Josie Lambert

Ko ɗuum woni jamaanu keewngu e tolnooji boardwalk. Tato e maɓɓe filmi ɗum, gooto e maɓɓe yimi — bonɗo, no feewi, no feewi.

Fiyde e nder annoore ina foti wonde fenaande. Kadi ko ndeen tan daande am e yeeso am ina kawri.

Henndu nduu ina ƴetta feccere e daande ndee ɗoo. Miɗo jokki e yimde no fotiri fof — ƴettude e henndu e nder mum ko heewi ko nuunɗuɗo.

Mi arii ɗoo ngam waɗde heen golle sabu hay gooto nanataa e anniya. Yimɓe ɓe ngoppa, ngoppa sabu ɓe njiɗi.

Three places I practise. The empty stage is the scariest — no audience means no excuse.

Interface gooto ɗiɗaɓo e mic ñamlaaɗo. Hay gooto e commentaires meeɗaa naamnaade ko mbinndu-mi e dow mum.

A duvet over the door, a mattress against the wall. Soft things beat expensive things for a first take.

The wind eats half the sound. What is left is the part that actually carries — good practice for any room.

The song people know me for was written between my flat and my old job, into a phone, with the engine in the background.

Forty pounds and a warm cider. I would still do it for the cider, but do not tell the next venue.

Winnditaa e telefoŋ to windo caggal. Noise bus ina woni e demo haa jooni mi yaltinaani ɗum.