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.

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.

Morning comes well into the afternoon for the Hawks at the Grand Hotel. 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

McClean's Country Website

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.

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.

We buckled in, pleased at our misdemeanor. Into the air, the dry smog or smoke streaked air. A bowdlerized version of Iron Man on the small TV screens, 1.5 Ambiens and fitful slumber, and we were suddenly over the green fields of Ireland. Dublin Airport has cool cafes, nice bookstores, a mellow vibe, and cheap and fast internet. Let's get back on the LAX rag for a moment. 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,. It's another beautiful day in the Southland, a high of 105 in Woodland Hills.

But I digress, dear reader. We caught the gleaming new bus north out of DUB and were on the MI, 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.

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.

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.

July 16, 2008
MODESTO, California (CNN) -- A California jury has exonerated four members of I See Hawks In L.A. of terrorism, indecency, contamination of public water supply, and public urination charges that could have sent them to prison for 20 years.

The jury deliberated about 22 hours throughout the course of four days before reaching its decision.

The clerk of court read the verdicts Monday in a packed courtroom while a small but dedicated crowd of supporters waited outside. Hawks fans cheered, wept and hugged upon hearing the verdicts.

Courtroom observers reported that the band's drummer Shawn Nourse dabbed his eyes with a tissue after his acquittal.

Prosecutors had charged the drummer, along with three other band mates with fourteen counts ranging from public urination to terrorism, stemming from a controversial arrest of the band at a remote stretch of the California Aqueduct.

Kern County District Attorney Thomas Schmeeddon sat grim-faced during the reading of the verdict and said later that he would accept the decision.

"In 37 years [as a prosecutor], I've never quibbled with a jury's verdict, and I'm not going to start today," Schmeeddon said.

Asked if the acquittal ends a rumored federal prosecution of the Hawks, Schmeeddon replied, "No comment." Schmeeddon's palpable anger at the verdict may be fueled by lead singer Rob Waller's public justification of the band's alleged actions, in a jail cell interview the day after the incident.

Jurors were not convinced by arresting officers' statements, and cited lack of physical evidence for the acquittal. "The forensics guys couldn't produce a dirt sample with urine traceable to the suspects. Apparently a lot of people stop at the aqueduct to pee. It's not just a political thing," said the jury foreman.

Hawk family members accompanied them to the courthouse to hear the verdict and flanked them as they exited the courthouse to the cheering of perhaps a dozen supporters.

"These men are innocent. They always were," Franks said.

CNN's Rusty Mornin reported that before the clerk of court read the findings, the courtroom was hushed. The only sound was that of the judge tearing open the envelope for each count.

Waller's father, Robert Waller Sr., sat calmly with hands clasped as he listened to the verdicts, Mornin said.

Throughout the trial, Hawks bassist Paul Marshall stared starkly at jurors with no visible signs of emotion, and he showed no reaction to the long litany of aquittals. Kern Superior Court Judge Dabney Miller had previously admonished courtroom observers to restrain themselves at the reading of the verdicts, Mornin reported.

Upon hearing the findings, guitarist Paul Lacques's family members reached out to touch one another and to support Lacques's mother, Teresa Lacques, Mornin said.

The matriarch shouted and shot her black-gloved fist in the air at hearing the first "not guilty."

After the verdicts, the judge read a statement from the jury. It stated: "We the jury feel the weight of the world's eyes upon us." The jurors asked to return to their "private lives as anonymously as we came." They later held a news conference, identifying themselves by their full, correctly-spelled names.

The attorney for Lisa Lovely, one of Shawn Nourse's former wives, released a statement from her. "Lisa is overjoyed that the justice system really works, regardless of which side called her to testify at the trial," it read.

Chain Of Events

Today's verdicts capped a chain of events that began in late May, after the broadcast of "Drunk, Stoned, and Tired: On the Road with I SEE HAWKS IN L.A." an unflattering television documentary by British journalist Martin Cashmir.

In the program, Hawks singer Rob Waller is seen ranting about the aqueduct on a rooftop in downtown L.A.

On Memorial Day, California authorities searched Waller's Highland Park home after answering a call by neighbors to break up a "late night stony jam." Guitarist Dan Janisch was the only arrest resulting, after telling police he "wouldn't back down to the man."

Next, a grand jury indicted Waller, a 36-year-old singer/icon/poet/songwriter, in June along with three other band members on charges related to urinating in the California Aqueduct.

Waller and the three other Hawks pleaded not guilty to the charges and did not testify during the trial. Testimony and closing arguments stretched nearly 4 days before the jury got the case.

Prosecutors alleged that, following the broadcast of the Cashmir documentary, Waller and Lacques plotted to foul the Southern California water supply. The documentary has not aired in this country.

Hawk's lawyers, however, consistently portrayed the band as naive victims: idealists -- dreamers -- with a habit of biting off more than they could chew.

Dramatic Testimony

The Hawks trial was full of salacious testimony, dramatic moments and celebrity defense witnesses.

Among the more than dozen people who testified was fellow country singer Mike Stinson. He disputed testimony from earlier witnesses who claimed they saw drummer Nourse behaving inappropriately at the aqueduct in late 2007 (visit Nourse at his myspace page: http://www.myspace.com/shawnnourse). Journalist Michael Simmons was forcibly removed from the witness stand when he began to read from his sympathetic biography of Unabomber Ted Kazcinski and refused to stop.

Bizarre behavior has stamped this story throughout.

On the first day of testimony, Hawks bassist Paul Marshall was a no show at court, and the judge threatened to revoke the bass player's $30,000 bail. Marshall, claiming he had a back injury severe enough to require a hospital visit, finally came to court in pajamas and slippers, walking gingerly with his wife Colleen supporting him. A further dustup occurred when a loaded pistol was found in Colleen's purse. A Libertarian Party mini-protest has been dogging the court's front steps, protesting metal detectors in the U.S. court system.

Members of the jury came from a pool of 200 people from Kern County, just north of Los Angeles. The eight-woman, four-man jury ranged in age from 20 to 79, including a 21-year-old male paraplegic who said he once attended an Hawks show at a rodeo in Banning, CA.

"They were all right, I guess. Not real traditional. Not really what moves me. Kinda funny."

The Giant Artichoke is in Castroville, Artichoke Center Of The World, as the sign spanning its old school main street (aka Highway 183)points out. We are driving from Paul L's mom's house in Capitola, heading for the 101, thence 46, thence 5. Home.

Yesterday was a bit of a grind, but a good day. We did indeed rise at 7:30 at the Tysons, and saintly Katherine did indeed make us breakfast on only four hours sleep, looking fresh as a daisy, we Hawks looking and feeling not so fresh.

The Tysons are mysterious. We've spent many hours with sisters Doran and Stadler. They produced our Motorcycle Mama video and Doran stars as the Beautiful Girl. We've stayed many times at the Tyson home in the fields of Yolo and written a song about it on our new CD. We've hung, drank, partied. But they remain a mystery. They have inexplicably broad influences and life experiences, from endangered poor white folks situations to deep intellectual explorations. Their bookshelves and hanging art are sophisticated and bold. We will learn more, in time, at the Tysons' magisterial pace.

And at 8:30 on the morning Sunday 15th of June with climbing sun and promises of heat for still sweet smelling summer grass fields, we climb in the Yukon, circle past the ponds and down the gravel road, another gravel road, two lane asphalt through sunflower and alfalfa, County Road 31, farewell fair Winters, to Highway 505, to the 80 west.

It's a serious party in the converted motel upstairs veranda, bagels, coffee tea and a gathering KPIG DJs and engineers, bandannas and tie dye and it feels like home.

KPIG FM radio is a tough nut to crack. It's the most web streamed Americana station in the world, and they're bombarded with CDs. But we've broken through. We're live on KPIG, and it's a low key organic stone ground thrill. DJs Arden and Martin are witty and with it, the young engineers get a great sound, and we fly through 4 songs. We hang out a bit with great singer songwriter Sherry Austin, and head north on the 1 for Paul L's mom's house.

Teresa Lacques has high quality pizza from Pizza My Heart waiting, and we dig in, pizza at noon on four hours sleep. It's somehow exactly the right thing. A great time and much politically charged chatting with Mother Teresa, then we all crash hard on the floor, wake up in time to head out to Felton, up in the woods off Highway 17.

There have been many fires in the Santa Cruz mountains this year, and one came fairly close to Felton, but we see no signs as we pull into the little town. We set up on the Don Quixote stage. Don Quixote's prevails through a fatally flawed concept: a mawkish faux Scandinavian Alpine chalet design that's been brutally mashed into a Mexican restaurant. The cavernous interior is divided arbitrarily into sub-chambers. It's not a feel good space. But the sound man is good, and sound check is promising.

The sun drops over the firs and pines and we loiter on the Felton sidewalks, cell talks with our fathers on this Father's Day afternoon, good but kind of heavy conversations. They're old.

It's still light out and the Lakers are locked in mortal combat with the Celts on two big screen TVs in the front bar separated by glass windows from the music room. Our compatriots Mars Arizona take the stage and rock it acoustically, solidly San Francisco 1968 fiddle and dobro and harmonies filling the room.

The Laker game was hitting its fourth quarter climax as we hit the stage. A thin but enthusiastic crowd, Santa Cruz hippie girls did twist and twirl, the two steps hit a best of tour groove, and magic steeler Dave Zirbel plays especially sweet on our ballad Highway Down.

And that's it. We're done. Tourette over. We pack up, Shawn and Paul M drive to Shawn's brother in law's mountain lair, Rob and Paul L to Paul's mom's, late night further political discussions, we fade and fall asleep.

Breakfast, rendezvous, south on the 1, artichoke soup, and now, southward 101:

SN is at the wheel. PM is zoning out. PL is expertly coaxing SN into a conversation about computer software. Then our conversation drifts from the nature of racism to a meditation on the real meaning of Father's Day. It is a heavy day for each of us in our own independent, deeply personal and painful ways. But it's always groovy to chat with the brothers about the heavy issues, dig. That's one of the secret joys of being a Hawk.

We pull off the 101 beside an irrigated Central Coast field. We all jog off to pee in our own ways: PL pees IN the Porta Potty. PM pees NEXT to the potable toilet. SN pees 50 yards away, at the edge of a deep pit. RW hikes down and pees all by himself in bottom of the pit. What, if anything, is significant about these individual choices? What is revealed? Politically, it seems clear enough. PL is a Socialist. PM is a Libertarian. SN is an Independent. And RW wishes to be an assassinated political leader.

Thee days of this tour have been rich, and poor. This writer (nay, blogger) has been meditating recently on the different types of poverty one can endure in this life.
(aside: two Hawks circle off to the left)

There is the poverty that comes from having no money. That is the poverty we think of in this age when one says poverty. And of course that is an accurate meaning. But there is also the poverty that comes from being disconnected from culture. Disconnected from the foods, the music, the dances, and the rituals associated with your and other's ancestors. My life these days feels very culturally rich. I play music with friends all the time. My wife is a fantastic, soulful cook, my daughter loves to dance, my son brings the sunshine with him into every room he enters just by being quietly himself. I don't have much money, of course. And that's probably as it should be at the moment. But it'd be cool to get some sometime.

Read a poem this morning by Jim Harrison called "Theories and Practices of Rivers." Life and rivers. Water pushed along by the slope of the earth. Kind of takes the pressure off when you think about life that way.

Three members of cosmic country rock band I See Hawks In L.A. (Big Book Records www.iseehawks.com) were arrested for public urination at the California Aqueduct channel crisscrossing Highway 46 between Highway 101 and Interstate 5.

They face possible additional charges of contamination of public water supply and even terrorism. Igor Putin, who replaced the late Tim Russert on Hard Ball, claims that Washington insiders believe an achievement starved Bush Administration may want to make a public example of the roots rockers and their symbolically charged display (see "12 Must Download mp3s" in June's Spin Magazine for a loopy I See Hawks apocalyptic take on a Slash Impersonator livin large at decadent Hollywood Hills uber-parties).

Also arrested on unspecified charges was their keyboardist or guitarist, for documenting the urination proceedings on his digital camera. When confronted by a Highway Patrol officer and three Crown Victoria's full of Kern County sheriffs, the band member tossed his footage laden camera into the middle of the wide Aqueduct waters. He then lay prone, face buried in the gravel, and was escorted quietly to a squad car. The camera has not been recovered.

Waller: "Let's consider a little common sense, shall we? Is urinating into our water supply ten feet from a busy highway while documenting with video anything but a social statement? I guess my response to the accusations is the same as my admonition for society: we're drinking our pee."

A: "No, I think politics is responsible for a lot of the things that you sing about in your songs."

Keep it Mediterranean! Explore olives, tomatoes, fresh herbs, sharp chilled white wines. Here's one idea: Grilled lamb. A brusque Retsina. Berries for dessert.

Summer is all about nature's bounty. Take these months to savor and meditate upon Sun-Ripened Fruits And Vegetables.

Let your tongue linger on the sharp flavors. Save Winter for creamy sauces, stews, and cooked-through vegetables.

Get romantic! Marry sheep's milk cheeses with your leafy greens. Toss in balsamic vinaigrette, toasted nuts and ready to burst cherry tomatoes. From Neptune's spice cabinet: sprinkle where you will with Mediterranean sea salt, the seasoning of Zeus and his Gods.

But don't toss your trident unless you're willing to keep the catch.

At chez Waller on the hill over the harbor Rob makes eggs from no apparent ingredients, the first confirmable Miracle of the tour. We pack, descend in Yukon from Tiburon, south across the Golden Gate into The City. Rob becomes a San Franciscan, guiding us solidly through the labyrinth. We're greeted at the building on 2nd just south of Market by Tim Lynch, KPIG AM host, and his lovely assistant.

The other side is keeping us in the zone where good things happen. A quick stop by the summer sublet of Hawks friend and resident geologist Sara for hamburgers, burritos, and brownies and we're on our way. We roll on various variations of cement ribbons designated with 80 in one way, then another. Finally Eastward.

We are in the Central Valley. The air is just shy of smoky, and there is talk of recent and
current fires. This heat doesn't feel as good as Marin, but it's all right. North from 80 and then a series of farm roads, dry fields and ripening orchards. To Winters and its water tower, its authoritative Mexican food, and its music hall: The Palms.

Which today breathes cool as we open its glass doors, a welcome cool filling two 19th century floors, and the lovely theater room. Dave Fleming greets us with his inimitable low key kindness and wisdom. We load in, sound check with a great new sound man, Carl. Sounding very good. We greet the Loose Acoustic Trio in the parking lot and they walk into sound check. We head over to enjoy the gracious hospitality and laid back agrarian sweetness of the Tyson Estate.

The Tysons have done it again. White wine, an assortment of Hawks-themed beers, shrimp cocktail, lox and capers and fresh bread. Doran and her mother are just too nice. We put our feet up, sit back, enjoying conversations with old friends and new on the wide veranda as evening comes down over little pond. It's perfect.

After quick showers and fresh clothes we head over to The Palms. The room has filled up nicely and the Loose Acoustic Trio is sounding great. Their harmonies are bigger, their songs sound light and free, floating over the crowd and lifting everyone's spirits. Paul L sits in on jawharp and dobro, and Shawn on snare. Brotherhood and smiles, and the crowd loves the whole thing. Sorrow Be Gone, indeed. Richie Lawrence's ethereal Flying song takes on a new and different life that floats from the stage into the shadowed theater audience. This is a special night.

The Hawks take the stage. With Dave Zirbel along the band feels complete. Something is happening here. The grooves feel tighter, the orchestrations richer, the sonic peaks and valleys more guided by the unconscious, we're letting the game come to us, as they say. We're not forcing it. It's just happening. The crowd is with us. "Yolo County Airport" feels like a genuine triumph. Richie sits in with his magical accordion. A guy in the front row keeps calling out for Humboldt. Hold tight brother, it's coming. "Good and Foolish Times" lifts off, "Grid" delivers a gut punch, "Never Alive" is a stately waltz. This is a good musical time. Music! Oh magical music! What wonderfully restorative powers you can unleash when all is a right and the groove is tight.

Back to the chill Tyson pad. A few nightcaps and it's off to bed. Tomorrow will be our longest day of the tour, and it starts in four and a half hours. But we can handle anything now.

Richie Lawrence, President, Big Book Records