I See Hawks in L.A.

August 31, 2008

MARIPOSA COUNTY FAIR

It's Labor Day Weekend 2008 and the Hawks are playing their first ever county fair gig. We're excited and apprehensive. We believe in America. We love fairs. Corn Dogs, the Demolition Derby, Funnel Cakes and Ferris wheels. But will they love us? Will the fair goers embrace us as we long to embrace them?

August 30 is clear, dry, and hot as we hit the 5 north and roll onto the mysterious exit to 99. There's a lot of corn growing, and grapevines and almond trees, newcomers to these parts, where cotton and alfalfa are the deposed kings. It's 104 at the Fresno County line. Paul L texts his brother Anthony, lyricist of Hecker Pass: "its 104 at the Fresno county line." Anthony texts back: "desolate there?" We hit a Fresno Starbucks, refresh ourselves in an artificial climate as reliable as a McDonalds shake, hit the highway, through Merced, and up to Mariposa via the Plainsburg cutoff. Into the foothills forested by native and 2nd growth evergreen, into Mariposa town.

It is indeed Labor Day Weekend, the last blowout under summer sky. Lots of bikers prowl the short Mariposa main drag. RW almost hits one by accident right off the bat. That pisses the dude off of course and words are exchanged. But it's cool. Most bikers live their lives to be annoying assholes. Why else jack the exhaust up to deafening levels? (note of dissension from Paul L: hey, man, I rode a Triumph 650 for a few years, and I'm here to say that there's nothing like pulling out of town in a rumbling pack of big machines. You're with your people, you're living the life, and the civilians that have to show up to the computer on Monday morning can feel the noise a little. It's not going to hurt them)

We follow the cars down the winding road to the Mariposa County Fair grounds, sneak past the line of pickups and SUVs into the lot. With a little help from the Rotary Club volunteers we find the Amigo Dance Slab, an indeed wide stretch of plain concrete at the edge of the dusty fair grounds, and start to unload. It's pretty alienating to be here at first. There's a big bald guy with a laptop playing aggressive techo drum beats and calling square dancing on top of it. What the hell is this? An elder cadre of square dancers decked out in colorful dresses and bolo ties dutifully march to this futuristic disembodied beat. There's a real disconnection here. The music and the dancing make no sense together and yet there it is happening right in front of us. Next they're square dancing to hip hop and urban grooves. And then the line dancers come out. They'll all got black pants, white tops, and black hats. Uniformed uniform dancing. Wow.

It all makes sense if you're from these parts. Country life is pragmatic, not romantic, and not yearning for times past, unlike urban folkies like ourselves. When fiddles were state of the art, that's what you danced to. If you can get a guy with a laptop to play kickass beats, who cares if the fiddles are banished to the folk clubs? If you have to plow 160 acres, are you going to pick the quaint old tractor or the air conditioned gleaming monster combine? A swamp cooler or full AC in your new suburban monster house? And satellite TV is sweet. Kill the old ways. Kill them dead.

We hang in the fair office hospitality room to escape the disturbing scene at the dance slab. We've got to adjust our minds. There's fried chicken and huge straight from the garden tomato salads, cold cuts and hot pots of chili. We eat chips and drink lemonade. Finally the big bald dj/caller packs up his gear and splits and we can take the stage. Relief begins to creep in as we set up our gear and then fully takes hold as we start things off with "Raised By Hippies." Everything starts to feel better. The sound is good. Shawn's got a big riser and he can stretch out and hit them hard. Shawn Nourse is a big stage mo-fo. Dude was born to play the drums in a stadium-like atmosphere.

All kinds of dancers begin to cautiously emerge from the distant dusty fair hoopla. Elderly couples, teenage lovers, preteen groups of girls dancing for each other, crippled hippies, cowboy ranchers and their enthusiastic dates, green haired weirdos of ages past. Beyond the dancers, families on picnic blankets and old friends from high school reminiscing. It's the local scene and a yearly reunion for the mountain kids and the farm boys and their sun baked fathers and grandmothers. It's a new challenge to the Hawks. Can we get this crowd up and dancing and having fun without obvious cover tune pandering?

Yes we can! Some songs feel right on the money. All the two steps, Carbon Dated Love and Ramblin Fever (God bless Hag, this is a giant, giant song), and the shuffles, Drinking For Two and California Country, work big. The cowboys and the old folks and the skinny young girls dancing for each other do their thing, their dance they always do, and it's kind of intense. These are tough, hard working people. They drive rusting beasts, discers and rakes, through the summer dust, leveling fields, raising livestock. Or drive earthmovers, scraping cropland for America's last crop, the commuter suburb, where country folk merge with the heavy metal kids. Yes, satellite TV is sweet.

There's a midway too, a dusty lane climbing the hill, tilta whirl, games of skill, carnies, flashing small neon signs. We take a break and take it all in. Shawn and Paul L stroll through the livestock exhibits in a big metal barn, a stone's throw from the Destruction Derby arena. Passing the massive hogs luxuriating in their pens, the two Hawks turn to each other and say in unison: "I'm such a city boy!"

Midway and off-Midway. Bright lights and lots of dark shadows wherein lurk young men, muscular and tightly wound up in levis and farmer caps, gathered in clusters and checking each other out, and the girls. Brave young pregnant girls stroll past. The older guys are tough, too. These people are physically tough. But it's civil as only the rural can be, tense but peaceful. Mountain people are here too, some from generations back, and several waves of escape from the city. Hippies tested by the elements, who've taken their stand. And of course there's our friends the Trespassers and their crew. It's great to see them and bask in their mellow mountain vibe.

And they dance, and then they don't dance, and we're constantly trying to read this. What do they desire? What is right and just to play?

We play a long second set and then come down to hang by the merchandise table. A Dutch man with a stern and scholarly demeanor buys a CD without using language. We take a walk and wander again the dusty grounds.

Our last set feels like the night is ours. People are dancing, and a wider crowd hangs in the shadows of the dimming fair. The air is nice. This is nice. We close out with Good and Foolish Times, and our music has made contact with the people whose roots we share a bit further back in time. May we intertwine. We hope to return to the fair.

August 20, 2008

FESTIVAL ATMOSPHERE -- DOWN ON THE FARM, NORWAY

FRIDAY AUGUST 15

Morning comes well into the afternoon for the Hawks at the Grand Hotel. Where are we? We’re in Norway. Halden. South of Oslo. On a fjord that empties out into the sea somewhere many miles away beyond the low forested hills. Shockingly, the only Hawk to make it down for breakfast (which ends at 10 am) is RW, the least likely Hawk to ever make it to free breakfast. But the breakfast is wonderful. Eggs, potatoes, and sausage, of course. But there's fresh breads, yogurt, muesli, fruits, cheeses, coffee & tea, & juices, and the widest assortment of canned fish and fish products ever. What a spread.

The day passes by quickly. Shawn assaults the hill looming over the town and visits the ancient fort. Paul and Victoria walk along the canal, watch an old house boat fire up its engine, the middle age couple gunning the boat towards the fjord entrance. Then it is time to get picked up and driven out to the festival. Our quiet, dutiful driver Andreas returns with the van outside the hotel just a little late. We have to wait a little longer for the equipment van. Some of the other bands are getting edgy. They want to get out to the fest to catch a friend's set. Or are they just squeaking the wheel a little for some later advantage in festival negotiations? Perhaps there is something to be learned here.

The drive out to the location is beautiful. The road runs south along the fjord, overlooking majesty in the long long evening light. More pine trees and golden fields and big barns. We arrive finally at the Farm and all is revealed. There's the Main Stage, the Barn, and a muddy walk through the woods to the Campfire stage, at the edge of a wide dry oat field, a soft white glow glows in the still stalks. But we want the Back Stage and we want to eat. The food turns out to be fantastic. More grilled local salmon cooked perfectly. We have our own tent stocked with all kinds of goodies. Angelic Heidi, a tall dark Nordic goddess, mothers us. We check out the other bands, hang out and chat. Pretty fun.

But it's starting to get cold. The sun is finally below the wooded horizon and a chill is really coming on. Heidi comes by our tents with blankets. We've got several hours to kill until our late night acoustic set on the campfire stage. PM isn't taking any chances, he covers himself with two blankets and nestles into the tent couch. Other Hawks wander the grounds checking out other bands, hanging with the locals, and trying out the beer.

We finally take the Camp Fire stage in the not so wee hours of the morning. These Norwegians can drink. Or maybe they can't. There's lots of falling over going on. Big burly Norwegian men going over. Tall thin Scandinavian girls speaking incoherently then slumping over. This is a hard partying crowd. And it's cold. Really cold. We can see our breath. But somehow it's pretty great. The fire is burning big and bright and everybody who is conscious is in good spirits. We play a lullabye-like acoustic set, last music of the night, and it seems to fit the mood just right. A good set up for our Main Stage set tomorrow at prime time. Good night, Down on the Farmers. You are a hardy northern stock.

We pack up our guitars with stiffening fingers, lurch up the muddy path and past the main stage to the muddy vehicle yard. Trusty Andreas is ready at the wheel and as we drive back to Halden the sun is coming up. Quite a night. A few musicians head to the hotel pub for an early morning beer, others hang around for a while to catch the first part of breakfast. Then it's off to bed in full sunlight.

SATURDAY AUGUST 16

Day Two (or is it Three?) at the Fest begins in the late afternoon at our Grand Hotel on the banks of the Halden canal. We rise late, groggy. We are on absolutely no sleep schedule, unless no sleep counts as a category. Suddenly it's already time to gather our wits and guitars and climb into the van waiting on cobblestone, go back out to the Farm. We ride out with Justin Townes Earl and his mandolin player. Justin entertains us the whole way out with stories of life growing up on the road. The hard and wild life since age 15, I think Hank would've done it this way. JTE tells one after the other and we're hanging on every word. He's making it on his own terms, for sure.

Our Main Stage set is in glorious late afternoon sunshine, much warmer than the late night scene. The crowd is all shorts and tank tops, bikinis and shirtless gents. They love the sun. It will be gone soon in the long dark winter. We take full advantage of the powerful sound system and rock. The Norwegian crew seems to enjoy all the equipment at their disposal as well. Everything is on, lights, smoke machines, everything. Low tech indulgence. Lots of fun. European hippies on the Nordic tip, a counterculture confidently entering the years of wisdom. Thank you, Farm and Farmers. Are we really done? No more shows? Seems like we could stay on this continent for a while.

The rest of the night is relaxation and fun. Wandering the fields and deep into the woods around the festival, taking photos, listening to the rock and roll, CC Adcock kicking ass Louisiana style, Coal Porters doing old timey, the Tindersticks with violins and cello. Just as the chill sets in our bus arrives and we once again dash through the mud to the sound of madly sawing strings. It's easy sailing from here and the smooth ride lasts all the way back to Los Angeles. No trouble with flights going home. Our luck indeed changed. Thanks for praying for us, friends.

August 19, 2008

NORWEGIAN WOOD

THURSDAY, AUGUST 14

Morning comes early to the Downshire Arms, our comfortable (Northern) Irish home. Do we really have to leave? It seems too soon. We'll have to come back promptly. There is so much more to explore here. Andy shows up to drive us down to the Dublin airport. It's a gentle drive south as we've given ourselves plenty of time. Andy tells us his own tales of the Troubles, moments with a pistol at his head, pistols both IRA and British military, his car stolen and used to transport a bomb, Andy's stolen car abandoned at the blast site, a serious questioning by the authorities. And this in gently rolling hills and small towns. The Troubles hit everyone up here.

We roll on the luxuriously wide M1 across the now invisible Border. Dublin Airport now kilometers away. Desperate cell calls to the luggage people finally break through. They have RW's and SN's bags. Will Rob be wearing his own fresh underwear later today? It seems too good to be true.

A magical summoning to the depths of Dublin Airport's baggage region and indeed the bags are back in our possession. Oh, Lordy! Personal possessions! Just when we were getting used to the simple life that comes from traveling with nothing. This time all goes well at the airport. We get on a plane. Our inappropriately oversize and over limit luggage is mysteriously allowed into the cabin. The SAS bird takes off. We are not taking this for granted.

And now we are imperious over the North Sea, where far below us on black seas many a brave Viking went down, or rode with dame fortune and a favoring wind to the Irish coasts, raiding monasteries, allying with Irish ri and ard ri and wedding their royal daughters, controlling Wexford and Cork to a day's ride from the ports, founding Dublin.

We're over forest, field, river, and it looks just like the Norway of our minds. Norway. Gleaming OSL, Ikea clean with bold steel and glass. Norway of the old simple wood frame house and old severe empty church, has led the world of design into gleaming simplicity. We land, we walk brand new cathedral-scale corridors, collect our bags, and all in reasonable time. We cautiously admit that Lady Luck is showing her elusive face at last. A young man approaches us with a small piece of paper with I SEE HAWKS IN L.A. written on it. "Are you?" Yes, we certainly are. And it's off to the woods of Norway for the Down on the Farm Fest. Here we go.

The drive through southern Norway farmland is gorgeous. Tall pines, oat fields, big red barns, lakes and ponds, and the big fjord that runs for miles and miles all the way to the sea. It reminds RW of a rockier Minnesota, or Wisconsin with an ocean. Magnificent puffy gray and white clouds dot the sky and the sun is warm. We pass through functional looking Oslo, modern and small, and we're quickly rolling through fields and forest again.

Two hours southbound, and we arrive in the small port town of Halden, its rail line ending at the small harbor, where our Grand Hotel sits gazing down on the canal. A lovely town of 27,000 souls located at the very end of a long fjord pointing long to distant sea. There's a huge ancient fortress on the hill above town. From this vantage point the Norwegians defended themselves against the unruly Swedes, and a mad Swedish King was felled by a single bullet. Our hotel was built around the turn of the last century. There's a nice wooden pub downstairs and a huge, twelve foot tall ornate porcelain Koken Oven used to heat the dinning room. The train station is right next door and trains come by ever few minutes. The place has a charming 19th century quaintness to it. We settle into our comfortable rooms, shower and get acclimated to the Norwegian sensibility.

We're playing a little festival kick-off show tonight outside on the town square. It's right around the corner so we walk on over. A cool and casual hipster, Tom, greets us. He's one of the head honchos of the Down On The Farm fest, has run it for years with his mellow vibe and solid good taste. He gives us a humor tinged rundown of the long running wars that eventually yielded sovereignty to Sweden, Norway, and Denmark, each surrendering its moment of dominance to the long hundred years of today's peace. The rivalries are still real, but wry and ironic. We meet Guy, the sound man and Minister of Transportation (a good man to know), and he gets us set up on the covered stage. Borg is the local beer and it is going down quickly. It's a sharp light pilsner, couldn't be more different from the beloved Guinness of Ireland. What makes Guinness so dark anyway? It's almost like two completely different beverages. And yet gloriously, both are beer.

In the downstairs cellar restaurant we dine on delicious Norwegian trout and potatoes, a gourmet meal that would've cost us a fortune each were we on our own here. Prices in Norway are quite inflated for the American pocketbook these days. A Guinness (the Hawks unit of international commerce and currency) goes for 60 Kroner, about $11. Pretty steep. But we're the band and one of the most time honored and important benefits of being the band is that you don't have to pay for beer. It really makes a difference in Halden.

After dinner we launch into our set. It's mostly other bands and festival organizers at this kick off event and it's fun to meet the folks we'll be hanging with for the next few days. Some local kids hang on the edges sitting on their scooters, smoking cigarettes, goofing with their friends. The small town feel continues. Another set and then off to bed. It's been another long day for the Hawks of international travel and music making. Tomorrow we head into the woods.

Well, almost. Everybody is heading over to another pub. The Siste Reis, right downstairs from our rooms. Another couple beers won't hurt. And indeed they don't. The Siste is the local "Brown Bar" (Norwegian for 'dive') populated by artists and musicians. Crazily, they have the Hawks records on their juke box. The regulars are happy to meet us. They've been drinking and listening to the Hawks for years. The night stretches into morning, the Hawks now playing the role of international ambassadors of good will. Wow, these Norwegians can drink. And talk.

Is the sun coming up? The odds of adjusting to Europe time seem slim. Unconsciousness at last, in the Grand Hotel.

August 18, 2008

FROM BRONTE TO BELFAST

We woke up in our little cozy digs behind the Downshire Arms at Hilltown's only crossroads, lined by 4 pubs, a SPAR store, and a few other small town shops. Ah. The smell of breakfast being prepared downstairs. Eggs, scones, hearty brown bread, tea and cheese and milk. Our hotel was much more like a little house, two stories with the bedrooms and bath up stairs and kitchen and living room below. Quite a nice little arrangement. Paul and Vicky were at work in the kitchen. A day ahead and comfortable in Ireland from their many trips over, they warmly cared for the other travel-bedeviled hawks. It felt as if we were visiting their home in Ireland rather that hanging in a hotel. Breakfast was crucial for a busy day lie ahead.

And then something shocking happened. A knock at the door and what do you know: guitars and one bag. PM was the lucky bag winner--both his bass and bag arrived. RW and SN will still be washing their drawers in the sink or squeezing uncomfortably into the donated undies of a luggaged band mate. Quick showers follow the reunion ceremony and we're off in the van to Belfast with our very own gear.

PL takes the wheel yet again and follows Andy Peter's detailed directions along scenic back roads to the big city of Belfast. Pastoral scenery punctuated by harrowing near misses with buses or the curb, as Paul L over corrects to the left, trying to overcome 30 years of driving reflexes. A rural side of a house is painted with an image of Che Guevara and one of the IRA who died in a prison hunger strike. What will Belfast be like? Images of bomb blasts and funeral marches come to mind. But the days of the Troubles have passed. As we enter the city all seems comfortable, safe, and prosperous. Green trimmed hedges line neatly trimmed lawns and carefully cared for homes. Red brick historical buildings are flanked by modern cool gray concrete, generous glass and tasty steel. These same people were blowing each other up? It seems inconceivable.

We head first to UTV, a television and radio studio in the center of town. We meet up with classic rock DJ and on-air host, George Jones (unrelated). George is a real character. He's been in the rock music game since it began and it's not likely you'll forget it. Mr. Jones was in Van Morrison's first bands in the late 50's. He played gigs in Hamburg with the Beatles in 1962. He bought the first Felder P-Bass in Belfast when they took it off the boat in '59. He's done everything with everybody all the way down the line. Now he's got the Hawks. The interview is fast and professional. George sets up the mics at hyperspeed, gets a damned good sound. We say the band name, the website, explain the band name, play a song, George does the traffic, answers a couple emails on the air and then we're out of there. Whoa.

Back in the van, south a few Belfast blocks to the club, drop off the gear and meet Andy, eat. It's traditional fare all around. Fish and Chips, Guinnesses, fish pie, more chips, mush peas and champ. It's delicious. A local favorite, mysterious and rich Banoffee Pie. No time to savor it, though, and we're off to the BBC. Entering BBC Northern Ireland offers the first architectural glimpse back to the days of the Troubles. The place is built like a fortress with big cement baffles and narrow passageways out front, high security doors and guards. Ultra modern turnstiles dazzle you with artful state of art glass doors, and the firm knowledge that you are being CCTV watched is made soft, even exotic and flattering. We pass into the inner sanctum, walls filled with huge plasma screens with lush imagery of BBC's best. We are in a fortress outpost of the British Empire.

But we have little stake in the ancient argument and just want to play our special brand of California country rock for as many folks as possible. We make our way beyond the garrison up elevators to the studio of Ralph McClean, a fine roots dj who's been playing us for years. It's great to meet him. As we set up in the studio a strange thing happens. PM goes to plug in his bass amp and all cry of alarm goes out from the engineer, "Stop! Don't plug that in! You could get electrocuted!" What? Musicians are not allowed to plug in their own amps here. An electrician is quickly summoned. He arrives with gauges and monitors. Is this some kind of government joke? Have we stumbled into a Monty Python episode? The staff electrician in jumpsuit checks the outlet, checks the amp, gives the all clear and plugs it in. This is strange. PM's amp is just a regular old UK amp. OK, we'll let professionals do their job.

The performance section of the show is taped and then PL and RW sit for the interview. Ralph is even faster and more on top of his interview game than George Jones. He introduces the songs, feeds smart and informed and hip questions to us, takes breaks in one fast turn, all to be cut together later after we've gone. British broadcasting at its best.

Back in the van and across town to the Real Music Club upstairs at the Errigle Inn. This place has been a public house for a long time. You can't smoke in pubs in the UK anymore (just like California) but the walls release an ancient smoky odor that hints at decades of potent hand rolled tobacco. We set up and sound check as the place begins to fill up. There's a good crowd eagerly awaiting as we hit the stage. We play two sets and the crowd which seems respectful and restrained at first grows increasingly rowdy and elated. It's a great show and our fine Ireland welcome continues to thrill us.

We load up and follow Andy on darkened narrow lanes southward to Hilltown. Long long drive, considering it's only about 60 miles. Yes, we are weary. Our bodies aren't on California time, nor are they on Irish time.

August 15, 2008

HAWKS LIVE ON BBC RADIO

Tune in tonight (Friday, August 15, 2008) to the Hawks on with the BBC's Ralph McClean at 8:00 Northern Ireland time (noon California time). The show will also be posted for a week afterward if you'd like to catch it on your own schedule. Gillian Welch and Chip Taylor also appear on this program. Here's some live footage:

McClean's Country, Hawks play "Hallowed Ground"

McClean's Country, Hawks play "Yolo County Airport"

IRELAND AT LAST

We modern beneficiaries of the unique historical accident of godlike powers of travel and comfort don't travel by wagon at 2 miles per hour. We don't worry about starving on a long journey halfway around the world. It's not like it used to be. And we take things for granted. Still. Modern air travel ain't fun any more.

Rob, Paul M, and Shawn left L.A. on Sunday, almost. Monday, actually. How many hours, days and fractions of days have passed in this sleep deprived haze of customs, transfers, LAX and Heathrow, grilling by British officials, more lines and searches and metal detectors, stale jet fuel and more, much more stale travelers? Arrived at rainy Dublin Airport on Tuesday morning, at last, to the welcome sight of Paul and Vicky waiting outside the green velvet rope of DUB Customs. We made it. We're here. But where are our bags, and RW's guitar and PM's bass? According the very kind gentleman at the Lufthansa baggage counter (well-trained in conflict resolution "thank you sir for that information") one bag is in London and the other four might still be in L.A. Oh, goodness.

No time to worry about that now. We've got to rush to our gig at the Bronte Music Club in the North. PL guides the lumbering 16 passenger van bravely out into traffic running the wrong way, on country lanes designed for horse drawn carts. We trust him. He's good at this. He comes to Ireland every year, he seems well-rested, and he's brave. Back we are, like '06, racing through the Isles late for a gig.

Our faithful and trusty tour manager/promoter/MC/driver Andy Peters meets us at the hotel. Andy does it all. He gets us fed and makes sure we have our first proper pint of Guinness. His lovely girlfriend Jenny helps us get sorted as well. He's managed to round up a Music Man bass for PM and a Taylor acoustic for RW. Drums are all together. A real Fender tube amp for PL is ready to go. As long as we don't pass out from sheer exhaustion, we're going to be able to do the show after all.

Banbridge, County Down is one of the homelands for Paul's mom Teresa--the O'hares are many in this region. The day before the airline-gobsmacked Hawks arrived, Andy Peters drove Paul and Vicky through the rolling hills from hilltop town to hilltop town, stopping for a cosmic Pint at a great old pub (license applied for 1787), where the barmaid/owner listed the O'hares in her family tree, and the locals told of the local lore and legends in a lyirical and difficult to understand accent. Heavy black clouds and bursts of rain made for a dramatic drive to the edge of the Mourne Mountains, heights of mystery and damp repository of tales for thousands of years.

And now we follow Andy up and down steep and curvy lanes past incurious cows and silvery rain streaked grass fields and brown barley, a final dip into a treeshadowd sloping farm road and we're here:

The Bronte Music club is actually a deconsecrated Protestant church built in 1760. The Bronte sisters' (Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights) father Patrick "Brunty" Bronte was the minister at this church so long ago. It is a beautiful structure on top of a small hill. As we approach the sun is setting over the villages here and there along the roadside, stone walls and a quilting of fields of sheep and stones and milking cows. It's just beautiful and Ireland is casting its first spell upon us.

In the small, pitching and yawing green cemetery yard, among the eroding black moss covered Celtic crosses, lies a giant stone split into four. It guards the sunken pit of Squire Hawkins, 18th century practitioner of black magic. When the good Squire died, no church would accept him for burial, other than this one. The horses balked at hauling the corpse's wagon into the church yard, and the coffin had to be lugged by hand up the hill into the sacred ground. Legend has it that lighting struck the massive gravestone as soon as it was placed. Hence the split, and the Cross formed of muddy ground among the slab fragments.

The church interior is spare and still reverent, stripped of Christ's altar so that we can sing. It's been a long, not to say strange trip, but here we are on stage with instruments in our hands. The lights are on and there's a crowd out there ready to listen. The disorientation and discomfort of international travel fade away as we start the first song. It's all familiar territory now and it feels good. The crowd is enthusiastic and kind. We take a nice break and hang out with the locals. How is it that people in Ireland are so nice? Is it real? Do they secretly have some agenda? It doesn't seem so and for the paranoid Angeleno that can be hard to get used to. They've been through a lot, the Irish, and they seem to appreciate the random, painful course of each person's life to the degree that they just treat everyone kindly. What a fine place to be.

After the show we walked into the old cemetery in the black of midnight, to feel the cool earth's moist humors. Sweet darkness under old trees, and the dead at peace or otherwise. The air on our skin is like an old friend. Again.

A PIECE OF BANOFFEE PIE

Dear reader, not all suffered on this Hawks journey to the Old Country. Paul L and Victoria flew in great comfort on the always reliable and genteel Aer Lingus, direct to Dublin. We were stretching the limits of baggage civility, and managed to carry a guitar bag, hard guitar case, two backpacks and a bag stuffed with Hawks Cds and t-shirts onto the plane, where we endured the mild scorn of fellow passengers as we commandeered a number of overhead bins. But air travel is a vicious jungle, and we are willing to be predators and usurpers, to milk the collapsing system for all it's worth.

We buckled in, pleased at our misdemeanor. Into the air, Aer Lingus, the dry smog and smoke streaked air. East over America 7.8 miles high, less horrible food than United, bowdlerized version of Iron Man on the small TV screens, 1.5 Ambiens--may we muse on Ambien, for a moment, dear indulgent reader?, in James Joycean style as is appropriate to our destination, for Joyce touched all things ancient and modern, and Ambien is the essence of our modern decline, a startling item in the age of shock fatigue, a product pushed on the public through endless TV ads, wherein a sleepless lady pops the pill and is visited by blue butterflies that guide her to the land of nod, from which the naive viewer might conclude that these Ambien pills are a mild comfort aid like Tylenol, but no, dear reader, these are in fact a powerful narcotic in the same league as morphine or dilaudid, perfectly legal with a nod and a wink from your friendly physician, while faithful harmless marijuana can still and does still land you in jail by American law and capricious fate and circumstances, thank you, kind reader--and fitful slumber, and we were suddenly over the green fields of Ireland. Touchdown, no fatalities. Dublin Airport has cool cafes, nice bookstores, a mellow vibe, and cheap and fast internet.

Let's join our Hawks brothers stranded at an LAX adjacent hotel, and rag for a moment. LAX--what a miserable excuse for an international airport. The people of Southern California take it deep with a sheeplike docility, like they put up with all other aspects of their slow motion melt down. Our mayor is a shiny toothed weatherman, all lies and rotted optimism: "It's another beautiful day in the Southland, a high of 105 in Woodland Hills."

But I digress again, and again, dear reader. Ireland, north bound. We caught the gleaming new bus out of Dublin airport to the MI north, through green fields, into County Meath, lots of new commuter/second home action on the hillsides. Ireland's housing boom, while not as apocalyptic as the Southern California explosion that filled Orange County and Riverside fields with beige McMansions to the farthest horizons, has mitigated the lonely Irish landscape of old. Paul L wishes it would all stop. There is history, and there are historical moments. It's time to stop the paving.

Paul L also wishes for rain, black clouds, mist and chilling winds. This puts him at cross purposes with the native population, who have endured the most intense rain in memory. As the Far West endures months of no rain. The first signs are upon us.

August 11, 2008

STILL AT LAX

We're off to a troubled start. Or no start at all, really. Three out of four Hawks have been grounded. PL and his wife Victoria made it. They are at our hotel in the Irish hillside north of Dublin. They say it's great. Beautiful countryside, good food, a helpful and well-organized host. But we remaining Hawks are still here at LAX. We've been here almost 24 hours.

LAX is a terrible place. Everyone knows that and it seems tiresome to repeat it but I just can't help it. It's simply terrible. As we pulled up yesterday afternoon and saw the lines of ragged and exhausted passengers, I felt that we were approaching a refugee camp. But I was an outsider, a newsman of sorts there to capture pictures and gather quotes from the troubled suffering many. But I was not of them. I was not one of the stranded and lost. My trip would be go just fine. Right?

At first all was looking good. I got an upgrade to business class! A well-dressed television personality was seated next to me. She covered motor-cross, super-cross, and the x-games for ESPN. I am with my people! Up here in business class we're all successful, world -traveling entertainment types. We work hard and we deserve to be treated right. We chat about the pain of traveling coach while sipping on complimentary champagne and orange juice. "Do you always fly Business Class?" "Oh yes, I try to."

Extreme TV-host revealed that she was newly pregnant as she nervously snacked on Craisens and bananas, waiting for the flight to depart. It seemed any moment we would be airborne, she would be diligently eating and sleeping, protecting the new life growing within her and I would be stretched out in my big roomy seat, drifting in and out of light narcotic slumbers.

Ah, it was never to be. Trouble in the toilets. No water. Flushing issues. Back to the gate. Wait an hour. They throw off two young troublemakers. What did they do? I don't know, but they look like trouble to me. Glad they're gone. We need to wait while they pull their bags. More time ticks past. They say the water is fixed! They got the troublemakers bags! We're back on our way. Back out on the runway. We'll be up in the air in seconds. Business class food will arrive so soon. I can smell the grilled Mahi Mahi rewarming in the ovens. What wine should I choose? But what's that stewardess doing flushing the toilet over and over with the Lavatory door open? Who's she gesturing to? No! It's not fixed. The toilets are still jammed. Flight canceled.

Now the trouble really starts. I won't bore you, dear reader, with the details. You've all been there before. No flights to get you where you need to be in time. Bags locked on a plane to nowhere. Meal voucher. 1 AM dinner at the last remaining sport's bar. Airport Hotel purgatory sleep in the stiff cold sheets.

And now we are back again at the gates. Waiting some more. This latest flight delayed two more hours. Pray for us dear friends. May our troubled luck change.

August 09, 2008

FLIGHT FROM THE DESERT

This town, these hills, this climate--it's all drying up. A walk through Elysian Park raises clouds of dust, and Griffith Park is a lunar landscape a year after the big fire. Only our cosmic friend Jimson Weed seems to be implacably flourishing.

The town to which we flee on Sunday, Dublin and points north, is experiencing torrential rain like no one can remember. And that's saying a lot. As the late great Chris Gaffney said to Rick Shea as they flew over the Emerald Isle, "I think they over-water."

We've promised our kind host and booker Andy Peters that we'd pack sunshine into our baggage. We'll see. For secretly we crave water from the skies, cool mid days, wet winds.

The Hawks Euro mini tour will take us to the Mourne Mountains of Northern Ireland, to Belfast, and to Down On The Farm festival in the woods of Norway. Too brief, but we'll take it. We've got our Euros and Sterling, forgot to get Kroners. See you there.