Maine by Train from Wool Wood and Whiskey on Vimeo.

Three winters ago I was riding the train down to Boston and had a happy accident. I was playing around with my new camera and happened to shoot a video just as another train rattled past. The result — completely blown out because I had no idea what I was doing — resembled a stop motion view of a small New England town from behind the curtain.

It just so happened that a few weeks earlier I had come across an album by a band whose name I could really get behind: Small Sur. I really didn’t know anything about the guys who played in it, but I was instantly hooked on the quiet, contemplative mood the music and lyrics captured. Whoever the guy singing was, we both like the ocean, woods and wide open spaces, and that was enough for me.

I ended up playing around with editing the footage I captured on the train that day and set it to a song on that Small Sur album. It wasn’t really meant to be anything, and I figured I’d drop the band a line to say “Hey, love what you’re doing, I made something with one of your songs” at some point or another. Then, without really thinking I just posted it here on WoolWoodandWhiskey, which wasn’t necessarily the coolest move on my part.

Then, out of the blue, Bob, the singer and songwriter behind the band, contacted me to say that he liked “Maine By Train” and that he’d be up here come summer. Fast forward a few months, the snows of winter inverted into hot nights here in Portland, and Small Sur pulled into town.

Live, these guys burnt it down. It was the kind of folk music that feels a little bit punk because it’s so different and so good. I mean, why growl when you can harmonize, right? After their set I stepped outside and Bob and his band mates, Andy and Austin, were playing badminton on a jury rigged net stretched across an alley. Down to earth dudes, to be sure.

We exchanged pleasantries and I was surprised to find Bob to be sort of the opposite from how I expected him to be. Far from the wilting wallflower folkie-type, he was sipping rye straight from the bottle and smiled easily and often through the tangle of beard that stretched almost from his eyes to his shoulders.

I probably fanned out kind of hard, who knows, but we quickly got onto the topic of surfing and he asked if I might not mind taking him out in the morning. Typically, I don’t make a habit of loaning wetsuits or boards to pretty much anyone — especially wetsuits, which are just gross to start out with. Bob seemed to really need a fix though, so the next day I set him up and we waded out to surf some small waves at the local beach together.

Throughout the course of that session I’d learn that it had been six years since he’d surfed, but he got right back into it. In his words, he’d been “over sported” enough in high school to retain some semblance of muscle memory, something to which I could relate. And I’m pleased to say that I think we set the hook good and deep that day, because now, two years later he’s got his own suits and boards again and thinks nothing of driving appalling distances from his home in Baltimore to score the odd little peeler.

The point of all this is to say that I’ve have the pleasure of watching Bob work now as an artist across the span of two summers. He just released a new album, Labor, and I can tell you that that’s an accurate title. Like anyone working to do something they love, flexing their talents — very real ones in Bob’s case — in this day and age, he’s fighting for it. You can hear that on this record, the earnestness with which my friend approaches everything from hammering nails to riding waves.

Score this record now, buy one of the limited edition LPs, the one with my wife’s artwork on the back — you won’t regret it. Then make sure you come out and hear Bob the next time Small Sur comes through, and maybe catch him trimming down the line at one of our state’s lovely beaches this summer. It’ll all make sense then, I promise.