The categorically elusive
Sampha arrived in 2010 with a co-headlined
SBTRKT collaboration and a solo EP, then became known more for supporting roles as a songwriter, producer, vocalist, and keyboardist. After he recorded with fellow Brits
Lil Silva and
Jessie Ware, his commercial presence was magnified by
Drake, whose
Nothing Was the Same featured him on a couple tracks. Within a few years,
Sampha had collected credits on works by a slew of mainstream artists, including
Beyoncé,
Kanye West,
Frank Ocean, and
Solange, as he assisted comparatively marginal but significant figures like
FKA Twigs and
Bullion. He also inched toward the completion of
Process, an artful and accessible debut full-length. Admirably, the album is without opportunistic reciprocal collaborations, unless one inconspicuous
Kanye West co-composition counts. It's largely a solitary and intensely personal effort, co-produced by
Rodaidh McDonald, ranging from placid piano ballads to urgent electro-soul. All the narratives, expressed in anguished, repentant, and haunted terms, befit a voice that always sounds as if it's on the brink of choking back tears.
Sampha's vocals can be an acquired taste, but they're instantly identifiable and heartfelt. They're all the more compelling when detailing interpersonal ruptures, drawing imagery like "I took the shape of a letter, slipped myself underneath your door," or in a state of agitation, "gasping for air." The album reaches its most stirring point in "Kora Sings," built on an alternately serene and jittery production, over which
Sampha sings to his dying mother, trailing off after "You don't know how strong you are." None of it is particularly light.
Sampha's exquisite melodies and detailed productions nonetheless make all the references to longing, disturbed sleep, injurious heat, and shattered glass go down easy. "Reverse Faults," sparkling low-profile trap with a dizzying combination of smeared glints and jutting background vocals, might be the best display of
Sampha's skill set. Another marvel is the hurtling, breakbeat-propelled "Blood on Me," its last 40 seconds juiced with some of the nastiest synthesized bass since
Alexander O'Neal's "Fake." In a way, this all makes the previous output seem merely preliminary. ~ Andy Kellman