29 June – 16 July 2017


Young Identity

July 13, 2017

Young Identity’s poetic responses to Sampha:


No one knows me like the piano
in my mother’s home,
The colour code of our
conversations is always black and white,
And no one ever spoke to me like
it mattered,
Writing notes for you from here
because on the page they’re too clunky,
They fit between lines like two fat men in a doorway,
My pen is Benandonner running
back home over the causeway,
So I decided my notes would reach you better,
If they came from the piano in my mother’s home,
Because there’s no one that
knows me better,

– Owen O’Connor


Yung Turk’s Process

He brought his feelings in a
This Yung Turk arrived via Sierra
Leonne and a SM4(8) postcode,
No one knows him like the Piano
in his mother’s home,
Throne centre stage, in Albert’s
castle of subjects
He sang us a tale of his Process.

– Recce Williams



‘Do you need some air, lad?’
I’m just fine,

I’m just fine,
Only the surface of the sea
betrays me,
walked on water
and left damp footprints up your
I said they weren’t mine,
I’m not sure you believed me,
But it was easier to,
The music was easier three
floors below.

– Roma



Two steep

loosen up
another rum
two stepping
Sampha came on
His vocals were loco
the energy became a storm
he was playing the piano like a monk
I couldn’t help but move to his artistry,
I was feeling his energy throughout the night.
It was live, the music tight, two stepping to Sampha,
vibesing on the beat.

– Jawara Tate


500 lovers

Jupiter rings
Sampha spiralling
Music circling
I cover my ears whilst praying
that the music is louder
I never knew music could
exercise demons
Cycling around a hall like
olympics I never knew Olympus could be
set in Manchester
I wished Beethoven was alive so
he could ask for the encore with me
This wasn’t a sonata, symphony
nothing more than music that broke the hearts of hundreds
The seats weren’t for sitting they were for standing
This hall wasn’t for listening to music, this hall wasn’t for
appreciating music
This hall was for Sampha to play,
This hall for 2 hours was the
home of 500 lovers.

– Hammid Sharif


‘splinter and the shit instrument’

 the room wasn’t crowded
but they touched anyway
(the wood and the cowbell)

pressed together, sounds only
from the beaten one
(perspiration from the cowbell)

we gathered to look
but they didn’t stay
(cowbells rust after light)

metal marked by touch
clashes sound like song
when emitted from it

when the vomit returned
they had left me
I used the ringing
in my ears to substitute
wrapped my arms in
the red jacket light
the stage still showed

they never stay
past the three minute mark


Music is my soul

I sing to you my words
hammering them, chanting them,
melodic tones of my philosophies.

My words wash like warm water on troubled times.
The sound of my voice is both ancient and new.
My words lives in me, it calls to the deep in
me,the deep in you.

Hear my words, cradle them, and keep them close.
My words must call you from apathy to militancy
from complacency to revolution.

They must cause your soul to search,
like the prophets searched for God.

My words float on waterfalls,
fast and furious soft and reminiscing,
within them lie the healing balms
of my voice and that of my my mother’s
and father’s too
and is yours also.