Hank’s Bar is suddenly gone and Cole’s isn’t quite the same, but I See Hawks in L.A. endures. Like the hawk in their name and the coyote, too, they bring a little bit of country into the city, even as the kind of Rockford Files–style wood-paneled bars they were practically born in are going extinct. Their recent album Mystery Drug adds a few more keepers (“Rock ’n’ Roll Cymbal From the ’70s”) and weepers (“We Could All Be in Laughlin Tonight”) to a discography as long as one of those desert freight trains. Live, they channel the same kind of righteous storytelling as Guy Clark, John Prine or Terry Allen. (Or Kurt Vonnegut and Charles Portis, for that matter.) One day, someone oughta name a drink after these guys.

Thu., Feb. 26, 9 p.m., 2015
(Expired: 02/26/15)

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