindruck? Oh ja …

“New Kind of Lonely” heißt die neue Scheibe der Amerikaner. Sie präsentieren darauf einen Mix aus Folk, Bluegrass, und Country, dargeboten von akustischen Instrumenten, wie Gitarre, Banjo und Geige. Im Zuge einer philosophischen Diskussion in der kalifornischen Wüste gründeten Rob Waller sowie die Brüder Paul und Anthony Lacques die Band und schrieben anschließend die ersten Wurf an Songs. Durch die Unterstützung des West-Coast-Country-Rockers David Jackson entwickelte sich der Sound, der die ersten Alben prägte.

Das mittlerweile sechste Studioalbum zeigt indes Veränderungen: die Band ist zum Trio geschrumpft. Anthony Laucques und Drummer Shawn Nourse verließen die Adler-Beäuger. Das Ergebnis: ein ruhigerer, ausgewogener Sound. Akustische Gitarren und wohlige Vocals dominieren jetzt das Klangbild. Schon beim Opener “Bohemian Highway” mündet das spartanische Arrangement in einem herrlichen mehrstimmigen Refrain. Dieses Strickmuster gilt für viele der 13 neuen Songs. Die reduzierten Arrangement haben zur Folge, dass die Stimme von Rob Waller mehr als früher im Mittelpunkt steht. Das ist alles andere als ein Nachteil. Denn dem sonoren, warmkehligen Organ Wallers lauscht man nur zu gerne.

Ein gutes Beispiel dafür bildet der Song “The Spirit of Death”. Der Song bietet neben einfühlsamen Melodien und einer tiefgründigen Message auch einiges an Abwechslung in der Dynamik. Nach einem entspannten Beginn steigert sich der Track im gegen Ende in verzückte Ekstase – inklusive einem fantastischen Geigensolo. Dass es sich bei I See Hawks In L.A. um echte Philosophen handelt, wird freilich nicht nur im Bandnamen deutlich. Immer wieder drehen sich ihre Songs um tiefschürfende Themen,  immer wieder offenbart Sänger Rob Waller introvertierte Seelen-Schau. Die Lyrics sind entsprechend abgefahren: Wenn Rob Wallace in “I Fell In Love With The Greatful Dead” singt, fühlt man sich fast schon eingeladen in diesen “(…)parking lot caravan(…)” – von dem er erzählt – einzusteigen und der romantischen Lagerfeueratmosphäre beizuwohnen, welche die Hawks so herrlich vermitteln.
Zu den weiteren Glanzlichtern zählen das flotte “Hunger Mountain Breakdown” und das völlig entspannt dahinrollende “River Run” – ein Song, so beruhigend wie ein im Sonnenlicht dahinplätscherndes Flüsschen. Dass die musikalischen Nonkonformisten ihre Songs alle selbst schrieben und die CD auch eigenhändig produzierten, versteht sich bei I See Hawks In L.A. nahezu von selbst.

Fazit: Ein starkes Album. Melodischer Country-Folk vom Feinsten und eine uneingeschränkte Kaufempfehlung an Leser, die einen Hang für atmosphärische, traditionelle sowie akustische Country Music haben.

by Lee Zimmerman
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Forget the odd moniker; for the last decade or so, I See Hawks in L.A. have led the resurgence of a style of West Coast country rock that redefines the music of the Byrds, Burrito Brothers, Poco and the early Eagles. So what better route to take than to create an all-acoustic LP that brings the music back to basics while revisiting high desert terrain. A single listen to the song “I Fell in Love with the Grateful Dead” offers all the affirmation necessary, an ode to sunny days, idyllic environs, hippie chicks and the joys of hitting the highway. Likewise, songs like “Bohemian Highway,” “Dear Flash,” “River Run” and “Highland Park Serenade” emit a campfire-like glow, with acoustic guitars, fiddle, banjo and dobro providing a sepia tinted back porch feel. Those in search of a sound that’s mellow, melodic and as freewheeling as a cluster of tumbleweeds ought to find reason to keep these hawks in their sites. (www.iseehawks.com)

Not . . . too . . . hungover. Not bad. Where are we? We are at the Quality Inn in outer Greer, South Carolina. The two Pauls are roomies. They rise in intervals an unknown duration apart. Next door are Rob and his longtime buddy from Duke, the estimable Buck Schall, or Buck Shall as we like to call him. Buck’s wife Liz and the boys drove back to Asheville last night and Buck has bunked down with us in a return to his freewheeling youth, and his quinquennial conjugal visit with Rob.

Miraculously, we are packed, relatively cleaned up, and in the Camry before noon. We drive five blocks, and, what have we here? It’s a Waffle House, the Waffle House of last night’s deliverance from evil. Do we stop? Oh, yeah. Breakfast #2 at the Waffle is just as good as yesterday’s. Pure country rock goodness. We’re surrounded by thick regional accents that give us a warm anti-facebookgoogle glow, and are feeling smothered, covered, peppered, and home free.

Buck takes the wheel. He’s a solid driver, fast and purposeful, and we’re in Asheville in no time. Another bright day, now with poetic clouds that augur whatever they might augur. We hang at chez BuckLiz, play soccer and atonal guitar with the twins, and suddenly, it’s 3 p.m. Time for the foray into town in search of Asheville’s finest espresso based beverage. We scramble down a wooded slope behind Buck’s house, come out on a dirt road shaded by towering trees. Slumbering peacefully, like an alligator after a huge meal, hidden from potentially scandalized neighbors, its beige skin blending in perfect camouflage with the woods, is Buck (and Rob’s) 1968 Pontiac Bonneville station wagon. Purchased for $400 for a cross country drive to San Francisco (where the wanderers ran out of money and got jobs, their fate decided by necessity and their own Visions of Cody), later bored out to 440 cubic inches by a mad motorcyclist mechanic, this beast from the heartland has achieved a patina and gravitas only gained by exposure to the elements and the recklessness of the human heart.

Buck fires up the Bonnie, which rumbles menacingly as we wind down the dirt road onto civilized pavement, Asheville cite bound. Now Buck fully channels Neal Cassady, powering past all modern sensible combustion craft, through glen and parkway and over the French Broad River. There are no seat belts. We are free. We rummage through the rust and back seat detritus, find relics. Buck’s hippie mom’s 1960s owl necklace; a 50 caliber machine gun bullet; an alligator claw; and a tin of Dental Sweet Snuff, in archaic packaging one might have found in Schwabs of Memphis before Beale Street’s Disneyfication.

Snuff. Snuff said. Do we dip? Of course. If you present virtually any mind altering substance to a quorum of Hawks, they will likely give it a spin. Nothing has ever been turned down. We pry off the lid. Paul Marshall leads the exploration. This quiet man will reveal surprising secrets, and only at the appropriate moment. Now he tells us that he was a dedicated snuff dipper for five years. He takes a pinch with thumb and finger, a practiced sniff in each nostril, and enters nicotine heaven; he leads and we follow. Damn, it stings, the eyes water, the back of the throat swells reminiscent of snuff’s more famous cousin, and the buzz is very, very nice. Clarity, optimism, an expansive horizon that is strangely calming. Snuff, where have you been all our lives? Our foursome snorts and sneezes and goddamns as our Pontiac prowls Asheville back streets to our destination. We are in the heart of Carolina’s new mind. Yes. The heart of a new mind.

Which deserves a paragraph of its own, dear reader. The Asheville area is full of grace, a forest hiding houses, no billboards, Broad rivers and bridges, wildflowers everywhere. Asheville has two great music venues, the venerable Grey Eagle and the Orange Peel, and old brick and stone small factories with grassy vacant lots. Up on the main drag all is organic goodness and microbrew, homespun couture, and our destination, the The French Broad Chocolate Lounge. This is an establishment we might have conjured up in a fantasy tour blog. Exotic single source chocolate bars fill a display case, home made delights crowd the glass shelves, and wise young baristas pull first class espressos. These little crema surfaced cups rival L.A.’s best (and make no mistake, SF and Portland, L.A. does have some of the best baristas in this great land). The cinnamon cayenne brownie is solid fuel, the azteca pozole chocolate brew is dense and wicked, and Paul M’s thick black chocolate drink is a lake of black magma. It sucks light from our cozy upstairs table, and the light is that of a total eclipse of the sun. That’s right. A total eclipse of the sun.

We are euphoric. Like the careful combining of psychedelics from an Ecuadoran shaman ritual, our snuff, espresso, and chocolate form a symbiotic golden triangle of altered mind, a specific landscape upon whose ley line we walk in warrior single file. Another unexpected moment that the following of one’s dream occasionally rewards one with. An inexplicable 1999 choosing of country rock has led us to this moment. This is our home.

Why, Carolina? Why Carolina? From the moment in 2004 (exactly ten years after Rob departed Carolina for the golden shores of Cali) that we staggered from the Yukon, this same trio of Rob and Pauls, out into the Carolina night to offer our newly minted music to our musical motherland, at the Garage in Winston-Salem, these hills have offered refuge and a new way out of the jaws of modernity. We did embrace tradition, faltering with fiddles, stumbling with stanzas, doubting with dobros, harmonizing with uncertainty, alt experimenters of uncertain worth courting the Muse of the Carters, Stanleys, Scrugges, Monroes and Coes. We failed, we tried again, we stayed the course, and now we feel at home here like never before. Last night we felt our spot on the spectrum of tradition and innovation, surrounded by musicians doing the same thing, with a dazzling variety of colors emanating. It’s really happening.

We recross the French Broad River in lumbering wagon, stop off at a local homegrown and much cooler version of Whole Foods, pick out blood red steaks, blood red and green chard, green beans, and local Highland beer in a big box, head back to Buck’s, where the Waller/Marshall/Schall team conjures up a grilled feast.

It’s 6 p.m. We load up and Buck drives us northward, on a winding two lanes into more hills and glens, past riverbottom fields with rusting automobile histories lined up at woods edge behind collapsing barns, sinking sun hitting golden trees, truly blue ridges beckoning. We reach Hot Springs and turn off the road into French Broad River Festival grounds. As promised, this is New Hippie Haven. Lovely unshod belles and their new pioneer young men throng the dirt trails. An electric peace sign hangs from the trees. A young country psychedelic folk band, badass musicians, of course, rock the tent and surrounding fields. The audience loves them, and they love right back. We meet festival king Chris and his lovely girlfriend Amy. They’ve got us covered. A Fender Deluxe Reverb amp with working foot pedal, an excellent bass amp, four way monitor mix with a great sound mixer. We take the stage. It’s been four years since we toured the state, but people are hollering out song requests as we tune up.

Drummer Jamie has fully absorbed the songs from our Skunkfest set of the night before, and he takes command. We rock. We’re flying on the love from the crowd, they sing along, we hit a peak, and . . . the crowd drifts away. At first, this is baffling. Then we realize that the festival headliner, Lukas Nelson and The Promise Of The Real, have kicked off their set on a stage 100 yards down the trail. We falter for a moment, then regather our mojo and finish up, to a diminished but energized audience of our diehard followers. We hang with the love, with the other festival musicians, sign CDs for the folks, for a heavy cat from Trinidad who buys three CDs. A golden angel brings us chicken and tater tots from his campsite. He’s a young former (not ex-, which signifies dishonorable discharge) Marine proffering a unique solid fuel pipe delivery system, who has us hanging on every word with tales of his Marine grandfather, father, and mother. When our Marine was eleven years old, his Marine mom was physically challenged by an eleven year old school chum. The mom calmly reached over, took a young shoulder between thumb and finger, and gently squeezed a young punk pressure point until the schoolboy sank to his knees. Way to go, mom.

We’re flying. The moon is shining. We drift to the main stage, and now we understand why our rapt audience deserted us. Lukas Nelson and The Promise Of The Real are a force of nature. It is no exaggeration to compare them to Cream or Led Zeppelin at their peak, if those bands had hailed from America’s heartland. The drummer, the percussionist, the bass player are monsters, raging when they feel like it, grooving when they must, which is all the time, shifting dynamics on a dime and talking with the ESP that only bands touring round the calendar, 200 shows a year, reach. It’s devastating. Lukas Nelson is a flatout star, like Prince or Hendrix or Pete Townshend. His guitar playing meets the collective ghost of the 60s giants as a peer, not as a wannabe or humbled acolyte. Lukas is right there with these guys. If he never opened his mouth this would be a performance we’d remember for a long time. But when he sings he evokes his dad Willie, his tribal elder Lefty, and contemporary cousin Mike Stinson. Country. He sings Amazing Grace and you can weep if you like. Was that a quote from a Byrds song, you good dog Blue? He does a solo Willie song, with nasal behind the beat phrasing and chromatic guitar runs. Yes, I am Willie Nelson’s son. There’s no coyness about this legacy, because this 23 year old holds his own with the old man. This is the big leagues.

Rob and Paul L and Buck wander, not sure what to do with this ephiphany (sic) and its energy, head for the railroad tracks, walk the silver straight line under the blue moonlight. We head back, find Paul Marshall. He’s been hanging with Lukas on the tour bus, just him and the lovely belles allowed access. Paul tells Lukas that he played with the old man back in the 70s. Lukas caught some of our set, tells Paul he dug it. This is music to our starstruck ears. We bid farewells and promises of return to Chris and Amy. Our new drummer, who apparently can outparty all of us combined, is nowhere to be seen. We drive off into the cool Hot Springs night. We stop on a bridge over the French Broad River and gaze over the side at the moonsilvered placid waters and looming dark hills, in silence. This world is still magic.

Morning breaks o’er the Red Roof Inn. We rise groggy, pack in haste, for it’s time for one of the big perks of this region: Waffle House. Oddly, it takes 10 minutes of interstate driving before we spot a yellow sign. Down the road, and there it is, glowing. We enter. There’s our booth. Joie d’vivre flows through this amped up tribe of diners and Waffle providers. Rocking hard at 11 a.m. The food comes fast, covered, smothered, scattered, peppered, and capped, fluffy eggs that defy natural law, and the dying ensign of a passing civilization–raisin toast with apple butter. This is better than our hopes, and our hopes were sky high. There is nothing like Waffle House.

We motor motorways through glen and field, brick churches with spires aspiring to steeple, their big wooden crosses on lawns draped in cloth, a sight familiar to Presbyterian Rob but foreign to Catholic Paul. To Isothermal Community College in Spindale, NC. Where awaits the high tech and impeccable studio of WNCW, our longtime Carolina boosters who are indeed playing our new record on a constant basis, we’re told. Sound Engineer Guru Dennis greets us. It’s been a long time. He’s got cutting edge mics set up in a perfect semicircle, a nice little Fender amp, and SVT bass pre. We don the cans, and damn he’s got us sounding good. We meet John the three camera videographer, and put on contacts and long sleeved shirts. DJ and interviewer Joe Kendrick steps in a cool minute before downbeat, leads us through a smart and casual interview, and we play four songs. We’re dialing in our acousticelectric atmosphere.

Fond radioadieus and we’re off to the southwest and the South Carolina border, which we cross without even feeling it. The hills are smaller and rounder, the hollers hollower, the shacks woodier. We’re in and out of pines on the highway to Greer. We see the painted wood sign: SKUNKFEST, make a screeching left onto a country lane past funky vacation homes loosely sharing red clay dirt acreage among not a fence in sight. Down a sloping dirt road and we’re on the grassy parking fields of the Albino Skunk Festival. We first meet Toothbrush, then Hacksaw. Are we in some kind of heavenly bluegrass labor camp? Festival king and mastermind Zig emerges from the woods on a four-wheeler. He greets us warmly and we hang by the barbeque pit with beers and biscuits and salad.

Zig’s embracing spirit is spreading year by year over his 40 acre plot, the woods filled with camping spots, ancient buses and mobile homes that host the bands and staff, and a funky but cleverly rehabilitated old barn that’s now open air shaded backstage and down home front porch stage looking up to a green grass natural amphitheater wisely shaded by big old trees, where camper music lovers hold court in lawn chairs or on blankets, digging the eight hours of wall to wall music. Big swings and an outdoor movie theater are there for the kids. We find good friends Buck and Liz and their twin boys swinging from high limb on towering oak. Another warm homecoming ensues.

As the sun goes down a couple of young regional bands play some pretty kickass modern hybridized country music. We meet up with Jamie Hurlston, an Asheville area drummer that Chris from French Broad River Fest introduced us to. He’s a super cool and energetic sparkplug, has studied our material, and is about to give this veteran band a shot of new energy. We talk through the set in the funky band green room/rehabbed early 60’s trailer with spruce siding and functioning toilet. On paper we’re ready to rock. The Corduroy Road finish up a rocking set–damn, everyone out here can play! — and we set up, with borrowed bass rig and borrowed Peavey Classic 30 amp (thank you mysterious guitar player who lent the gear).

Last time we played here, in ’08, we were strangers, but there are a lot of hollers for us as we plug in and tune up. We kick off with Raised By Hippies, drummer Jamie is right there with us, and all is good. A healthy 70 minute set, the 6,000 mile closer supermoon beams down, the firepits glow, the crowd dances or hangs in the lawnchairs, we get a sweet encore, and we’re feeling home in Sweet Home Carolina.

We’re offered four kinds of moonshine, including peach and butterscotch infused, from mason jars in tents in the hills and backstage. There’s even a strong but soft-handed masseuse named Emily who loosens and soothes our tight, hard-working shoulders. A phenomenal band takes the stage: please check out Larry Keel and Natural Bridge when they come to your town or festival. This is kickass and even groundbreaking bluegrass and old timey played with knowledge, mastery, and fire. Virtuoso flatpicker Larry Keel, with a stripped beard that could pass for a full-sized skunk in indirect light, rips off intense and flawless solo after solo, his wife Jenny lays down solid and unusual lines on baby upright electric bass, mandolinist Mark Schimick surprises and texturizes. They’re backing up, with an assurance that makes you think they’ve done hundreds of shows together, the star of the show, banjo player Danny Barnes.

Danny Barnes has reinvented the banjo almost at the Earl Scruggs level. He nails the Scruggs style, but does things we’ve never seen another banjo player do, making it sound like a flatpicked guitar, or a soft ambient background texture. His chemistry with Natural Bridge is that of highly combustible fluids combining, with all the accompanying danger. These people are taking chances and making it up as it goes along, with mesmerizing results.

It’s late, we’re in an altered state, and we roll out of Skunkfest hollow after many a farewell. Our Brave Leader has consumed four kinds of moonshine, but gamely takes the wheel, as none of his bandmates are any closer to the legal limit. But that was hours ago, well before the massive meal of steak kabobs and roasted potatoes and the aerobic set of full-on country rock. We made it legal but we can’t make it right. After a mile of country lane, we’re trailed by a county sheriff the winding curving drive into Greer and safe haven of Quality Inn. As we reach the promised land, a four corners with blazing Waffle House and gas stations, the County Mounty peels off in an aggressive I Could Take You Down If I Wanted To acceleration and disappears into his miserable night. Whew. Our Brave Leader has maintained, bro. Not too fast, not too slow. Right between those lines.

Oh, Charlotte! You lovely southern city, you. Your warm humid nights, railroad tracks, and brick buildings fill my heart!
— R. Waller as we step off the jetliner and into the long tube

at Charlotte International Airport. Rob’s dutifully checked guitar waits dutifully, faithfully at tube’s mouth. We amble, truly amble, towards baggage, through humidity and heat that feels like a distant memory. We’re in the South, and slowing down. It feels good and we’re still waiting for bags.

We rent a sweet bronze (beige?) Toyota Camry at HertzSoGood, and at Budget a mile down a sleepy road grab Paul Marshall, just arrived from a week’s visit with his son Scott in Fayetteville. We meander towards University area Charlotte, along leisurely interstates through tree stands, carefully groomed highway grass with shockingly bright wildflowers, and rollingfields. It’s hard to get your bearings for a California man. There are no peaks to spy for orientation, just noncompetitive old and relaxed hills in all directions.

We find our Red Roof Inn on Equipment Road, as donks* cruise the access roads up above, drive past several sketchy but intriguing underground economy transactions. This place is hopping, in a slow kind of way. The rooms are adequate if you apply a soft focus (bofus?) and don’t inspect mysterious stains too closely. We decide to drive to the NODA area, a rural crossroads by the tracks that’s densely packed with shops of the new, globally informed yet locally committed entrepreneurial mindset. It’s a cool little spot. We check in with the Evening Muse, an 1800’s brick building at the very corner of the brave new crossroads. Ah, cool inside. The sun’s pretty intense at 5 p.m.

In the cool Muse interior, Don’s behind the bar, pours sophisticated local drafts for us band, a warm reunion. Joe the soundman is doing something technical and esoteric with a mysterious aluminum box. Laurance Juber, who’s doing a separate show at 8 before our 10:30 set, walks in, we introduce ourselves. Is that a flash of alarm in Laurance’s dark eyes? He reminds us, as per our facebook communication, that he can’t stick around to see any of our set. We don’t blame him. He’s played with Paul McCartney and we’re a sketchy country rock outfit he’s probably never heard of. Are we stalking him? No, Laurence. We’re cool. Do your thing.

With the sun still quite blazing to the west, we stepped down the block and into Boudreaux’s, as cool as the Muse, and ordered seafoodgumbo, crabcake croissant, redbeansandrice, with andouille sausage and greens and cornbred. We went with the Abitabeer and sweetea, and damn it was good. The staff they were mellow, a bearded young fellow, who handles the people with grace. We pick up our forks, smile to ourselves, and delight in the delicious taste.

We’re in an entreprenurial mood. How can we join the new paradigm of commerce? We decide to purchase a crossroads and create an artificial, but really tasty, local epicurian/mercantile experience, always cutting edge. On one corner Paul Lacques will open a Clam Chowder and Espresso joint called The Jittery Clam. Only New England Chowder (in winter), Red Clam Chowder (in summer) and espresso. That’s it. On the opposite corner Rob is opening a wig and hair piece store called Sweet Merkin. On the third corner Paul Marshall runs Indica/Arabica, an herb/espresso bar with the sleepier varieties of herb and bean. On the fourth corner is the Kommie Korner, a barter only bazaar with open bar called Lac Du Joie and dark hidden chambers, shaded passageways that hint at the Medina of Fez. On the fifth corner–oh, no, we’re done. Accepting applications to enlightened startups for all four radii outward from our crossroads.

It’s evening, we have sampled enough the pleasures of the Red Roof Inn, and we return to NODA. Laurance Juber is dazzling a rabidly enthusiastic audience seated at his feet. We take the stage with gear kindly provided by soundman Joe and his friends, the amps sound great, Joe dials in a pristine sound, and we do a satisfying acousticalelectric set for an involved group of new friends and old. It’s good to get our feet truly on the ground.

*a donk is a jacked up car with eye catching paint job with fancy rims, often rented.

22C, 22B Anonymous seat designations unless, of course, this plane goes down in flames. A child screams in terror. But not one of mine. United Flight 1422 (operated by USAir) LAX to Charlotte. To my right, a well groomed southern man with anxious pale blue eyes reads the latest spy novel on his new iPad. Just in front, a heavy southern woman wears all black, brushes her dyed blond hair, drinks diet coke, wedges herself into her creaking seat, To my left, Paul Lacques reads a biography of Napoleon while snacking on Traders Joe’s trail mix: almonds, pistachios, dried cranberries, and dark chocolate. We’re feeling good because we gamed the system again, loaded extra crap into a large $3 yard sale suitcase after it was weighed at the ticket counter and before we dropped it off at TSA. Emboldened by our cleverness, PL breezed past the gate agent and slid his soft-bagged guitar into the overhead bin on this full flight. It’s tough to pull one over on the airlines in the post-9/11 era but we’ve done it this morning. Hawks 1, Airlines 0. But we don’t want to get over-confident. We know all too well that the airlines could smack us down with one fell swoop, or one stomach churning drop in altitude. For the moment, we’ll toast our victory with sparkling water.

Today marks the genuine start of our summer travels. Our trip with Old Californio up to Auburn and beyond was a prelude, an introduction, a foreshadowing. This is now the real Summer of 2012. The papers have been graded, the kids kissed goodbye, the bills paid. We must now hit the festival circuit. Airports, motels, and porta-potty adjacent stages await our unique brand of country rock freedom. And oh, how we long for them.

But don’t think it’s all Bloody Mary’s and bong hits, dear reader. Being a touring Country Rocker on the road in 2012 takes a great deal of preproduction work. Booking the gigs, routing the tours, buying the plane tickets, renting to vehicles and the rooms, the endless emails. It takes the kind of genuine clerical skills we all got in this business to avoid in the first place. So we make our compromises, shuffle our papers, curse our keyboards, and practice our guitars so at this moment we can Sikh and Discover the Freedom of the Road.