Basic Folk: Sam Moss

Although the ever-enigmatic Sam Moss is not a great swimmer, he named his latest album Swimming. The folk singer with a gentle demeanor is back with thoughtful songs and captivating melodies. Hailing from New England, Sam has carved out a unique niche in the folk world, blending naturalistic themes with an introspective approach to songwriting. We explore how his New England roots continue to influence his music – despite his current residence being Virginia – and how his upbringing in a family of visual artists has shaped his artistic sensibilities.

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Sam also talks about how movement and the natural world inspire his songwriting, if not with more oblique lyrics. We dig into his latest album Swimming, where he boldly embraces more direct lyrical expressions; we discuss the balance between mood and narrative in his work, too. Our Basic Folk conversation touches on his journey from a shy young musician to a confident performer, as well, thanks in part to the encouragement of close friends like Jackson Emmer. He counts Emmer, who he played with in old-time duo The Howling Kettles, as one of his greatest inspirations for following his own creative arrow in music.

Elsewhere in the episode, we explore Sam’s passion for woodworking, a skill he honed as a respite from musical burnout. He describes the satisfaction of crafting tangible objects and how this practice complements his musical endeavors. We also really dive into his feelings around the word “gentle,” which is often used to describe his music and persona. He doesn’t actually mind being known as a gentle person– in fact, he hopes people do find his music soft and tender and, in that gentleness, that they still leave feeling his songs’ striking impact.


Photo Credit: Lead image by Jake Xerxes Fussell; alternate image by Alaina Shefelton.

Salemtown Board Co.: Finding Empathy through Proximity

When Will Anderson decided to start a business with his friend Jacob Henley in 2012, he, like most people, hoped to do work he was passionate about. Lucky for him, he was passionate about a lot of things: woodworking, surfing, skating, being outside. "My brother and I grew up on boards," he says. "Whether it was surfboards or skateboards, we were always outside. We had parents who didn’t allow us to sit around the television and we never had game systems growing up. We were outside all the time, year-round."

None of those passions, however, rivaled what he felt for Salemtown — his small, low-income neighborhood just outside of downtown Nashville — and his neighbors. He wanted to find a way to use his passions to contribute to the well-being of his neighborhood, beyond just playing basketball at the local community center. After a little planning and a lot of help from friends, Salemtown Board Co. was born.

Salemtown Board Co. makes and sells handmade skateboards in North Nashville. The boards themselves look like art pieces, hand-cut and sanded maple decks painstakingly screenprinted and veneered in the small woodshop at the front of the company's property. Since opening, the company has also grown to sell apparel, accessories, and home goods, including handmade cutting boards. A glance at their online store shows a wide variety of boards, many of which celebrate the company's home neighborhood of Salemtown. 

Anderson and his brother Schuyler, who now run the company together, keep Salemtown at the heart of all of they do. While the company was partially founded with the goal of creating beautiful skateboards that would, as Anderson puts it, "get people outside," its primary mission was more local: employing young men from the Salemtown neighborhood. "I had a background in social work and really felt the tension between how to see, specifically, young men go from being the recipients to being the primary drivers in their own success," Anderson explains. "I just felt like the best way I could be of help to my neighborhood was to start a business that intentionally created employment for young men who needed it. There was definitely, ‘How can we impact and invest in the community?’ Also, especially as an outsider to the community — as someone who moved in as opposed to someone who was raised there — part of it was figuring out what are ways in which I can be involved."

The company had humble beginnings, operating in its infancy out of a borrowed woodshop and growing through word of mouth. "Initially, when we got started, we painted boards in our front yard and carports and drove about an hour-and-a-half outside the city to go to a borrowed woodshop to make boards," Anderson explains. "With the young men, they were just guys we knew from the neighborhood. There has never been any secret to finding people. It was just living in the community and hiring people that we knew that needed jobs."

For the next three years, the company continued to grow, with its home city of Nashville growing right along with it. The landscape of the city changed, and Salemtown Board Co. felt those changes acutely. Last year, Salemtown Board Co. made the move from its namesake Salemtown to North Nashville's Buchanan Street, where several other local businesses were also setting up shop. Anderson and his team felt that the neighborhood surrounding their new North Nashville storefront, workshop, and skate park (which was donated by country star Kip Moore) was better suited to the company's mission. "Part of it was the growth of the company, but also a big part of it was, with what we set out to do, there was just no longer a need for the type of employment that we were providing in Salemtown," he explains. "As a result of gentrification, the young men that we started the company to create employment for no longer lived in that area. So there was the need to relocate."

Like many other Nashville neighborhoods, Salemtown was hit hard by the city's growing pains, with long-time residents getting forced out of their homes to make way for new construction. For the residents who managed to stay in their homes, new neighbors often meant new problems. "The final kick in the butt was when we had an employee arrested in that neighborhood for a crime that he did not commit," Anderson says. "He generally fit the description of the person who had committed the crime. It was a really traumatic experience for everyone involved. He ended up spending three weeks in jail before they were able to prove that he couldn’t have been there with Wal-Mart security camera footage. That experience still haunts him. There were news stations that just refused to take the story. This is a kid who is not a felon. He’s not a bad kid. But for the rest of his life, when you Google his name there’s going to be a picture that pops up of his mugshot. His public defender didn’t even believe him."

Since the incident, Anderson's employee has decided to move not just out of Salemtown, but out of the state of Tennessee, planning to go to Texas soon. Like many other residents of his neighborhood, he no longer felt welcome in the place he used to call home.

"A cultural shift happened," Anderson says. "Those who have lived there their entire lives or those who had grown up there were now seen as threats and as dangerous and as suspicious by those who were coming in because they were lower income. We felt the need to be in a neighborhood where our employees were comfortable and, as much of a bummer as it is to say, where the neighborhood would be comfortable with our employees. So that’s what brought us over into North Nashville. We wanted to be back in a place where there was a need for us — there was a desire for us — and we could limit as many barriers to employment as possible. Distance is one of those barriers. We want to be in the backyards of people we want to employ."

Proximity is at the heart of Anderson's mission — for his business, for himself, and for his family. Having spent his early life in what he describes as a "broadly white, upper-middle class" neighborhood in Nashville where there were "just enough people of color to allow [him] to think that everything was okay," he's grown to understand how deeply affected his city — and our larger society — is by racial inequality, and recognizes the place of privilege that the system affords him. 

"I’m the fruit of a system that separated and segregated for hundreds of years for no other reason than because I’m white. I think, by and large, what people need to realize is that we live in a world that is still … especially in the South, we live in a world that is very intentionally segregated," he says. "It’s tough and heartbreaking, but I think that there is such a culture and knowledge gap and a worldview gap within our culture. Within America today, there’s such a broad difference of understanding how things are. It’s interesting in that, in my neighborhood, the way that people understand the world to work is completely different than the neighborhood that I grew up in. We’re striving to stay in the middle, as a business. I’m trying to be a good example of what it looks like to engage these things, but in a compelling way. Something that we’re trying to live out as a company is we are trying to address generational poverty that is tied to a history of systematic racism."

His belief, which fuels his work at Salemtown Board Co., is that "empathy and understanding, for the vast majority of us, those things will follow proximity." He takes steps every day to, as he describes it, "desegregate [his] life," and advocates for others to do the same.

"When we can move racial equality out of the realm of a hypothetical thing that should matter to us, to, ‘My friend is negatively affected by the system,’ that’s when we care," he says. "I can sit and have coffee and argue about higher level economics and whether we should elect Bernie Sanders or whether we should elect Rand Paul and not lose any sleep over it. But when I start talking about the systematic inequality in education, I can get teary really quickly because I’m not talking about a hypothetical thing. I can put names to these issues. I can see how these very real systems are affecting very real people in negative ways."

While Salemtown Board Co. has had its struggles, Anderson and his team are passionate about the work they do and the difference they've made in their own backyards.

"I get up every day because I love what I do. I don’t employ my employees because I feel guilty and feel bad for them," he says. "I only employ people that I feel excited about investing in and are excited about their futures. In the context of what we’re doing, we’re chasing what we’re really excited about. We get to take something that’s a hobby, turn it into a career and then use the things that we love — creating and skateboarding — and use them in such a way to provide opportunities for young men that otherwise might have had the opportunities."

 

Read more about a changing Nashville.

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Dave Stine: From the City to the Woods

Although he holds a law degree from George Washington University, Dave Stine certainly isn’t what you would call an office type. After a short stint practicing in Washington, D.C., Stine understood that the family farm in Dow, Illinois, was calling him back to what was always in his blood: family, friends, and, just as importantly, woodworking and furniture making.

The farm spans four generations. Stine learned from part of these generations the art and precision of handcrafted designs and a love for the land that still ties the family together. Although a thoroughly American phenomenon, Dave Stine makes some of the finest pieces of furniture in the world. From tables to bed frames to whiskey shelves, Stine's live-edge work is exquisite, handmade, American — universal — beauty. An avid outdoorsman, Stine stewards his forests — over a thousand acres spread around Dow — and sees in fallen trees what Rodin might have seen in a block of dead stone: the potential in knotted trees and grainy, dead wood to possess beauty before and after he has milled and cut and worked out what is breathing invisibly within.

Stine’s clientele includes well-known names, household names even — Michael J. Fox and Andrew Sullivan to name a couple — but he seems much more interested in his day-to-day work within the shop just down the way from his home, and in those family members or comrades that visit or live on the farm and land. His clients respond to his work, to say the least … work done on the family farm. This isn’t a mere commodity. Stine adores what he does, knowing it’s good and true art he makes. He has intense eyes, like those of a wild, early explorer of America, the kind that can pierce through rhetoric and bullshit, yet he is inviting, kind. And, yes, Stine’s beard — long and thick — is something to reckon with. He is a giant in every sense of the word. 

I wanted to know about the transition from law to woodworking. That gets mentioned or glossed over [in articles], but could you talk about why and how it happened?

Well, I grew up on the farm here. We always did everything here with our hands, from cutting lumber to making barns to butchering meat. You name it. So it was always in my blood to do that sort of thing. I’m the oldest in my generation, and my grandfather always pounded it into my head that I had to keep the farm going. It’s four generations, and we’ve got about a thousand acres, and it was always a big concern in my family. My grandfather always made it my problem. “You’ve got to know trusts, estates, taxes …” One of the reasons I went to law school was with that practical view in mind, being able to be able to do that kind of work for my family. And, also, school is awesome, and working sucks, so I stayed in school as long as possible …

Professional student?

Yeah. But all the way through high school, I was a diesel mechanic and put myself through college that way, and I was always doing a bit of woodworking on the side. But when I started in law school, I took a few tools with me. It was during that time when Cigar Aficionado was big, and everybody was into humidors and the whole thing. So, I started making humidors — cigar boxes — with locally harvested wood while I was going to law school. From there it just sort of blossomed. I finished law school, took the bar, got married, started working as an attorney in Washington, D.C. After 10 hours in the office, I’d put in four hours at woodworking. I’m not very good at office life. I don’t get along well with others. And it made sense. I already had a year’s backlog of orders, so it made sense to move forward with woodworking.

So you were getting orders while in D.C.?

Yeah. I was already doing a bunch of stuff with Georgetown Tobacco. Then I hooked up with some designers, and was doing spec and design pieces for them. Over the course of law school, I had gotten a shop space and had amassed a good collection of tools, so it’s funny: In D.C., not a lot of people work with their hands. They’re mostly attorneys or whatever. And so, if you can drive a nail, you’re busy — 24/7. It’ crazy! I had the capability of reproducing moldings, and there was a lot of gentrification going on. People were rehabbing turn-of-the-century houses, and I was able to make moldings and old-school window frames and screen doors and all that kind of stuff. But during that time, I was also doing the live-edge stuff, the stuff I responded to. I’d sell a piece here and there. But then it became more about furniture, live-edge, and it took off from there. But in the beginning, I’d take on anything.

What year did you come back to the family plot?

I started my business in D.C. and started doing it full-time in 1996. But we came back here in 2002.

What’s the process like as far as discovering the “right” tree, and discovering the piece that resides within it?

It starts out with a big piece of luck. I try to get to the forest as much as possible. It’s peaceful, it’s calming, it’s good exercise. It’s nice to get out of the shop and off the computer. I try to look for trees that are dying or dead or blown over by the wind … damaged. We have a lot of straight-line winds or tornadoes around here, so I just try to find stuff that’s already past it’s useful life, and then try to make something beautiful. I don’t cut down a perfectly living cherry tree. Some of the trees are young and have just fallen over or died; and some are just giant and have lived past their prime.

We have a naturally occurring forest. When you cut into some of these big trees, you can tell what kind of a life they’ve had. There are scars. There are knots, twists, and breaks that have healed over time. They have character to me, unlike that flat type of Ikea sort of stuff where everything is very uniform. What makes the wood interesting is kind of what makes people interesting: You’ve had scars, experiences, damage, and you’ve overcome it. That’s interesting. I’m lucky to be born into this family. If a storm comes and blows over a tree, you have to pull it and bring it to the shop, and then saw into it. That’s the first part of the process. Once you begin sawing, you’re committed to what’s there.

Is it sort of like sculpture in that way?

It might be. It’s another medium. I could see it like a piece of stone with different things running through it. With a tree, you might have a crotch or a split or knot, but those actually might be things you want to work with or emphasize. Once you make that first cut, you’re in it. You’ve got to have the courage of your convictions. Maybe it’s flat and needs to be a table-top. Maybe it’s wilder and sticks in your mind. I’ve had pieces of wood for 10 years that might be waiting for the right client. But you take what the forest gives you. I mean, the really radical ones stick in your mind. Maybe three months ago, I did a show in St. Louis. A guy took my card. He called sixth months later. He’d had my card, and the piece that he wanted was perfectly suited — a headboard — was perfectly suited to a tree I had cut down over 20 years ago. I’ve had a lot of lumber sitting around here, so it looks like a fucking bomb went off. It takes two or three years to dry. I don’t wait for a client to work. I stockpile material and wait for someone to desire it.

You can’t remember not working with wood. What’s an early memory of an early piece or even your first piece?

I was heavily involved in FFA and 4-H. We made shadow boxes and candle holders. I think the first piece was for a 4-H project. It was a toolbox. It was a harbinger. When you walk around the farm, I can see my grandfather’s hands on everything, my hands.


Photos courtesy of Jill Maurice / Final photo courtesy of Dave Stine

1767 Designs Repurpose the Rubble of Old Nashville

Thanks to TV shows, New York Times articles, and a resulting boom in new people moving to the city, Nashville has changed a lot over the last five years. Buildings have gone up — and so has rent — and many Nashville businesses have been forced under in the process. Nashville woodworker Patrick Hayes, of 1767 Designs — a company that uses wood and materials from homes and buildings destroyed in the city — has made it his mission to create furniture and art "from Nashville's urban decay."

"As with most things in my life, I cannot say that I had some grand plan–I more or less fall into things–the same is true about 1767," Hayes explains. "I moved to TN in the winter of 2014 with only my clothes and my laptop. SO when I finally got an apartment situation figured out, I needed to furnish the place. I could have gone the Ikea route and bought a bunch of cheaply made stuff, but I decided that since I had an excess of time, and did not have a job, that I would make the furniture myself. In the midst of sending out tons of applications for potential jobs, I worked on my first piece: a coffee table. Since I had not yet found a job, my budget was small. I started to look for materials I could use that were relatively inexpensive but still had a lot of character. I found a guy who had collected wood from old homes down the street from where I lived, and he just so happened to have a small pile of lath that he was planning to burn. I purchased the small pile of wood and got to work. I had little to no tools when starting out, so I mostly worked with a small handsaw, a hammer, and nails. It took me a while, but I had made a pretty unique piece of furniture that I was proud of."

As development in Nashville has taken off like wildfire, Hayes has had no shortage of materials to work with. "It is a bittersweet situation happening in Nashville right now," he says. "On one hand I am so excited to call Nashville home, and see it grow in the ways that it has being here for as short of a time as I have. On the other hand it is really sad to see some beautiful homes being torn down to make room for shotgun houses with little to no unique qualities. I am trying my best to create a positive from something seemingly negative. Nashville is going to grow, and change whether we like it or not. Homes are going to continue to be torn down to make room for more homes, and there isn't much that can be done to stop it in the immediate future. But, if I can take apart a home, transform it into something new and unique, and let its history live on in another form, I think that is a pretty powerful thing."

Check out a few of our favorite pieces from Hayes.

Wall hanging made from materials found in a 12 South home built in 1926.

Coffee table made from materials found in a West End home built in 1900.

Barn wood wall installed in East Nashville.

Door made from materials from two 12 South homes.

Fireplace cover made from materials from a 1940s home in the Nations.