Josie Lambert

That is a full crowd by boardwalk standards. Three of them filmed it, and one of them sang along — badly, loudly, perfectly.

Shooting into the light is supposed to be a mistake. It is also the only time my voice and my face agree with each other.

The wind takes half the sound out here. I keep singing anyway — the take with the wind in it is usually the honest one.

I come here to practise because nobody listens on purpose. The people who stop, stop because they wanted to.

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

One second-hand interface and a borrowed mic. Nobody in the comments has ever asked what I recorded on.

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.

Recorded into a phone at the back window. The bus noise is still in the demo and I am not taking it out.