Five years ago Samuel set his melodic mind to music in a scheme to coax love from the uncharted heart of his new bride, Hannah Amelia. It was a quite unnecessary ploy, for his bride had already relinquished her love to him without an instrument in his arms or a song on his breath. Nevertheless, his soul pronounced its intent of teaching his hands to play, and the entirety of Samuel followed suit. When the transformation pinpointedly occurred one can’t really say, but it happened: he picked up a guitar and sat down a songwriter.
If wordsmithery is his quill, then his guitar is the knife that sharpens it. He picks and plucks and prods the strings as he extracts a muse to accompany the story in his voice that gathers up harmonies and happenstance. The imagery of his lyricism is ambiguously pointed, like an encrypted letter that contains mystery in the message, but is nonetheless confident of what the message is. He writes from his guts, with introspection, observation and exhortation. He writes what he is, what he sees and what might be.
Recording is in the works. From the worn wooden desk under the paper lamp hanging in the bedroom of his small apartment, Samuel sits and stands and sits again with the hope of producing a collection of songs captured in permanent sound that he can soon share with those he knows, those he knows not and those he may yet one day come to know. And so it is also in this small apartment that he continues to woo his bride who sparked this quest, these days as half of the band they share together called The Woodlands. They wander this land together, cultivating song of melancholic hope and shadowy love and simple complexities. And if to create is to kindle, let the song be ablaze.
