Jerry. Or Gerry. Or Jeremy. Not Geremy. That was his name.
He had the kind of stained teeth, long fingernails and residual wine stink I’d come to expect from ‘Musicians.’
We sat at a plonky old honky tonk for an hour a week while he regaled me with tales about Fats Domino.
He told me that Wagner — and most of the others — were Nazis.
He told me that practice should be learning how to feel the chipped ivory drawing its pulleys beneath my fingers, gnashing its layers of teeth, not ordering and numbering them like some fucking dentist.
He was wrong.
Thanks for nothing, Geremy.
This is how the silence of me leaving the house to meet Geremy sounded to my mum.
If only her intentions and my talent could have collided just that once.
Instead, we get the self-referential soppiness of a post like this, and Sampha is entirely to blame.
While the focus so far has been on his duet with Drake and it’s subsequent melodic ossification, “Happens,” the other side of his forthcoming 7-inch, has had slightly less attention (OK, 100,000 views is hardly a shrug, but “Hey!” [Editor’s Note: hi]). With just his piano and his mum-melting husk, no longer “that dude” from astringof collaborations, Sampha shines hard.
You can pre-order the vinyl release from Young Turks NOW.