Four years is a long time to hold your breath. Sam Wills spent every day of it learning how to exhale.
When “Speak” arrives, it doesn’t shout. It slips in through the hallway—literally. That thirty-second intro track is just footsteps, a door creaking, someone deciding whether to knock or walk away. Then “All She Wrote” starts and you realise the whole album is the answer: he knocked.
Sam’s voice still floats like smoke you want to breathe in, but the air feels different now. There’s weight in the falsetto, a lived-in crack that wasn’t there on “Breathe”. “We Both Know” proved it back in May—millions of streams later, it still sounds like he’s singing it to one person in the dark. Same with “Coulda Been Us”, a hook so sticky you catch yourself humming it in the vegetable aisle.
He flips decades like pages. “Amelia” lands square in 1983, bass popping like it’s mad at the snare, Pointer Sisters swagger in a UK bedroom. Then “Voicenotes” shrinks everything back down to a phone memo and two voices that finish each other’s sentences. That push-pull between huge and tiny is the whole record.
“No Pressure” is the one I keep on repeat when the city gets too loud. Fat bass, zero rush, Sam half-whispering “we don’t have to figure it all out tonight”. Across the room my plants lean closer like they understand.
ELIZA slides in on “For The Night” and suddenly the song feels like two friends passing a secret over candlelight. By the time “This Is How It Ends” rolls around—strings swelling, backing vocals braided so tight you can’t tell whose heart is breaking—you’re not ready for it to finish. Good. Albums this honest aren’t supposed to be easy goodbyes.
Grab the vinyl if you can; the sleeve feels like thick autumn leaves. And if you’re anywhere near these venues, go early. Stand close enough to watch him close his eyes when the high notes leave his body. That’s where the real speaking happens.
