Josie Lambert

Dat lea olles olmmošjoavku boardwalk-standárddaid mielde. Golmmas sis govvejedje dan, ja okta sis lávllui mielde — heajos, garrasit, áibbas bures.

Čuovggas govvet galgá leat vealaheapmi. Dat lea maid áidna áigi goas mu jietna ja mu čalbmi leat ovttaoaivilis.

Biegga váldá beali jienain dáppe olggos. Mun joatkán lávlut vaikko mo — dat govva mas lea biegga lea dábálaččat dat rehálaš.

Mun boađán deike hárjehallat go ii oktage guldal áigumušalaččat. Olbmot geat bissehit, bisánit danin go háliidedje.

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.

Biegga borrá beali jienain. Dat mii lea báhcán lea dat oassi mii duođaid fievrrida — buorre hárjehallan juohke latnjii.

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

Njealljelogi punda ja liegga cider. Mun livččen ain dahkan dan siida ovddas, muhto in muital boahtte báikki.

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