The flight of the hawk

It is rare for Sam Snort to play second fiddle to anyone but, just for today, I want to doff the cap and extend the palm to one of the greatest ever characters in the history of rock and, yes, even roll.
I speak of The Hawk aka Mr Ronnie Hawkins.
The great man is on my mind because on a recent trip to the Big Apple, your correspondent betook himself to that excellent Broadway emporium, The Strand Bookstore, a place that prides itself on having miles of aisles and, in all probability, at least one copy of the book that you just can’t find anywhere else.
And sure enough, Sam came up trumps, leaving that literary goldmine with a hard-to-find, hardback edition of my favourite ever rock ‘n’ roll book.
It’s called This Wheel's On Fire, and it’s by Levon Helm, drummer, singer and mandolin player with The Band, of Bob Dylan, Last Waltz and Music From Big Pink fame.
Take it from Sam – this is an essential read for fans of Americana, the big beat and the wild side of life on the endless highway.
Helm grew up in a rural Arkansas, which had changed little since the turn of the century. He went on to become a key player in the birth of stadium rock and much more. As such, he brings a unique perspective to the rise of rock culture in the '60s and '70s, something vividly reflected in his funny, folksy telling of his high life and times.
Of course, it helps that he can call on a supporting cast of the calibre of Bob Dylan, The Beatles, Robbie Robertson, Muddy Waters, Dr John, Eric Clapton, Van Morrison and others. So it says something for one particular gent’s charisma that the tales which linger longest in the mind invariably feature the wit and wisdom of Ronnie Hawkins, the prototype 50s rockabilly kid who first gave Levon and his mates a stint in the spotlight as his hard workin’, hard travellin’ and hard livin’ backing band, The Hawks.
Souped Up
Born in 1935, by the time he was in his early twenties Ronnie Hawkins had run bootleg whiskey from Missouri to the dry counties of Oklahoma in a souped-up Model-A Ford and invested the rich profits in a number of bars and clubs.
He also fronted various bands, invariably called The Hawks, although one all-black outfit was specially named The Blackhawks.
Unhappily, the segregated south in the mid-'50s was not quite ready for that particular incarnation.
With Levon Helm in as drummer, Hawkins divided his time between the southern circuit and way up north in Canada, where, in due course, the other members of what would later become The Band, got to cut their teeth alongside Helm as Ronnie’s superlative backing band.
Hawkins never learned to play an instrument but the music was in him alright – as was an appropriate rock ‘n’ roll swagger.
First time Helm met him, The Hawk was getting out of a car, “a big ol’ boy in tight pants, sharp shoes and a pompadour hanging down his forehead". Levon complimented him on his hair-do.
"Why, thank you, son,” relied The Hawk. "I call it the Big Dick Look.”
After he’d played his first gig for The Hawks, Ronnie handed Levon fifteen bucks. The starry-eyed teenager thought he’d died and gone to heaven. The Hawk told him to calm down.
"Stick with me, son,” he advised, “this is just hamburger money. Soon you’ll be farting through silk.” When he later hired Robbie Robertson, he tried a different tack. “You may not make much money,” he told the young guitar-slinger, “but you’ll get more pussy than Frank Sinatra.”
Helm says Hawkins was one of the funniest people he’s ever encountered. A college graduate, he could quote Shakepeare when the mood took him. He was also, according to the drummer, “the most vulgar and outrageous rockabilly character I’ve ever met in my life".
Helm had grown up on crude country jokes but The Hawk was in another league.
Driving up to Illinois one time, he turned to Helm and deadpanned: “See here, son, you ever fuck a goat? Well, I have. Good pussy too. Only problem is you have to stop and walk around to the front when you want to kiss’em.”
Canada, Ronnie assured his band, was “as cold as an accountant’s heart” but it was up there that he eventually hired Robertson, Danko, Manuel and Hudson, and helped turn The Hawks into one of the hottest bands in the land.
Revered in Toronto, they made their home in a club called Le Coq D’or, the hippest venue in town. So successful was their residency there, that The Hawk turned the upstairs room into what he called his own private “gymnasium”.
He liked to tell people: “I got the only gym in the world where you come in feeling okay and leave a total physical wreck.”
And when word started to get around about the legendary private parties which took place there, Ronnie counselled: “Let’s not call them orgies. Let’s just say it was seven or eight people in love.”
Virgin Islands
Even the impending end of world didn’t cramp his style. In the middle of a gig at the height of the Cuban Missile Crisis, the Hawk suddenly cut the music and told the crowd that he had an important announcement to make. Band and punters alike were preparing to grab their coats and go to their loved ones – or the nearest bar – as The Hawk, with a grave expression, began reading from a piece of paper:
“This is an emergency announcement. Word has just reached us that we’ve stopped three Russian ships with our naval blockade in the Caribbean Sea.”
Pin drop.
“Our sailors went on board the Russian ships and discovered they’d all been loaded with Vaseline. So they diverted ‘em to the Virgin Islands. Haw, haw, haw, haw!”
To find out more, read This Wheel's On Fire. And check out the new The Band box set to hear just how good they were behind the great man on raging rockers like ‘Who Do You Love.’
And, finally, watch The Last Waltz and see the master at work as he spots promoter Bill Graham in the wings and shouts, “Big time, Bill, big time.”
But then, with The Hawk, it was big time every time.
Your ever lovin’ Samuel J. Snort Esq