Hi, Sam, hi. Do you know how long I’ve been dreaming of this moment? You don’t, I’m sure, and I’m not about to tell you. If I could stop talking, I would; I never asked for anything other than to spend a few long hours with you, to follow you wherever you wanted to go, so you could play, so you could sing, so you could play again and again, so you could tell stories, so you could whisper contentedly like you do on The Creek drank the Cradle.
It had been a while since you’d been through Paris. So, no, you don’t really have time, your schedule is overloaded, even if you’re trying not to let this show. You look well and nothing seems to bother you, although we can’t tell whether this is your natural kindness, your maturity, or extreme politeness fashioned by years of playing the promo game.
This being the case, we couldn’t tell whether you needed pushing, flattery, encouragement, promises… The things you could have been doing tugged at your beard, pulled at your smile, inciting you to taste some wine, trying to find a way of closing the horizon around you, to build a cocoon, find a way out. Finally you sang.
Like dates are etched onto the wall of a monument, I have often written: we’ll be seeing each other again, Sam Beam. Your songs deserved to be wrapped properly in our reels, letting them have time to warm up. We’ll be seeing each other, you folky, bearded song of my heart.