Spin Me Write Round

Posted on April 2, 2014 by Sam in New Media

There’s a new record finished! And and believe me I want you to taste the paint and blow the smoke.

In the air as to when but rest assured it shall be released. In the time until picture it playing waiting games in the back room, reading books and sipping brandy. Sway tuned.

Back in the USNorthwest

Posted on July 25, 2013 by Sam in Show How

Winter is over, if you want it. So we thought we’d throw our coat in the ring and show some skin because the northwest beckons.

Matt Badger of Seattle based Ravenna Woods will be joining our roster and playing his spirit sticks with us. What happens in a meadow at dusk stays.

Aug 6 Portland, OR @ The Jade Lounge
Aug 7 Seattle, WA @ The Sunset Tavern
Aug 8-12 @ Whitehorse Mountain Amphitheater in Darrington, WA w/ Minus The Bear, The Cave Singers & more

Flirting With The Weather

Posted on April 10, 2013 by Sam in Journal Journey

Nearing the end of Tenth of December by George Saunders. So partially due to avoiding a laundry defcon alert, and also mostly because the weather went from cold to hot in a flash I took the sidewalk. Cold to hot better than hot to cold when comes to warmth of strangers on the street. People generally seem in good spirits and intrigued. To Housing Works, because although I have a gift card to Strand is far away and remember I was tied to a timer cleaning my clothes.

Of course picked up Cd’s. Listening to Songs: Ohia’s Ghost Tropic now. Sad story, but really good album, I’d recommend definitely. And to make haste and arrive at a point, I was holding two books contending for my coming up park days reading and reacquainting with nature’s radiator. Both books I need to read, embarrassed but not actually because it’s not a race. Woody Guthrie’s House of Earth and Ernest Hemingway’s A Farewell To Arms. If it was only either I could see a scenerio trading considerations, but it was weird. Something about both being there, I felt for the prospect of neither. Woodie, like what I’ve been going for since before I was born and Ernest how I’ll fancy place setting later than I can anticipate. So both correct, but neither right/distant still.

Why I’m Quitting Large Sodas

Posted on March 13, 2013 by Sam in Reason & Freedom

When I was little, I lived in a police state. Growing up in Florida, my totalitarian government told me in plain english, you cannot drink a 40 (big beer, or malt liquor or something), not here you can’t. Albeit I was in high school when I first came in contact with this crude rule, it nonetheless opened my eyes to what the long arm of the law can do. And younger me had to just sit there and take it. Well, to a degree. Resolve would, and did take hold. We’d drive to Georgia, buy as many big bottles as my pizza shop salary would allow, utilizing the kindness of the local homeless, and proceed to drive back down, illegal contraband in tow. In a backyard or abandoned field, a contingency would gather to protest by literally duck taping a 40 to each our metaphorically tied-behind-our-back hands and drink to freedom.

Now, New York wants to pull wool over its citizens heads while it takes our glorious skyscraping sodie pops out of our restaurants. We resent you playing daddy, or doctor, Mr. Mayor. We have pharmacists for our diabetes. And in the same store as our 16 oz’ers, so there! Go eat an apple. We do not care that sodas are black tar carbonate. They tickle our taste buds. We are not worried that drinking them fracks our insides, we like the glass bottles. It’s the buzz man, and you sir are a buzz kill. Tell us more about obesity, about syrupy, about numbers and facts. Your facts are a conspiracy. You brow is ivory towery. You’re not going to change me I’m sorry.

Baby, you need me. I’m the buyer and the bought. I work so I can sip. Lick the candy so I can escape. Big gulp’s my ecstasy. And since ecstasy kills, the softer drink helps me remember glory. You just make me angry. Leave me with my straw. Go preach about the downfall of society to someone who’s frilly. I live in a studio with my family. It’s hard for me. Pop eases the tension. It’s a pleasantry. Who cares about the so-called mechanics of deceit? About obsolete claims or machinery whose production lines avoid nutritional anything. The filler gives me reprise. It’s you who stunt me, they support me. It’s you who robs me, they enrich me. It’s you who pounds me, they fuel me. I don’t understand your reservation. It’s scribbly. Don’t preach me your fine print reading. Your founded objective reasons.

The Clockwise Dryer

Posted on February 3, 2013 by Sam in Journal Journey

Timing is everything. Timing is everything? But more on that later. Lately, I’ve been remodeling. Redesigning. Focusing on the materials as a means to new beginnings. Fashioning. Frivolously rearranging towards reinvention but never arriving, of course. Frivolously?

Before I began typing this, and I do mean typing (Royal Quiet Deluxe purchased in Milton, WV refurbished in New York City) I was to find the iPod nano I’ve been looking for. Small, and a golden yellow. Hidden from myself in my very own black satchel this whole time. Got it. No battery. Plug it into iPod charger that’s been traveling with the iPod video. Still, no battery. Will check in soon.

Why do I think this thing will turn on again? How am I so sure? The thought is, it has less than no battery. Is that possible? Less than zero, a negative number? The charge before the charge. It’ll light up again, watch.

Yesterday, I did laundry. Shirts, pants, few towels, a diversity of colors. Cold wash. 23 minutes. Someone invent a one-machine solution already. Washer and dryer, like the Pert Plus of the laundromat. 40 minutes for dry, 5 quarters. Come back for the worst and best part. Unload, carry, fold. Was 3 minutes early. Small miracle. And I noticed. The dryer dries clockwise. The dryer dries clockwise. The clothes are spinning to the right like a clock in the far corner of a classroom. For the past day, every time I look at the face of my watch, I see red flannel and dark denims spinning in circles. Clockwise, of course.

*The nano has awoken. Went to the source. Unplugged from charger, connected to computer. Viola. Docked and loaded. My writing corner, minimal, all-integral, dressed and ready.

Riding In Hiding

Posted on November 18, 2012 by Sam in Journal Journey

Delilah in the Woods. Here’s how it came about/out, a video journal to mark our journey. I’d been in New York working on adjusting quickly, a skill I’ve made an exercise out of developing during the last few legs. Usually the beginnings of a stay in a new town is a dry time for writing, and consistent with experience this most recent migration came with the attached familiarity of a drought. Let’s be generous and call it a period of intake, time to learn a land’s rain dance. Still, not writing much is a weight. Anyway the early version of what is now The Freckles were playing a show in Vienna, VA at the venue Jammin Java. Originally we planned on an overnight stay, and I was wearing a crazy outfit. More on that later. After we were fed and juiced from the show, we decided to drive back. Ok.

It was late by moon in the sky standards. I dropped Curtis off in Chinatown around 5, am, and Luke in Park Slope around 5:30. I was staying in East Williamsburg at the time, which does exist. A charged phone did not (navigator), an energized driver did not (me), a misguided sense I could navigate back did. So there I am, 6 in the morning rush, in the an extreme outfit (use your imagination) with no clue. How would you do? Insert blur, there’s no memorable plot twist from this point, just pure, mysterious, and simple luck. I got back, breathed the fresh apartment air and picked up a guitar. Fifteen minutes later a song was. And within weeks I was on a farm playing version one. The spell, broken.

Naturally the song had to be adapted to our larger scale, and during that process, probably as a mistake, I discovered the melody had a nice back and forth when sung in 6, or as a waltz. Arranged so I could listen to Bryson play over my changes (chords), and The Freckettes (lady Freckles) sing, here’s how we were performing it as it was getting rediscovered and redrawn for and in the live setting.

Recently, I read a writer who was speaking to the topic of editing. He said something that rung with me, he commented on, and I’m interpreting, the mixed nature of how editing rebalances a completed draft of a work. Sometimes, it saturates the magic and leaves it conflicted or worse, muddled. Whereas sometimes it infuses it with energy and raises it to a clearer explanation, articulating fuller the underlining unnamed idea. It’s an exciting and daunting prospect, and a vibrant part of the process. The added dimension to songwriting of editing is particularly interesting in an era where documenting the steps on a run is our burden and opportunity amidst the arms race of technology. And so here’s the recorded version, see if you can watch the dry paint while remembering the original wall.


Rhododendron Garden

Posted on September 16, 2012 by Sam in Marker Maker, Sam Friend Music

from Jitterbug Perfume, by Tom Robbins
my list of his quotes (in order of story)

The secondary function of a bathroom mirror is to measure murmurs in the mental mud.

I am not surprised. There is a limit to the admiration we may hold for a man who spends his waking hours poking the contents of chickens with a stick.

His conclusion was correct, although a night was fast a-coming when he would wish he was mistaken.

“The world is round,” he sang, in tune with his footfalls.
“Existence can be rearranged. A man can be many things.
“I am special and free.
“And the world is round round round.”

“That’s how it is with dreams,” said Priscilla. “They’re the perfect crime.”

Hips swaying like mandolins on a gypsy wagon wall…

As the afternoon progresses, our shadows grow longer. At night, in the dark, we become our shadows.

Of our nine planets, Saturn is the one that looks like fun. Of our trees, the palm is obviously the stand-up comedian.

ghost chalk

But to achieve the marvelous, it is precisely the unthinkable that must be thought.

She did not share her own hidden dream because she didn’t know how to articulate it. She only knew that it made her restless, that it smelled good, and that it was always there.

Those who possess wisdom cannot just ladle it out to every wantwit and jackanapes who comes along and asks for it. A person must be prepared to receive wisdom, or else it will do him more harm than good.

“There are no mirrors hereabouts. The river shows me how to shave, but it shows me little in the way of skin condition or hair color. Hmm.  It pleases me, what you say.”

“…How can you respect that sort of weakness, how can you admire a human who consciously embraces the bland, the mediocre, and the safe rather than risk the suffering that disappointments can bring?”

Instead of hiding our heads in a prayer cloth and building walls against temptation, why not get better at fulfilling desire?

If the earth needs night as well as day, wouldn’t it follow that the soul requires endarkenment to balance enlightenment?

“The immortals are gone. Now we are the immortals.”

The year was 1666 and poor Pan was completely invisible.

Some of the professors and physicians were rather shabby; they were men too clothed in ideas to pay much heed to grooming.

Every daydream that involves the past sports in its hatband a ticket to the grave.

” ‘Tis true, thou homers do have magic of thine own, the gods have always known that, known it even better than thee. We gods know how to use our powers, but most men and women do not know how, that be the difference between us and thee. Sniff sniff.”

It is a good thing being a fox when the forest is quiet.

a satin ship rolling in a tide of licorice

“There are no such things as synonyms!”

Claude was shaded by a revulsion as dark as his socks, but the tape rolled merrily along.

We do know, however, that of our five senses, the one most directly connected to memory is the sense of smell. Although man has become increasingly visual in his orientations, although his olfactory receptor has shrunk until it no larger than an American dime, sight simply cannot compete with smell when it comes to the ability to awaken memory.

Like a paper snake with a white spark on its tongue, the tape hissed on.

A silence as thick as an Eskimo throw rug fell over the gathering.

As she drifted into sleep, she had the feeling that she was waking up.

At birth, we emerge from dream soup.
At death, we sink back into dream soup.
In between soups, there is a crossing of dry land.

They say that February is the shortest month, but you know they could be wrong.

Meet me in Cognito, baby. In Cognito, we’ll have nothing to hide.

“So make our perfume, my friends. Make it well. Breathe properly. Stay curious. And eat your beets.”

the ego exists in time, not space

The good versus evil plot has always been bogus.

white ink

Dimension Station

Posted on August 19, 2012 by Sam in Marker Maker, Sam Friend Music

If paper starts white
And a pen has black
When pencils are grey
Press space

Curator | Applied Concepts

Posted on July 7, 2012 by Sam in On Holiday

Proud to announce
To build a night
At Zirzamin, NYC

Here’s who what when where & why not

Kelly & The Hermanos
Sam Friend & The Freckles
Matt Siffert
Pure Imagination
Bodies of Water

Corbu DJ’ing til late


by Edau

Poetry’s more important but

Posted on June 3, 2012 by Sam in Reason & Freedom

it’s difficult to stand.