StephenDavidAustin

9/6/2019  RootsMusicUnderground.com
Damn, it's been a long time since I paid any attention to this site. After releasing "A Bakersfield Dozen," I gave it a lot of attention.  You know, promo, radio, shows, the frustration of trying to assemble a live band and keep things interesting enough for them to play my gig over the other five options good musicians in the SoCal American Roots music scene have damn near every night.  It was my first formal foray into the role of "Band Leader" (You know--"The One Neat Guy and a Band" thing).  I tried, I really tried, but I couldn't wear the hats of band leader, booker, payroll administrator, schedule coordinator, cat herder, and...what the hell am I missing?  Oh yeah...Musician, singer, and songwriter.  Those were the kids who brought me to the game.  The fun part.

"So", you might be wondering, "How do you plan to capitalize on the momentum and buzz you've created in the time lapsed since 2011?  How's that procrastination thing working for you?  What was your name again?"

Well, first of all, Chuck You, Farley.  Don't think I'm not aware of my dearth of creative output over the course of the past 8 years.  Education, as they say, is expensive.  And when the institute of higher learning is built on the mud, the guts, and the very souls of so many "tortured artists" who came before, well, the journey we call "paying our dues" becomes really, really...real. 

After a while, it makes sense that the Lori Loughlins and the Felicity Huffmans of the world make it so easy for their kids.  Because, well, they can.  We live in a world where money paves the way, and the only reality for those who have it is to use it to cushion life's bumps in the road, for themselves and others who breathe the rarefied air in their bubble.

Don't get me wrong.  The only lessons that stick with us are the ones we learn on our own.  After another bite of reality leaves its aftertaste on our creative palates, it's time to move on to the next lesson.  Jesus said that his disciples, upon being run out of a strange town, should shake the dust from their feet and move on. Similarly, Mick Jagger and Keith Richards encourage their acolytes, in "Sweet Virginia," to "scrape that shit right off your shoes."  So, I spent a few years shaking dust off my feet and scraping shit off my shoes.  And I'm back with dust-free feet and shit-free shoes.  And some of those heavy-duty white socks you can get at Costco, fresh out of the pack.

About a year ago, I started putting together a web site focused on American Roots Music, to be called RootsMusicUnderground.com.  The idea is to shine a light on the many people who do their things--whatever their things may be--to contribute to the promotion of this art form best know as Americana.  I went out and bought all the shit I needed to start producing content that I hope will be informative, entertaining, and--most of all--helpful in shining a light on a uniquely American art form that is keeping a musical spirit alive.  A musical spirit that I believe deserves to be heard, shared, and expanded upon.  So far, I've recorded some interviews with people who are, each in their own way, contributing to a cultural awareness of the overall musical landscape.  I've got some good interviews recorded for podcasts, which I hope to produce on a regular basis.  I'm writing about music that I believe deserves to be heard.  I'm compiling videos and sound recordings of bands and artists who I think deserve to be heard.  Most of all, I want to help people who are out there putting it all on the line for even just a little bit of validation.  A little recognition that they are appreciated, even if their parents were right when they said they'd never make any money chasing dreams.

Most of all, I don't want to be another self-important asshole.  My goal is to promote goodwill in a musical subculture that is all too often full of insecurity, duplicity, and insincerity.  For the most part, I feel that I've been treated pretty well by the media, considering I don't tour, rarely play out, and release recordings at a pace similar to a sleepy sloth on seconal.  I have no intention of using the site as a bully pulpit from which I can be a self-appointed arbiter of what does and does not deserve to be heard.  For that reason, I won't be tearing artists and their work down.  I'll promote the art I like, and leave it to others to appreciate the beauty that may escape me.  I see no reason to review or cover a live or recorded performance that doesn't move me.  There are very, very successful people out there that, for whatever reason, don't do it for me.  That doesn't mean they suck.  Okay, in my opinion they may really suck, but to the bazillions of fans who pack arenas to see them I'm just a lame-ass who doesn't know good music when I hear it.  Will a bad review from me change their minds?  No.  Will it make millions of their fans think I'm an asshole?  Probably only the half-dozen who actually read my reviews.  So it's a zero-sum game.  They have good publicists and don't need me.  Shit, they probably even have record labels and tour buses.   So, look for the premier of RootsMusicUnderground.com sometime before the end of the world.

Musically, I've also changed my approach.  I don't have the will, the energy, or the money to carry a band to get my music out there.  I've got a half dozen or so good songs fully mixed, mastered, and collecting dust.  As of right now, I'm on the fence about finishing enough songs for a full-length CD, releasing what I have as an EP, or releasing the songs one at a time.  Whatever decision I make, I'm sure it will be the wrong one.  Beginning this fall or winter, I will be performing as a solo act, or maybe some acoustic duo or trio shows with people I really enjoy playing with.  The new music is a lot more acoustic-oriented than "A Bakersfield Dozen."  These songs were recorded with full instrumentation, but written and recorded in a manner that I can do them with just a guitar and a harmonica.  I've been playing a lot of acoustic 6 and 12-string guitar music, accompanying myself on harmonica with one of them Dylan-esque neck things.  It's fun to play, and it's fun to get in front of an audience.  So the empty rooms may be smaller, but you'll be able to hear the words.

I'm getting old.  So are you.  Hell, we all are if we're lucky enough not to have died young.  If you are reading this and did die young, we really need to talk, 'cause I have some questions.  A lot of them.  

It's really easy to look back on life's injustices.  It's really hard to accept the state of the world today.  Maybe, just maybe, we can all look toward the future and pull together to make it a little better for all of us.  If we're lucky, we can change the course we're heading down and make the world a little better for the future occupants of this planet we call home.  I'll try a little harder if you will.  I mean, what else is there to do?

6/12/2018

I See Hawks in L.A.—Live and Never Learn
Reviewed by Stephen David Austin
www.StephenDavidAustin.com

For weeks now, I’ve been searching for a way to describe I SEE HAWKS IN L.A. to the uninitiated listener. Here are a couple that have crossed my mind: Imagine Ken Kesey and the Merry Pranksters doing the Acid Tests 30 years later—in Bakersfield. I See Hawks in L.A. could be the house band. Or maybe Terry Melcher producing the Grateful Dead in Victorville. Take your pick. If you don’t get the picture, I can’t say I didn’t try. There’s plenty of room on the bus if you’re willing to take the Hawks’ trip.

To grasp the musical vision of I See Hawks in L.A., it’s helpful to invoke a willing suspension of disbelief. By that, I’m talking about a perspective borne—at least in part—of chemical induction. More specifically, the agricultural and pharmaceutical cornucopia from which adventurous Baby Boomers have partaken since the Kennedys’ vision of Camelot. Prior to discovering I See Hawks in L.A., I thought I may have wasted years of my life seeking chemical enlightenment. Fortunately, a misspent youth was, in fact, preparation for writing this review. (Disclaimer: This is a music review, and in no way an endorsement of illegal substances, deviant behavior, or subversive thoughts. Consider yourselves warned, hopheads!)

I See Hawks in L.A. are carrying on a psychedelic folk-rock tradition tapped from the wellspring of L.A.’s fabled Laurel Canyon, while proudly flying the freak flag of the Grateful Dead’s seminal (and, to my mind, best) albums, Workingman’s Dead and American Beauty. It’s a musical genre that has survived the ebbs and flows of popularity in the ensuing 50-plus years, now relegated—in Southern California, anyhow—to satellite, Internet, and college stations. I See Hawks in L.A. set themselves apart from the current pack of Americana artists with sometimes unpredictable song structures and lyrics that go from deep introspection to downright hilarious and all points in between, sometimes in the same song.

Aside from the aforementioned influences, these Hawks have a lot of Byrds in their background (sorry, the pun was just too damn easy). Choral harmonies, folksy melodies filled with drug references (some subliminal, some painfully obvious), and instrumentation that flows seamlessly between traditional, experimental, and “where the hell did that come from?” Paul Lacques' guitar playing draws undeniable influence Clarence White, with occasional flourishes of Doc Watson, Roy Nichols, and James Burton. Still, he’s accomplished enough to have drawn from all these players without sounding exactly like anyone except Paul Lacques. Bassist Paul Marshall has been a regular on the L.A. rock/country/roots music scene since old Shep was a pup, and his background, fro The Strawberry Alarm Clock to the likes of Hank Thompson and Wanda Jackson, makes for the stylistic balance that holds down the Hawks’ bottom end. He and new drummer Victoria Jacobs work together to form a tight rhythm section. Pedal steel player Dave Zirbel even invokes the ghost of "Sneaky" Pete Kleinow from time to time. In a musical style traditionally fronted by tenors, lead singer Rob Waller sings in a baritone that might be described as a cross between Tennessee Ernie Ford and Country Dick Montana, employing occasional vocal gymnastics unique to his timbre, and he makes it work. Sonically, they’re just greasy enough to set a groove reminiscent of THE BAND and just clean enough to show off their instrumental and vocal prowess.

Live and Never Learn, the Hawks’ eighth album, finds them soaring above familiar terrain. In addition to new drummer Victoria Jacobs (who also provides lead vocals on “Spinning” and the hilarious “My Parka Saved Me”) guest musicians Richie Lawrence (accordion, piano), Dave Markowitz (fiddle), Danny McGough (organ, synth) and Dave Zirbel (pedal steel), provide fresh musical seasoning to favorite Hawks themes of environmental awareness, social commentary, marijuana, and the incongruity of straddling the line where the urban sprawl of Los Angeles encroaches upon the surrounding wilderness. The foothills of the Angeles National Forest are where modern development meets nature’s wild domain, where black bears nonchalantly stroll through neighborhoods at night, rifling through trash cans in search of an easy meal. As the band’s name implies, hawks are commonly seen perched on telephone poles or soaring above open fields, scanning for prey. While many species of hawk call Southern California home, the Red-tail is the most common. Ironically, the Red-tail hawk is among the most likely species to steal prey from other raptors. This may explain their dominance among the birds of prey in the Hollywood Hills, where showbiz and Darwinism collide.

Today’s commercial country music is style over substance. Strategically torn jeans, tight-fitting t-shirts, spray tans, and trucker hats. Like Def Leppard with a fiddle, it sounds like beer commercials meant to be played between beer commercials. Every damn night, every damn singer, every damn song is a beer commercial, based on algorithms and formulas designed to appeal to the “youth market.” Whereas today’s country radio conglomerates force this insipid pabulum into the shiny black pick-up trucks of wannabe good ol’ boys and gals, the listening public needs to search a little farther out of their comfort zone to find I See Hawks in L.A.. Upon discovery, some people just won’t get it. The Hawks play for those who do.

The album’s opening song, “Ballad for the Trees,” gives insight into what makes I See Hawks in L.A. special to their fans, while making it abundantly clear why you’ll never hear them on a Clear Channel station: they make you think. The track begins with a digital skip that hints at a defective CD, but in a few seconds falls into a loping, good-timey rhythm that belies the lyrical depth. As Waller ruminates on the isolation of a life and time where we collect friends we never see on the Internet and ingest news intended to divide and conquer the masses, we are reminded that there is still a world out there where trees provide oxygen, bees make honey, and planet Earth does just fine without us. There’s a difference between loneliness and being alone, and sometimes solitude provides a much-needed break from a mental diet` devoid of nutritional value. The title track reminds us that it’s good to call upon our own better angels, but in the long run, we’re all gonna be what we’re gonna be. Still, we live and…you know.

By the time you get to “Stoned with Melissa,” well, you might feel like getting stoned. Once your buzz sets in, you’ll get to my favorite track, “My Parka Saved Me.” This song takes the humor of the GEICO commercial featuring Boyz II Men a step further, with the Hawks providing choral response to Victoria Jacobs’ tale about breaking up with a boyfriend. He becomes a born-again Christian, and she gets stoned and goes for a drive. As she tells the story, the singers gradually hijack the narrative until she’s struggling to keep the story accurate. After laughing your ass off throughout the song, the ending is actually quite touching.

For long-time fans of the band, Live and Never Learn is like a conversation with an old friend. For listeners to whom Live and Never Learn is a gateway album, it’s a good idea to shut your pie-hole and listen to the songs. To really appreciate the band, see them live.

You can pre-order Live and Never Learn at www.ISeeHawks.com, where you can also find upcoming shows.