Sampha - Process

The Quietus

You’d be forgiven for thinking Sampha Sisay was the new saviour of contemporary soul and R&B. Such has been the level of praise heaped upon his long-awaited debut album Process that before even listening to it, the idea it could be anything less than perfect now seems impossible: it’s difficult to wade out from the noise and not just agree that the emperor’s new clothes sure are beautiful.

And how could they not be? This is the golden boy who has lent his sweet vocals to all number of impressive artists: Solange, SBTRKT, Kanye. He has demonstrated time and time again a delicate and sensitive artistry.

The truth then, is disappointing – not because this album is terrible, but because it’s underwhelming. This is not to say it doesn’t have beautiful moments, it is not to detract from Sisay’s exquisite voice; but overall this feels like one in a long line of emotive “indietronica” records that slots into one of those “chill and alt R&B” Spotify playlists. It’s fine, but it’s kind of forgettable.

Process deals with Sisay’s grief at the recent loss of his mother, the struggles of his anxiety and a break-up – it’s an album wrought with mournful, candid poetry (“Dreaming, surely you will find me by the shore”, he says on ‘Timmy’s Prayer’). And yet, overall, there’s something about it that doesn’t quite sit right, and makes it too easy to disengage from the powerful, universal things he’s trying to say.

The production throughout is shiny and polished – of note is ‘Reverse Faults’, with its kaleidoscopic, mechanical hip hop-style sound. But overall the record’s finish is too glossy: at times it feels almost sterile. Sisay’s gorgeous voice is so controlled that - though rich and warm - it can seem devoid of the troubled emotions he’s singing about. Where he has delivered an expressive, doleful sound to other artists, he doesn’t yet seem able to consistently match that resonance when on his own terms.

In a recent interview with the Guardian, Sisay spoke of how he worried about feeling nothing with the release of his debut: “It’s that thing of not being able to embody something as much as I thought I would when reality comes.” And that’s not a bad way of describing what’s amiss here: for all he experiments with swirling electronic sounds and loops, for all he confronts his demons, there is overall a lack of conviction in the record.

‘Kora Sings’ starts off with ghostly vocals and dissonant, almost medieval twinkles of the kora, before whirring off into a strange dreamscape that sees Sisay wandering the desert and confronting the news of his mother’s cancer: “A pillow on your face soaking up those tears, who's anyone to say you should have no fear?” Both the kora and the glitchy rhythms seem a nod to his Sierra Leonean heritage, but what should be a really emotionally resonant track doesn’t quite pack a punch. The lyrics here are tremendous, and it’s sonically sublime, but both the production and his delivery miss the mark in not embodying the sweet fragility of his words: the whole thing is so polished he could be singing about anything and you wouldn’t necessarily notice.

The standout comes in ‘(No One Knows Me) Like The Piano’ – with just his voice and that instrument, Sisay weaves the powerful tale of the piano he first learnt on, in his mother’s home and - while a little schmaltzy - it is quite beautiful. Without the intrusive glimmers of electronica, this track gains a real sense of warmth and intimacy that feels lacking elsewhere. When he says “You would show me I had something some people call a soul”, he blurs the line between talking about the instrument and talking about his mother, and it’s a touching conceit.

And it’s moments like that which highlight how much of the rest of the record blurs together – not unpleasantly, but mostly unmemorably.

With lustrous production and a harrowing emotional background, it’s a shame how easily this can be filed away under “middle of the road” – a record that doesn’t bring something particularly new to the table. For his remarkable voice, Sampha’s debut album shows him far less at ease with his own story than with that of others.

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Drowned In Sound 90

A sign of the scale of his ambition on Process comes with the first voice we hear: Neil Armstrong. “I’ll work my way near to the sunlight here without looking directly into the sun”, is the message beamed from beyond the clouds, a sentiment that underlies everything to come. Throughout the album, Sampha wrestles with the pains and challenges of his life, using the music as a possible escape route. Every word he sings and every production decision he makes is an attempted step out of the darkness. But just as Armstrong knew the perils of unfiltered sunlight, so Sampha understands the threat of forced emotion or synthesised expression.

The track that follows the Armstrong snippet, ‘Plastic 100°C’, is his best ever work. Opening with finger-plucked guitar and a vulnerable, injured vocal, he sings of living under a “magnetic light” which acts as a “magnifying glass up in my face”. A swell of pulsing synths gradually envelops the track, whilst Sampha makes reference to a lump he has found in his throat. It refers to a real life chapter of his life, but is just as pregnant with figurative connotations too. The track sets the pace for the album: bracingly honest personal disclosure, albeit loosely veiled, alongside finely crafted, richly expressive musical arrangements, where the electronic elements carry at least as much emotional heft as the acoustic.

Sampha is more than capable of raising energy levels when the time is right. Last year's single ‘Blood On Me’, for example, provides the record’s most danceable moment, boasting a chorus worthy of previous collaborators Jessie Ware or Katy B, all deviously spread over an irresistible Nineties trip-hop beat. Similarly, ‘Incomplete Kisses’ sashays and shuffles, with a smooth R&B vocal line just as infectious as anything on recent Frank Ocean or Solange releases.

But that is far from the album’s default position. Easily the most arresting and sure-to-be-talked-about track here is ‘(No One Knows Me) Like the Piano’, a stunning, raw duet between voice and keys. Sampha’s mother passed away during the recording of the album, a grief he channels with almost unbearable gravity, as he sings about first learning to truly express himself through the piano in his mother’s home. “You arrived when I was three years old,” he tells us, “you showed me I had something some people call a soul”. It is hard to imagine a more powerful device to marry his overwhelming sense of loss and his ongoing quest for inner peace.

Such direct means are not the only methods of expression at Sampha’s disposal. On ‘Kora Sings’, he appears to take on a character – indeed a mother, singing to her children from afar. But here, the skittering drum patterns and nervous, wandering synth lines are alienating and unsettling, perhaps more accurately reflecting the confusion and fear that can arise with such major life events. Elsewhere, restless 808s soundtrack ominous allusions to a car crash caused by a loved one on ‘Reverse Faults’, the only time that the claustrophobic anxiety that plagues the whole album really assumes control.

There is no doubt listening to Process that Sampha is dealing with a lot. But he is far from defeated – on the contrary, this record appears to be an invaluable opportunity for him to heal. As the inclusion of the Neil Armstrong quote suggests, this is a step back towards the sunlight. Where that step leads remains to be seen, but this process has already produced a classic debut album.

Pitchfork 86

When Sampha Sisay was three years old, his father brought a piano into the family’s Morden, England home. It wasn’t a grand gesture—just a way to get his sons away from the TV. Yet for Sampha, the youngest of five siblings, the instrument became a vessel for his personal growth. It helped enlighten the young boy, offering solace and purpose, commencing a spiritual journey that he’s still navigating. In Sampha’s world, the piano is one of the few things that’s always been there. It’s never gotten sick or faded away from disease. “You would show me I had something some people call a soul,” he sings on “(No One Knows Me) Like the Piano,” a gorgeous ballad and one of many standouts from Process, Sampha’s remarkable debut album.

The song—much like the LP—comes from a deeply meditative place, reflecting the innermost thoughts of a man still coping with heavy loss. His father, Joe, passed away from lung cancer in 1998. His mother, Binty Sisay, died of cancer in September 2015. Throughout the spare electro-soul of Process, you feel his mom’s spirit in the stillness, pushing her son in his quest for understanding. Sampha’s endured his own health struggles as well. He once discovered a lump in his throat while on tour; despite an endoscopy, doctors couldn’t determine a cause. It became a catalyst for the singer to assess his own mortality here. “Sleeping with my worries,” goes the opener “Plastic 100ºC,” “I didn’t really know what that lump was.”

Sampha’s career dates back to 2010 and the release of Sundanza, his first EP. In 2011, Sampha was featured heavily on producer SBTRKT’s debut album; his second EP, Dual, followed in 2013. Sampha played the background from there, turning up on tracks with Drake (“Too Much,” “The Motion”), Kanye West (“Saint Pablo”), Frank Ocean (“Alabama”), and Solange (“Don’t Touch My Hair”). His presence was strong, even if his voice—a gentle, shimmering falsetto—added light touches to the scenery. Despite its delicate texture, Sampha’s inflection hovers perfectly above the music, cracking at certain pitches to convey grief.

In a way, Process feels like a concept album on which Sampha rediscovers himself. The musician’s mother was diagnosed with cancer the same year Sundaza came out, and as her primary caregiver, he naturally focused his attention on her well-being. Now, he’s attempting to reconnect with his core while coping with despair. In the past, he’d mix his voice to fit within the instrumental; on Process, he makes it the focal point. Co-produced with Rodaidh McDonald, Process brings to mind James Blake while nodding to mainstream hip-hop. On “Under,” in particular, Sampha utilizes a sleek trap beat.

Even the album’s most upbeat tracks are shaded with tension. “You’ve been with me since the cradle,” Sampha recalls on “Kora Sings,” presumably referring to his mom. “You’ve been with me, you’re my angel, please don’t you disappear.” With “Blood on Me,” the album’s second single, the vocalist sings through heavy breaths, seemingly haunted by his own insecurities. It addresses the fear of moving forward after personal trauma, and for a quiet soul like Sampha, it also speaks to the panic of navigating the world by himself. “I’m on this road now,” he exclaims. “I’m so alone now/Swerving out of control now.”

On album closer “What Shouldn’t I Be?,” you feel Sampha’s air of prolonged detachment. It catches the singer at his most vulnerable, trying to remember the sketches of his childhood. Close your eyes, and you can almost see Sampha’s family—happy, affectionate, and together. “I should visit my brother,” he ponders, “but I haven’t been there in months.” His self-imposed isolation doesn’t outweigh the song’s overall premise: “You can always come home.”

The Guardian 80

(Young Turks)
The British producer-singer who’s worked with Beyoncé, Drake and Kanye releases a powerful debut album of experimental R&B about death and grief

Pop history is filled with backroom figures who were desperate to transcend their supporting role: from Sex Pistols manager Malcolm McLaren, who somehow cobbled together a solo career despite being, as one commentator perceptively noted, “tone deaf and rhythmically challenged”, to Timbaland, ever eager to race out from behind the mixing desk, elbow Missy Elliott out of the way and once more test his demented belief that his undoubted genius as a producer was matched by his genius as a rapper. But no one can lay the charge of an insatiable desire for the limelight at the door of Sampha Sisay.

He is, by all accounts, the whole pop auteur package: he can write, produce and furthermore sing – in a gorgeous, bruised, understated voice. But he has hardly pursued his solo career with rapacious intensity: before the songs that make up his debut album started to emerge last year, he’d released a grand total of one single and two EPs (the latter seeming to consist of sketchy ideas he couldn’t find a home for elsewhere) in six years. His talents have been employed by everyone from Drake to SBTRKT and Jesse Ware, and he appeared on three of the most widely acclaimed albums of 2016: Kanye West’s Life of Pablo, Frank Ocean’s Endless and Solange’s A Seat at the Table. But even as a collaborator, he’s evinced an oddly self-effacing touch. He sang on Mine, a single from Beyonce’s eponymous 2013 album, but you wouldn’t have known from the credits, which neglected to mention him at all.

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(Young Turks)
The eagerly awaited debut of the south London singer-producer is restless, action-packed and full of innovation

There is no such thing as a shoo-in for the Mercury prize, an award whose breadth of reference is admirably erratic. But you can’t help but feel that the debut album by Sampha Sisay, Process, might be the record to beat this year.

Distinctly British, sonically restless and emotionally action-packed, Process starts with a bleep and a squawk, and ends with Sampha beating himself up for not visiting his brother. “It’s not all about me,” he mutters mournfully on What Shouldn’t I Be?. He beats himself up fairly regularly. On Timmy’s Prayer it’s a lost love. “I’m on the floor trying to dress my wounds/ Address the fact it was mine to lose…”

Related: Sampha live review – in the spotlight at last