Josie Lambert

Heḽo ndi gogo ḽo ḓalaho nga zwilinganyo zwa boardwalk. Vhuraru havho vho i filima, nahone muṅwe wavho a imba navho — nga nḓila i si yavhuḓi, nga ipfi ḽihulu, nga nḓila yo fhelelaho.

U thuntsha tshedzani zwi fanela u vha zwo khakhea. Hafhu ndi tshone tshifhinga tshithihi fhedzi tshine ipfi ḽanga na tshifhaṱuwo tshanga zwa tendelana.

Muya u dzhia hafu ya mubvumo nnḓa hafha. Ndi dzulela u imba naho zwo ralo — take ine ya vha na muya khayo kanzhi ndi yone ine ya fulufhedzea.

Ndi ḓa fhano u practice ngauri ahuna muthu ane a thetshelesa nga ndivho. Vhathu vhane vha ima, vha ima ngauri vho vha vha tshi ṱoḓa.

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.

Yo rekhodiwa kha founu kha fasiṱere ḽa murahu. Mubvumo wa bisi u kha di vha kha demo ndi sa khou u bvisa.