"Whiskey, and a Ghost.”
SAM WAY, Bath, September 14th 20151
I did not discern him quickly from the shadow: In the blackness my shy eyes were slow, And it was not until he turned that I beheld –
A countenance of porcelain Cheekbones to the sky, A secret soul that coursed within Betrayed by a twinkle in the eye.
The place was dark, his features were dark, but his skin gleamed. I tried with all my might not to gawk. I am, by my nature, a curious girl, and I stole both glance and seat as I settled nearby. But I was not about to let a contoured face reduce me to a distracted thing, lest I miss the absorption of something greater, the very thing I had come for: music.
Ah, if music were a dish I would be desperately obese: gorging on the oral poetry of young composers, harmonies for breakfast! And here I was in this odd place of perpetual dusk, underground, spectator to a low stage.
Intermission. And a lone spot near the bar. I sighed and leaned back against the wall, chin up and throat exposed. It is a thing I do and cannot help: I subconsciously make myself open, in case a person should walk by in search of conversation.
“So, are you here with your Mum?”
An apparition smooth as china, the porcelain man. He shifted on one foot and leaned his shoulder against the wall, perfectly at ease. “I’m Sam.”
Already he was close to me, but as he spoke he closed the small gap between us, never losing my eye. He was sincere, intense, and lovely. He did not flinch when I laughed too loud, nor did he take a step back when my wild expression of hand caused our fingers to touch.
“How old are you?” I asked. “Twenty-seven.” He sighed playfully, rubbing his chin.
I told him I thought we both looked fairly young for our age, and he agreed: “Yes! We’re fresh-faced. Lots of water. And whiskey.” He paused and his face grew solemn. “I’m an alcoholic.”
I stared. He burst out laughing (denial or confirmation?!), before announcing that it was his turn to sing now. I clapped once in dramatic surprise, the spell broken, and assured, “Yes, go!”
I watched him slip away to the stage, and wondered: what kind of a brain is clutched inside a skull so handsome? I had no inkling of what he was about to do, of what his art would sound like.
Sam stood alone before the microphone, calmly tuning his guitar. In the unnatural light of the set his demeanor was ever more defined, bold, like the white muzzle of a wolf in a black wood.
He began to sing.
It was not a performance that can be described in a flippant or general way, because with each song a new piece of him was brought forward. At the start he was light-hearted, playing inside a beat that caught every foot in the room. The notes came clipped and fast; he sang so swift it was almost rap, but not once did he neglect the melody.
And then – it was like watching him undress. He took a breath and stripped down his own soul with a tenderness I very seldom see in young men. His voice rang out in the silence and I beamed at him, mouth ajar. Isn’t it strange that in the act of expressing their humanity, a person can seem supreme? – in other words, not human at all.
The light shifted, and the bones of his face were forced into relief. Strange shadows babbled all about him like ghosts caught in a storm.
With disarming ease, Sam swings between charming chit-chat and haunting vocals, a feat that requires a foot in both worlds. He was funny and engaging, but in it all I sensed a sacrifice, a tragedy.
Afterwards, my ears still full, I did not think twice about approaching him again. I walked boldly toward the stage, feet tripping a little on all those wires, and asked for a hug. Without missing a beat he held his arms open. “Yes, yes, of course!”
I gave him a full encouraging squeeze, and told him thank you, that was beautiful, wow. Fortunately for me he was neither contemptuous nor embarrassed, only grateful. Such a modest creature. In fact, that had been the subtext throughout it all: a humble disregard for himself, despite his marvelous features. This makes for a wise artist indeed, for what lessons can the voice learn from bone?
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