Northern California Tourette
Posted On June 16, 2009
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FOUR CARS TO SAN FRANCISCO
Why should we change? Gas is $2.87 a gallon. It hurts but a little. So we eco talking Hawks are not going to walk this walk. Shawn driving to our shows in the Sierra foothills in his Exploder with his family. PM is driving a load of gear in his Astro van up to his daughter PJ who works the summers in the Park. Which leaves PL and RW to pilot the Yukon to The Bug hostel outside Yosemite, first stop on our summer northern tourette.
It’s luxuriously empty in the Yukon. One of us can sprawl out in the back seat and sleep while the other drives. Ah, cheap gas.
It’s summer, time of the hippie festival circuit. We’re Carter Ranch Festival bound, 5 to 99 to 41 to 140 to Triangle Road, currently coming down out of the Grapevine with lack of coffee on our minds. And freedom. Paul L’s longstanding job has come to an end, as Actuality Productions, maker of such shows as Modern Marvels and documentaries of both higher and lower brow, crumbles into the corporate earth. Rob’s unshackled from USC till September. Freedom. No responsibilities. No need for sobriety, decency, shared values. We’re on the road. With much time to muse. Muse we do.
It’s summer, time of the hippie festival circuit. We’re Carter Ranch Festival bound, 5 to 99 to 41 to 140 to Triangle Road, currently coming down out of the Grapevine with lack of coffee on our minds. And freedom. Paul L’s longstanding job has come to an end, as Actuality Productions, maker of such shows as Modern Marvels and documentaries of both higher and lower brow, crumbles into the corporate earth. Rob’s unshackled from USC till September. Freedom. No responsibilities. No need for sobriety, decency, shared values. We’re on the road. With much time to muse. Muse we do.
Let’s muse upon, for example, two grand mind altering plants of earth, and their dual nature. Coffee is Arabica and robusta — mellow and flavorful vs. caffeinated and astringent. Cannabis is, if you believe the new generation of licensed connoisseurs, of two main types — sativa, the head high, and indica, the body high. Are there other dualisms in the pharmacological kingdom? Medical Marijuana has changed California for good. Our state proposition system has nearly brought the state to ruin but the super silver purple kush lining is the de facto legalization of weed. It comes in all flavors now and it’s high tech and strong. And reasonably priced. If you’re a musician you can bet you are one degree of separation away from a buddy with a card if you don’t have one yourself. What will be the result of this tectonic shift? What happenes when most Californians are stoned? We will soon find out.
Speaking of propositions, California’s method of slow suicide, consider the possible closing of state parks. Yes, there will be permanent campers with perhaps less than savory health practices and perhaps lacking social skills and even a rudimentary moral code. But the militarized rangers in the gleaming white pickups and SUVs lumbering up the access roads will also be gone. Trails will deteriorate, and the wilderness will be for the wild. Bring it on, say the wilder elements in this vehicle. We’re our of the Grapevine, engulfed in the wide flatness. The hills are already brown, with much less of the yellow mustard that painted the slopes last year.
We turn pensive.
Have the Hawks been coasting on their tried and true point of view? Is it time to shake our psyches, muddle our minds, focus on distant horizons, the future for to see? Is the sky blue? Does the new Pope sleep in the genetically modified woods? On the 5 north, of courthe, in the flat San Joaquin Valley, for the hundredth time, we truly feel home. Puffy clouds spare us the sun’s almost summer wrath. The air is mysteriously hard to describe. It’s a dry kind of humid.
Have the Hawks been coasting on their tried and true point of view? Is it time to shake our psyches, muddle our minds, focus on distant horizons, the future for to see? Is the sky blue? Does the new Pope sleep in the genetically modified woods? On the 5 north, of courthe, in the flat San Joaquin Valley, for the hundredth time, we truly feel home. Puffy clouds spare us the sun’s almost summer wrath. The air is mysteriously hard to describe. It’s a dry kind of humid.
We hit the 99, and the terrain gets much more interesting. Funkier farms, old businesses that can’t possibly still have customers–yet off to the right is a giant Flicks candy display tube, still spinning on its mount, in a dry abandoned factory field. Mysterious.
We pass the Tulare city sign, and 50 feet behind it is an old primered fighter jet displayed in a brown field. If you are bedraggled, you display your fist first.
We pass the Tulare city sign, and 50 feet behind it is an old primered fighter jet displayed in a brown field. If you are bedraggled, you display your fist first.
At Fresno we hit the 41 north, six lanes at first to accommodate high volume summer Yosemite traffic. Riding through the foothills of the Sierras. Green oaks over yellows grasses. Windows down and stoney early summer breezes fill the Yukon with the scent of freedom. Bare granite peaks in the distance. Memories of trips past. Carter Ranch ’07, Mariposa County Fair ’08. RRW forgot his stage shirts and discovered Big Red in a thrift store off highway 41. U-turning the Yukon he nearly killed a biker who appeared on his Harley right out of the blind spot. Killing a biker is never a good idea but it’s particularly bad on Labor Day weekend on a scenic highway. They’ll come for you quick. It’s one of the things they’re waiting for. Luckily we only near grazed him.
Tonight it’s back to our old friendly Yosemite hostel, the Bug. We’ll play to mostly Europeans then sleep the high altitude sleep of the traveler. Waking to long lines in the Wi-Fi breakfast room. Coffee, internet, conversation. Let the trip begin!
Later that evening. Bug.
Later that evening. Bug.
We came in
we ate trout
we set up
we sat down
we stood up
we said hi
we tuned up
we sang songs
we played drums
we strummed chords
we plucked bass
we sat down
we stood up
we said hi
we played songs
we said bye
we packed up
we drove out
we found house
we unpacked
we hung out
we did blog.
It was a very mellow, yea subdued evening, not in the wild barn at the top of the hill but in the Yosemite Bug dining cabin, a great wood walled hangout with herbal tea, damn good food served at the far end counter, and mellow Europeans and Japanese strumming acoustic guitars on couches. We did did a mellow, mellow set. In a mellow, mellow room, with mellow, mellow trees and breezes. And the Lakers won and beat Melo. All is well.
CARTER RANCH FESTIVAL – BUSTIN’ OUT
Day two in the Sierra foothills above Mariposa begins with the various low frequency rumblings of men waking in bunk beds, said frequencies bouncing off the wood walls of our cabin nestled among dry grass, wildflowers, and oaks and firs in their centuries long competition for this 3,000 foot altitude transitional zone. Our cabin is perched on a dry grass ledge overlooking a steep drop to the little creek valley below. On the opposite valley slope are the Bug hostel cabins poking through the dense tree cover. It’s a beautiful and silent spot. Just gazing out at the trees in morning light is a healing for the addled Angeleno.
We get good eggs and okay coffee at the Bug dining hall, pick up a mic stand we’d forgotten, and head back to our little wood aerie. Rob and Paul L scramble down rocks and red dirt, scratching themselves and picking up several ounces of foxtails, and find the creek and its enchanted waterfall and swimming hole. It’s far from the Bug cabins and tricky to find, plus the hip global tourists are safely on their sleek buses for Yosemite park. We are primeval man. The rocks sloping down to and into the pool are sedimentary, shiny green sculpted slabs with brown veins running through them. The water is cold. RW scales the rocks in bare feet to a rocky perch 20 or so feet above the pool. In a vain attempt to recapture his lost youth he steps into the air, aiming for the narrow deep center of the pool. Adrenaline floods his synaptic region and for a brief moment he is 20 years old again. The icy waters and the weightless fall act a natural defibulator. This time it works and he doesn’t even break his leg. Youth is still in reach.
We scale the steep and crumbling rocky cliff back to our lovely Gypsy Cabin. Indeed we ourselves are gypsies and fit well in this tiny architecturally improvised cabin, section tacked on to section as needed.
We dress and head over to the Carter Ranch festival, 7 miles down Highway 140, left at Triangle Road, 2 dusty dirt road miles to the banners and the meadow and the hippies young and old in tents and campers and pickup truck beds, kicked back on the grass listening to a local folkie. There’s the teepee we Hawks spent a sleepless night in back in ’07, awaiting fresh innocent victims. Jembe and leather goods vendors and great smelling barbeque pits ring the upward sloping meadow. This is good vibes. The weather is perfect. A dry humidity.
Carter Ranch Fest’s musical lineup is an unwitting (or is it witting?–fest booker Adam is a mysterious and complex cat) sampling of the rootsier elements of the experimental LA music scene, with its roots in the alternative to punk pioneers of the late 1970’s. Double Naught Spycar is here and Carlos Guitarlos, the Atomic Sherpas, and the Hawks. It’s odd to see Carlos and Joe Berardi, strangers to unpaved dirt and portajohns, out here among the trees and hippies. But it’s oh so grand.
PL slips away into the woods with Joe and a camera. An artist and his muse alone in the woods, anything could happen. Time to get the “Joe in Nature” photo shoot underway. The two return with sheepish grins on their faces, proud of their work and then it’s time for the musicians to go to work.**
Spycar takes the stage and rocks the meadow with their avantarded musical madness, the idiot-savant of all instrumental bands. Who else would be fearless and twisted enough to give their songs titles like these: janmichaelvincentrehab.com, Marina Del Hayride, Journey to the Center of Guitar Center (Sherman Oaks), or Arrangement with a Dung Beetle? The crowd is delighted and surprised. A new musical paradigm has landed in Carter Ranch.
The Hawks are up next. It’s 4:30 and a nice lazy afternoon vibe is in effect. Shaded by the 300 year old oak above the stage, the Hawks stretch out the solos, jam a bit, and step through the rockers, the two steps, and the waltzes. It’s a friendly crowd, we’ve played up here several times now and there’s lots of old friends in the audience. After the show the Hawks linger beneath the oak and listen to Carlos howl his blues to the appreciative crowd. Somehow Carlos is always louder than anyone anywhere, and will not rest until all eyes and ears are upon him, onstage or off. And he’s great, we reluctantly admit.
From there night begins to fall. The Atomic Sherpas, a fierce uberurban band with tight arrangements, funky bass, and powerful horns get the dance party underway. Doten is sitting in with the Sherpas on psychedelic synth and he’s mad, mad mad. Twenty year old Herculean twins on bass and trombone are pushing the Sherpas to a new level. The crowd flips. These hippies came to dance. Then the Tresspassers and their new fiddler bring it home with their haunting modern gothic songs and presentation. This is a new form of hoedown, a new generation sleeping in the dirt. Strangely familiar, and not familiar. There’s more people here than ever before, the Carter Ranch Fest is growing. Back to our Gypsy Cabin and quiet mountain sleep beneath the half moon.
**you can view Joe Berardi In Nature on Paul L’s Facebook page, in all its alienated glory. Here’s a tempting sampling:
OUT OF THE MOUNTAINS AND INTO THE VALLEY
So we’re ready to vacate the Yosemite Bug and its towering trees, to leave our cool mountains for the hot and dry San Joaquin environs. We’re not eager to enter the rural smog zone. In the last moments in our cabin on the ridge, Rob’s doing a Lyndon Johnson in the bathroom (there’s not much choice–only a curtain separates it from the bunks), as the two Paul’s chart out Richie Lawrence’s fiendishly complex simple songs for our show at The Palms tonight. Then we roll.
We drop down through the hills, the evergreens melt away, then the oaks, now we’re in agro fields, now we’re on the 99 north.
We drop down through the hills, the evergreens melt away, then the oaks, now we’re in agro fields, now we’re on the 99 north.
Rob’s feeling an espresso in his immediate future. If we can find a Starbucks Rob will pull his scam: order an iced doppio espresso. When the drink is presented, casually ask for a bit of soy milk. This used to go smoothly but of late the reluctantly proffered soy milk carton comes with a warning: “We’re not supposed to give away soy milk for free.” Feign innocent surprise, pour the soy milk. Voila! The $1.85 iced au lait. Rob is doing his part to bring this over-entitled union busting behemoth to its knees. Are you?
Whoa! Speak of the corporate devil! Starbucks sign to the right, beacon in desolation! We make exit 195, over the 99, we pull in to the Atwater Arco/Carls/ISC Tractor Supply/Starbucks empire, black asphalt sulking in hot sun.
Whoa! Speak of the corporate devil! Starbucks sign to the right, beacon in desolation! We make exit 195, over the 99, we pull in to the Atwater Arco/Carls/ISC Tractor Supply/Starbucks empire, black asphalt sulking in hot sun.
We’re in. Rob earns his soy doppio without incident. We blog. It’s air conditioned. Why leave? Why not stay till closing time, abandon responsibilities of gigs, career, musical friendships, challenges? Why not sit here and blog, surf the web, read our friends’ Facebook musings, post musings, musings upon musings, read friends musing comments, respond with further comments, engage in comment banter, check Yahoo, check CNN, read of the latest explosion, abduction, bankruptcy, back to Facebook, wow, more comments. Why can’t we all just hang out? Let’s give it a try. Here in Atwater on the 99 amidst hardworking farmers and their overworked fields we are taking a stand for Facebook. This is how we will survive. We will camp along the monolithic parking lot wall, enter at 6 a.m. when Starbucks opens its doors, bathe in the bathroom. We will earn money on the Starbucks internet. Are you with us, brothers and sisters?
PSALMS FOR THE PALMS, HEMLOCK, AND THE FRINGES OF THE BAY
Our apologies, dear reader, it’s been a while since we’ve taken the time to chronicle our journey here on the pages of our humble web log. When last we wrote, we were headed north on the 99 towards our show at the wise and benevolent Palms, the cultural Center of Yolo County. If memory serves, and sometimes it does, the show was grand. Two acoustic sets with brother Hawk Richie Lawrence as special guest, singing some wonderful songs from his soon to be released solo CD. A generous crowd filled our hearts with pride and resolve. We played “Yolo County Airport” and the crowd, now familiar with the song, cheered heartily between verses. We have penned a regional anthem, and are setting our sights on a new national anthem, although the opening of “Freebird” is a already a strong contender for the post-empire era.
We said our farewells to Palms resident poet Dave Fleming and drove into the night. What a wonderful place this is.
We stayed at our central California home away from home, the Tyson mini-estate in the fields and marshes near Winters, chief subject of aforementioned “Yolo County.” Kathryn and Carlos are very generous people, and even more interesting. Kathryn has lived a cat’s nine lives and then some, including teen queen hoodlum in reservation country in North Dakota, and flight attendant on a sketchy and perhaps CIA owned airline servicing Vietnam at the height of the war. Now she and Carlos do land preservation work, and their marshy surroundings are indeed a hotbed of wildlife activity. We saw a Swenson’s hawk divebomb a huge wild turkey that was encroaching on nesting territory. Better than Animal Kingdom, and commercial free.
We stayed at our central California home away from home, the Tyson mini-estate in the fields and marshes near Winters, chief subject of aforementioned “Yolo County.” Kathryn and Carlos are very generous people, and even more interesting. Kathryn has lived a cat’s nine lives and then some, including teen queen hoodlum in reservation country in North Dakota, and flight attendant on a sketchy and perhaps CIA owned airline servicing Vietnam at the height of the war. Now she and Carlos do land preservation work, and their marshy surroundings are indeed a hotbed of wildlife activity. We saw a Swenson’s hawk divebomb a huge wild turkey that was encroaching on nesting territory. Better than Animal Kingdom, and commercial free.
We got a late start for the Bayarea, after a many tales told Tyson breakfast, but we were late for nothing. A sweet day off in the hills of Marin.
San Francisco is wrong. Who first said this? Was it Marc Doten? Was it Anthony Lacques? Dear reader, you are perhaps concerned: where is this going? Surely the Hawks aren’t going to bash an entire city. Surely their anonymous but acerbic scribes are not going to unleash their full verbal vitriolosity in broad stroke broadside against what some, the more shallow among us, consider one of the shining gems of urbs Americanus?
San Francisco is wrong. Who first said this? Was it Marc Doten? Was it Anthony Lacques? Dear reader, you are perhaps concerned: where is this going? Surely the Hawks aren’t going to bash an entire city. Surely their anonymous but acerbic scribes are not going to unleash their full verbal vitriolosity in broad stroke broadside against what some, the more shallow among us, consider one of the shining gems of urbs Americanus?
Well, yes. We are. San Francisco is wrong.
A little background is in order. We have given San Francisco its due, and every opportunity to charm and inspire us. Paul L hitchhiked to SF in 1972, almost desperate to drink the dregs of a hippie culture already pronounced dead. He wandered Market Street and Golden Gate Park on a bitter cold and icy clear November day, looking for peace, love, and the Furry Freak Brothers. There was nothing. Just the ordinary citizens that R. Crumb drew as foils to the counterculture. This destroyed a teenage dream and blew a psychic hole in our young guitar player’s San Francisco dream. To this day Paul L can’t navigate San Francisco, despite hundreds of visits and stays. A paralysis of the mind and a chill in the diaphragm kicks in as the gleaming spires loom closer on Bay or Golden Gate bridge. It’s become psychic DNA.
A little background is in order. We have given San Francisco its due, and every opportunity to charm and inspire us. Paul L hitchhiked to SF in 1972, almost desperate to drink the dregs of a hippie culture already pronounced dead. He wandered Market Street and Golden Gate Park on a bitter cold and icy clear November day, looking for peace, love, and the Furry Freak Brothers. There was nothing. Just the ordinary citizens that R. Crumb drew as foils to the counterculture. This destroyed a teenage dream and blew a psychic hole in our young guitar player’s San Francisco dream. To this day Paul L can’t navigate San Francisco, despite hundreds of visits and stays. A paralysis of the mind and a chill in the diaphragm kicks in as the gleaming spires loom closer on Bay or Golden Gate bridge. It’s become psychic DNA.
Rob gave the City By The Bay an even more generous chance, living here, meeting his beloved wife, forming bands and day trading at his day job in the Red Bull 90’s. He and his musical brothers gave the city a great band, The Magic Of Television. Which the City largely ignored, bestowed not with imprimatur, no seal of hipness, no pick of the week in the comatose free weeklies and amorphous local radio. And so, lo, TMOT migrated south, only to die, decay and be reborn as the Hawks. Home at last. Nice try, San Francisco.
(Paul M is asked about San Francisco. He chuckles. Like he plays poker, close to the vest. He has nothing to say. Decline to state. But he does urge you to see the theater production of Emperor Norton, which he recorded the music for. Ah, Emperor Norton. Surely the physical beauty of San Francisco confirms a once grand vision. Shake it off, land of Pelosi. Your day will come again, if you too die to be reborn.)
Perhaps we’re like a visiting team at a rival’s stadium. We’re the Dodgers playing at PacBell Park. It’s only natural that we would feel some hostility. But we’re not a baseball team, we’re a country-rock outfit. Still, we feel a cold shoulder from San Francisco. Maybe it’s the cold, foggy summers. Maybe it’s the stinky beer soaked punk bars, maybe it’s the hard edged hipness that could only survive in this urban terrarium. But we love the Mexican food. SF burritos are superior to LA burritos. See? It’s not us. We’re not bitter. We don’t hate San Francisco. This isn’t an LA–SF rivalry thing. That died years ago, except in the hearts of a few stolid northerners who think that driving a Lexus in green hills pollutes less than one trapped on the 405. Thanks for stealing our water. Hey. We just want some love, some intellectual and spiritual exchange. Love us, SF, won’t you?
Enough reminiscing. On to the present, and the fresh picking of the scab of rejection. There was love at the Hemlock Tavern on Polk Street, but it was from our 15 friends and family who penetrated the almost comically dated 80’s disco pounding the walls of the tavern (“Fistfucker! Fistfucker! Fistfucker!” were the only lyrics, and indeed were more needed?). The DJ–did he glare at us with our hats and our guitar cases? The bartender and sound guy were cool, and the room sounded good. Our good friends The Believers, who have become genuine gypsies, with no permanent address, did a nice set. Our true blue friends were there, but not a single unaffiliated San Franciscan crossed the threshold from pounding disco into the little performance back room. We felt like a vanity project. We don’t exist in this city of ephemeral existence. Our spirits pass through each other, city and country rock band, with only a cold chill felt by all. Please, San Francisco. Give us a chance. Love us.
MEETIN’, GREETIN’, LATE NIGHT EAST BAY EATIN’
Wednesday brought us to our now familiar haunt, in what most would describe as Berkeley but is in fact Emeryville: Strings, a secret concert house that forbids bands to advertise or tell where it is. An oasis on decaying San Pablo (oops, almost gave it away!) with a Japanese-style garden designed with secret nooks, secret hot tubs, and delicate shrines, big Persian carpets on walls and floors, and lots of wood weathered by years of Bay fog, rain, and sun. Our kind host Joey opened the show with his unique guitar instrumentalizing. Richie Lawrence, in from Sacramento, added his tunes and tunefulness, a fourth unofficial Hawk in the middle of our tourette, and a mellow night of music was had by all. It’s a real trip to play at Strings — a trip back in time (or is it sideways?) to a reality that could’ve come to be on a much larger scale if the hippies had won. A bearded man wearing a big smile comes up to the merch table to tell us he got all our records for free, only paying the 40 cent cost of the blank CDR. Wow. File sharing has hit the flower children.
We bid farewell to our fine friends at Strings and head back out into the harsh, impersonal world of triumphant 21st century capitalism. But it’s not all harsh. We use Richie’s iPhone to locate the nearest Nation’s hamburgers — an East Bay chain of 24 hour burger and pie stands that delivers on every level. The shakes are thick and malty, the burgers are piled high with cheese and onions and mayo. They fall apart before you can finish them. They even offers a delicious salmon burger to which PL grants an enthusiastic seal of approval. We are happy, full, and sleepy. Next stop, bed in Tiburon.
ANGEL ISLAND
Thursday morning comes early at our undisclosed location in a city in Marin county whose name means shark in Spanish (oops, almost gave it away!). The young Waller children are traveling with the Hawks on this journey and PM and PL are generously waking early and hanging with the lively Waller youth. Even Richie adds his experienced hand to entertain and care for the children at the early hour of waking. RW is a lucky man to play with such talented and child-friendly musicians.
After hearty cups of strong milkless coffee that galvanize our spirits to nearly a state of ambition, we make our way down the hill and board a ferry to Angel Island. The weather is cool and partly cloudy, a lovely day to hike on the historic island.
After hearty cups of strong milkless coffee that galvanize our spirits to nearly a state of ambition, we make our way down the hill and board a ferry to Angel Island. The weather is cool and partly cloudy, a lovely day to hike on the historic island.
In recent history the Island served as the “Ellis Island of the West.” But that name is a bit misleading. This western immigration station was really more of a holding pen than a gateway to America. Asian immigrants, particularly the Chinese, were quarantined here for years and often sent back. The Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882 laid the legal framework for these policies. According to Karen Polster of UC Riverside, in 1876, the Marin Journal published charges against the Chinese presence in California on behalf of the white working men of the state and their families:
“That he is a slave . . . no fit competitor for an American freeman . . . That American men, women and children cannot be what free people should be, and compete with such degraded creatures in the labor market . . . the health, wealth and prosperity and happiness of our State demand their expulsion from our shores.”
“That he is a slave . . . no fit competitor for an American freeman . . . That American men, women and children cannot be what free people should be, and compete with such degraded creatures in the labor market . . . the health, wealth and prosperity and happiness of our State demand their expulsion from our shores.”
We wandered among the surprisingly graceful block detention buildings nestled in the cliffs of a cove. Poems are etched into the walls that tell of the aspiring-immigrants fate. Here are a few examples:
I am distressed that we Chinese are detained in this wooden building.
It is actually racial barriers which cause difficulties on Yingtai Island
Instead of remaining a citizen of China, I willingly became an ox.
Instead of remaining a citizen of China, I willingly became an ox.
I intended to come to America to earn a living.
Leaving behind my writing brush and removing my sword, I came to America . . .
[to attain] my ambition and become successful.
Leaving behind my writing brush and removing my sword, I came to America . . .
[to attain] my ambition and become successful.
Who was to know two streams of tears would flow upon arriving here? If there comes a day when I will have attained my ambition and become successful,
I will certainly behead the barbarians and spare not a single blade of grass.
I will certainly behead the barbarians and spare not a single blade of grass.
Long before Chinese immigrants came to America, indeed long before there was an America at all, the Miwok Indians made their way out to the island in boats made of reeds which could hold as many as ten people. Like the brotherhood of ISHILA, the Miwoks had an animistic philosophy. They trod lightly on the island, apologizing to spirits of the animals and nature whenever they disturbed them, they also used local plants to create trances. It’s a beautiful island and the Hawks are nourished by their visit walking and hanging with the ghosts of history.
THE HILLS AND TOWNS OF MARIN COUNTY
After an active and reflective day out on the Bay, we are well grounded in the history and earth of Marin for our show tonight at the Sleeping Lady in Fairfax. The pub is run by a wise and generous Irish couple who have taken the model of an Irish pub from the green rolling hills of Ireland to the yellow rolling hills of Marin. The beer is cold, the taps are clean, and the food is hearty and nourishing. You can even bring your kids. The Sleeping Lady (named after the local nickname of Mount Tamalpais) is a welcome new venue for the Hawks. Lots of friends and relatives of the band live nearby and they populate the tables as we launch in to our evening acoustic set. The sound is a little tricky at first, the crowd wants more guitar and we figure out how to give it to them after a while. Learning a new room and a new sound system is always a little tough but we’ll be ready for it next time. Sleeping Lady, we want to sleep with you again.
DEEP IN THE WOODS OF SONOMA COUNTY, AND HOME
We’re rolling through somber deep redwoods and deciduous dense growth on the narrow winding highway outside of very hip and mellow Sebastopol, woods yielding to cow pastures and taking back again, to the hamlet of Occidental and radio station KOWS, for a taping. Nice, nice, nice.
Post KOWS interview. Our gentle and enlightened Songs In The Round DJ host Scott guided us through an acoustic performance and interview that went in our favorite direction–a consideration of the fauna and flora of our surroundings and of Los Angeles. It’s good to be with people who think about the land, about the mall and its consequences. We bought a strawberry tart with a long German name and delicious nettle/mint aqua fresca from a sweet 60’s mama at the farmer’s market that had burgeoned in the parking lot below the radio station, which is housed in an old wood frame mercantile building. The tea’s green goodness is suffusing our sytem and souls, and we are so digging the vibe on Bohemian Highway.
Thin shadowed twisting highway. We dip into deep forest, passing thin young trees making kinescope of the green mysteries behind. An old wood cabin with only a dirt road for access through forest. An abandoned pickup truck with its brains blown out. Roadside gardens bursting with vaginal fertility. We stop at a roadside organic bakery, and inside are tables overflowing with the most beautiful earthy seedy fruit chunk bearing loaves and scones we’ve ever seen. The scone tastes as good as it looks, and the espresso is perfect. Are we dreaming these green fields, these flowing skirts, these goddesses, this nuclear free zone, into existence? Are we in a matriarchy? Heal us.
We drive back down the Bohemian Highway to Santa Rosa for our second radio performance of the afternoon, Steve Jaxon and The Drive on KRSO. This one feels quite a bit different. It’s a commercial radio station. People actually work here, in long rows of cubicles, and they act like it. That always takes a while to get used to. This particular show is a drive time comedy show. As we arrive one of the contributors is doing a long bit about tea bagging and being trapped in an elevator with two old ladies who smelled like Ben Gay. The long puerile arm of L.A. guy talk radio. Holy shit, what do we do? This is strange new territory even for us road worn Hawks.
But we soldier through and it all turns out fine. Steve, our host, is a nice guy and very professional, with a rich classic DJ baritone. He knows what to do. We follow his lead, play Slash From Guns N’ Roses, everything is cool. We even talk to some callers about tea bagging. So there you go.
But we soldier through and it all turns out fine. Steve, our host, is a nice guy and very professional, with a rich classic DJ baritone. He knows what to do. We follow his lead, play Slash From Guns N’ Roses, everything is cool. We even talk to some callers about tea bagging. So there you go.
Pack up and head for the gig in Sebastopol, stopping along the way to buy PL some seriously strange cough syrup. It has pine needles and ammonia in it. It seems to work somewhat but it also makes PL have an out of body experience. Not necessarily a bad or unusual thing for a guitar player on the road but not all that pleasant either.
The cavernous Aubergine is a warehouse thrift store by day, bar restaurant by night. They even have wi fi and very good French onion soup. We meet our drummer from the night, Chip Trombley (he’s great). We get to reconnect with our brother Hawk and long time steel player Dave Zirbel and his lovely wife Jeanine. It’s a fun night in the rural northern California scene. Dave Z is the Missing Hawk, the sound we hear in our heads when we think of the complete sound. He sounds great tonight, Chip rocks the grooves gently, and we make a solid connection with the crowd. We’ll definitely make our way here again.
The cavernous Aubergine is a warehouse thrift store by day, bar restaurant by night. They even have wi fi and very good French onion soup. We meet our drummer from the night, Chip Trombley (he’s great). We get to reconnect with our brother Hawk and long time steel player Dave Zirbel and his lovely wife Jeanine. It’s a fun night in the rural northern California scene. Dave Z is the Missing Hawk, the sound we hear in our heads when we think of the complete sound. He sounds great tonight, Chip rocks the grooves gently, and we make a solid connection with the crowd. We’ll definitely make our way here again.
We hang with the locals while Dave Carter and his Trailer Park Rangers do an inspired set of unusual and innovative songs. Serious hippie dancing is alive and well up. It’s grand.
Next morning Paul M hits the road home solo from Marin in his Astro Van. Rob and family, in Volvo and Yukon, gather Paul L, stricken with a mysterious flu, from brother Matthew L and wife Nicole’s Marin guest room, and caravan south. From Paul L’s point of view, the Wallers are the coolest possible traveling family, parents and children endless sources of wit and novel point of view. We trade off combinations of drivers and passengers, and we and the time fly, 5 south, over the Grapevine at twilight and a rising gibbous moon. We’re back in the Southland.