Hawks

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”

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.

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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.

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.

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.

Jurors Acquit Psychedelic Country-Rockers Of All Charges
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.

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In the land of wild untamed roots Americana DJs, scattered across America, Europe, and places like Australia, Turkey, and Israel, the Hawks rule supreme. We cracked a few mainstream Americana Charts with “Hallowed Ground,” but soared on these:

#1 on the FREEFORM AMERICAN ROOTS CHART in May, #5 in June, #12 in July

#4 on Euro Americana Chart, in the top ten for three months

Birds of California soar with fourth release.

BY MICHAEL SIMMONS

“This is Rob Waller of I See Hawks in L.A. on May 30, 2008. It’s approximately 73 degrees outside. Western breeze is blowing in off the ocean. We are all currently alive.”

“Barely,” I mutter, as I snatch the tape recorder from Waller’s bearlike paws and replace it with a beer. Lead singer Waller, lead guitarist Paul Lacques and bassist Paul Marshall — three-fourths of the Hawks (drummer Shawn Nourse couldn’t show) — are sitting in my Palms crib and yapping about Hallowed Ground, the band’s latest album. Like the others, it’s filled with songs of wit and vision about the absurdist horror show that is 21st-century America.

“One of the things that trips me out about this record is, Holy shit, we’ve really made a lot of music!” laughs Waller. “This being the fourth record, I hear the good times, the bad times. We are this funny brotherhood who’ve done this crazy shit together and then were able to come back and tell the story.”

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I See Hawks in L.A. live at Amoeba Music, May 28

The nine-year survival of I See Hawks in L.A. stands as righteous testimony to a bunch of semieternal truths. 1) Country/roots molds should continue to get busted. 2) Singer Rob Waller and guitarist Paul Lacques have proved you can start something new when you’re not very young, and a goodly number of humans might pick up on it. 3) What would’ve been a major-label act 30 years ago can nevertheless breathe in an indie atmosphere. 4) Talent and persistence will tell.

True as all the Hawks’ four albums have rung (and “Hallowed Ground” ranks as their most complete and satisfying), the recorded form isn’t their biggest strength. On the blind home speakers, occasional peculiarities of subject matter — environmentalism, drug sport, cracked humor — can come off as distractions from country music’s reliable verities. When you see the Hawks live, though, you realize that Waller and the gang are just artists who feel no need to exclude the feelings that hit them deepest, traditional or no.

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