sam [ewss]

Sam Astley is a multi-instrumentalist musician and filmaker from London, specialising in music for film.

If you know me/have met me, or if you share an interest or are genuinly interested in what I am doing, please send me a message and I'll gladly add you, I'm always happy to hear from like minded people, but I wont add random people or bands who just after another notch on the friendslist bedpost - if you want that, add my band [see below].
I am always interested in working on new projects where I have time, so please feel free to contact me.
Current involvements
I write, perform and record music for films that I co-produce with director/editor Amy Akkonite under the cry and the chainsaw .
ZEBRA

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'Our continuing aim embodies the whole film making process, documenting, writing, producing and directing our own films from thier original idea to the last. Promoting events that that capture the movements of alternative life and cultures past and present, right from the underground through to mainstream trangressions / tranmissions'.
HARLEQUIN

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Violet Rising is a collaboration with vocalist/songwriter Trelanee Skein, whose haunting, ethereal voice washes over melancolly soundscapes.
Alongside this, I record, and on rare occasion perform as ewss, a one man band, with odd appearances from other musicians. The music is mostly improvised.
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A Room From The Noise - Short Story by Sam Astley

Its no more morning than night, neither this year or last. There are no clocks, no windows; from the plain wooden desk in the corner, the single bulb hanging on white cord from the ceiling, the white plastic flowers on the floor by the door, to the bare walls nothing appears from any period; everything is ageless. Time has no place here.
A man, though it could easily be a boy, is sitting cross-legged in the centre of the room, sifting through papers. He does not recognise the handwriting, nor do the arrangements of letters mean anything to him. Scanning the pages, he occasionally stops and doubles back, sure that what he has seen will lead to a thought, a memory, however fleeting, but each time it is just the same, it is nothing. Merely symbols, signs from another age. The man has long since forgotten his own tongue, forgotten the very notion of identity.
The words, in fact, are his own. Fragments of letters to lost lovers, shopping lists, exam papers, a Christmas card.. His entire documented output - ink on pulp.
Once in a while he remembers his legs, rises and begins to pace back and forth, before returning to the pile of unfinished script.
He does not eat, nor drink he has forgotten such things, and as such his mouth has healed over, his stomach dissolved. He has forgotten sleep. If this were the old world, the papers would eventually crumble to dust, and soon after would forget how to see. It is this singular purpose that keeps his skin from curling over and engulfing him; keeps his head from his hands and his body from the floor.
There is no one to lift him from the room, none to open the door, and lead him to a place where he might learn the secrets of his imprisonment. And so he will remain for all time, a hostage of his past, incomplete and alone, buried with his mistakes and triumphs alike. Never knowing that he was born blind.
words - sam astley. pictures of berlin - amy akkonite