Narratives from Beyond the UK Reggae Bassline: The System is Sound [1st ed.] 9783030551605, 9783030551612

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PALGRAVE STUDIES IN THE HISTORY OF SUBCULTURES AND POPULAR MUSIC

Edited by thew Worley

William ’Lez’ Henry · Mat

PALGRAVE STU HISTORY O DIES IN THE F SU AND POPU BCULTURES LAR MUSIC

Narrativ es from Be yond th e UK Regg ae Bass line The Syst em is So

und

Palgrave Studies in the History of Subcultures and Popular Music

Series Editors Keith Gildart University of Wolverhampton Wolverhampton, UK Anna Gough-Yates University of Roehampton London, UK Sian Lincoln Liverpool John Moores University Liverpool, UK Bill Osgerby London Metropolitan University London, UK Lucy Robinson University of Sussex Brighton, UK John Street University of East Anglia Norwich, UK Peter Webb University of the West of England Bristol, UK Matthew Worley University of Reading Reading, UK

From 1940s zoot-suiters and hepcats through 1950s rock ‘n’ rollers, beatniks and Teddy boys; 1960s surfers, rude boys, mods, hippies and bikers; 1970s skinheads, soul boys, rastas, glam rockers, funksters and punks; on to the heavy metal, hip-hop, casual, goth, rave and clubber styles of the 1980s, 90s, noughties and beyond, distinctive blends of fashion and music have become a defining feature of the cultural landscape. The Subcultures Network series is international in scope and designed to explore the social and political implications of subcultural forms. Youth and subcultures will be located in their historical, socio-economic and cultural context; the motivations and meanings applied to the aesthetics, actions and manifestations of youth and subculture will be assessed. The objective is to facilitate a genuinely cross-disciplinary and transnational outlet for a burgeoning area of academic study.

More information about this series at http://www.palgrave.com/gp/series/14579

William ‘Lez’ Henry · Matthew Worley Editors

Narratives from Beyond the UK Reggae Bassline The System is Sound

Editors William ‘Lez’ Henry School of Human and Social Sciences University of West London London, UK

Matthew Worley University of Reading Reading, UK

ISSN 2730-9517 ISSN 2730-9525 (electronic) Palgrave Studies in the History of Subcultures and Popular Music ISBN 978-3-030-55160-5 ISBN 978-3-030-55161-2 (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-55161-2 © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations. Cover credit: UniversalImagesGroup/Contributor This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Switzerland AG The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland

Acknowledgments

I dedicate this book out of love and respect to Mrs. Icilda Henry ‘Muv’ and to Mr. Felix William Henry, Dad, for you always encouraged me in your own way to pursue my goals and fulfil my dreams. I also have to mention my dearest sisters Novelette and June and my wonderful niece Maxine as they were taken too soon, and also my beloved ‘little brother’, Mad Mikey Simpson the best producer I ever worked with; may you all rest in perfect peace. Lastly, I must acknowledge Prof. Herbert Ekwe Ekwe, the cleverest and kindest human being I ever met who guided me on the academic path, constantly telling me to return to education and achieve a Ph.D.; before I even knew what one was. May you Rest in Eternal Peace my beloved African brother! To our contributors we give thanks for your insightful reasonings which have added nuff flavour to this Reggaematical take on life in the UK. Bless. —William ‘Lez’ Henry Thanks to all the contributors and all at Palgrave for their efforts and support. On a personal level, this book evoked memories of my grandma, Adelaide Worley, from whose two-up two-down house I used to listen to dub basslines wafting up the road in Forest Fields, Nottingham. It was a strange introduction to reggae, but the sounds remain with me and conjure the love she gave. She was the peppermint queen. —Matthew Worley

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Contents

1

Introduction: Narratives from the Bassline William ‘Lez’ Henry and Matthew Worley

2

Vexed History: Time and the Waning of Heart-I-Cal Philosophy Paul Gilroy

3

Reggae Culture as Local Knowledge: Mapping the Beats on South East London Streets William ‘Lez’ Henry and Les Back

1

7

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4

A Who Seh? Reflections of a Lost and Found Dub Poet Martin Glynn

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‘What a Devilment a Englan!’ Dub Poets and Ranters Tim Wells

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Smiley Culture: A Hybrid Voice for the Commonwealth Lucy Robinson

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CONTENTS

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The Story of Nzinga Soundz and the Women’s Voice in Sound System Culture Lynda Rosenior-Patten and June Reid

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Sound-Tapes and Soundscapes: Lo-Fi Cassette Recordings as Vectors of Cultural Transmission Kenny Monrose

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9

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‘Dem a Call Us Pirates, Dem a Call Us Illegal Broadcasters!’: ‘Pirates’ Anthem’, PCRL and the Struggle for Black Free Radio in Birmingham Lisa Amanda Palmer Rebel Music in the Rebel City: The Performance Geography of the Nottingham ‘Blues Party’, 1957–1987 Tom Kew ‘Curious Roots & Crafts’: Record Shops and Record Labels Amid the British Reggae Diaspora Peter Hughes Jachimiak From Sound Systems to Disc Jockeys, from Local Bands to Major Success: On Bristol’s Crucial Role in Integrating Reggae and Jamaican Music in British Culture Melissa Chemam Growing Up Under the Influence: A Sonic Genealogy of Grime Joy White Sound Systems and the Christian Deviation Carl Tracey

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Handsworth Revolution: Reggae Theomusicology, Gospel Borderlands and Delinking Black British Contemporary Gospel Music from Colonial Christianity Robert Beckford

Index

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Notes on Contributors

Les Back is Professor of Sociology at Goldsmiths, University of London. He is the author of numerous books including New Ethnicities and Urban Culture: Racisms and Multiculture in Young Lives (UCL Press, 1997), Out of Whiteness: Color, Politics, Culture (University of Chicago Press, 2002) and The Art of Listening (2007) and Academic Diary: Why Higher Education Still Matters (The Goldsmiths Press, 2017). He is also a music journalist and maker of documentary films. Robert Beckford is Professor of Theology at the Queen’s Ecumenical Foundation. He is the author of several books exploring the interface of religion and black culture in Britain. He is a scholar-activist researching the intersections of faith and racial justice in and through diverse media texts. He has written a dozen books in the field of theology and black popular culture and theology. Beckford is also a BAFTA award winning documentary filmmaker. He has written and presented over twenty films for the BBC, Channel 4 and Discovery USA. His films explore a range of themes including political critiques of the British Empire, biblical history and North Atlantic popular cultures. Melissa Chemam is an author, journalist, traveller and writer. From 2015, she spent three years writing her first non-fiction book about Bristol’s music and art scene, centred on the band Massive Attack and their mainstay, artist and musician Robert Del Naja. Her book, Massive Attack: Out of the Comfort Zone, was published in 2019.

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Paul Gilroy is a British historian, writer and academic, who is the founding Director of the Centre for the Study of Race and Racism at University College London. Professor Gilroy is the 2019 winner of the Holberg Prize, for ’‘his outstanding contributions to a number of academic fields, including cultural studies, critical race studies, sociology, history, anthropology and African-American studies’. He is a pioneer of cultural studies and author of such seminal works as There Ain’t No Black in the Union Jack (1987), The Black Atlantic (1993) and Darker Than Blue: On the Moral Economies of Black Atlantic Culture (2010). Martin Glynn is an internationally renowned criminologist, educator, theatre director and dramatist with over 35 years’ experience of working in criminal justice, public health and educational settings and is currently a lecturer in criminology and black studies at Birmingham City University. Glynn has been appointed a visiting research fellow at SALISES (the University of the West Indies), alongside undertaking a research residency at National Justice Museum in Nottingham. Peter Hughes Jachimiak conducted research which involves wideranging analyses of both the experiencing and remembering of post-war British popular culture. As such, Jachimiak is both a regular contributor to both All Mod Icon (the ‘Paul Weller magazine’) and Subbaculture (a fanzine that is ‘a celebration of subcultural fashions, styles, and sounds’), and a reviewer for the music monthly, Vive Le Rock! Furthermore, Jachimiak’s Remembering the Cultural Geographies of Home (Ashgate, 2014) is concerned with not only the spaces, places and media forms that make up the childhood family home and its immediate surroundings (such as the house, garden, streets, suburbia, TV, radio, etc.), but the interlinked nature of the cultural texts that reverberate within our memories of those spaces, places, and media forms (toys, comics, novels, TV programmes, films, music and so on). William ‘Lez’ Henry is an activist, poet, writer and public speaker who is of Jamaican parentage and was born in Lewisham, Southeast London. AKA Lezlee Lyrix, he is one of the pioneering British Reggae Dancehall Deejays and has performed both nationally and internationally. He is Professor of Criminology and Sociology, University of West London and has written and spoken nationally and internationally on many of the concerns faced by people of African Ancestry. Further, his work is both

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pragmatic and useful and seeks to address the wider issues around discriminatory practices in the pursuit of social justice. He is a Hung Kuen, 5 Animals Shaolin Kung Fu, 2nd Degree Black Belt Instructor and is a 1st Dan in Kyokushinkai, Full Contact, Karate. Tom Kew is an academic researcher and music industry professional based in Nottingham, UK. He gained his Ph.D. from the University of Leicester, specialising in postcolonial literature with a distinctly regional, Midlands focus. His work involves promoting reggae music to diverse audiences, whether as Head of Marketing for Nottingham Caribbean Carnival, or as Director of the nationwide promotions company, Reggae Take Over Ltd. Kenny Monrose holds a Ph.D. in Sociology with specialisation in Criminology and his other areas of expertise surround identities, race, gender, popular culture and criminal justice. He is a researcher and urban ethnographer within the Department of Sociology at the University of Cambridge, and a research associate at Wolfson College Cambridge. Monrose is a lecturer in Criminology and Criminal Justice, and the author of Black Men in Britain: A portrait of the Post Windrush Generation, published by Routledge in 2019. Lisa Amanda Palmer is the Deputy Director of the Stephen Lawrence Research Centre at De Montfort University, Leicester. She was the former Course Director for the Black Studies undergraduate programme and Senior Lecturer in Sociology at Birmingham City University. Lisa is a qualified librarian and previously worked for Birmingham Libraries and Archive Services for many years. She has a keen interest in working with local archive collections, specifically, the Vanley Burke Archive held at the Library of Birmingham. Her research focuses on Black feminism, Black cultural politics and the intersection of race, racism, gender and sexuality. Her writing covers a broad spectrum of fields including the gendered politics of lovers’ rock music, the production of local community archives and the misogynoir faced by Black women in British public life. She is the co-author of the book Blackness in Britain (2016) and is currently writing her book on Black women in the UK’s lover’s rock reggae scene. June Reid has been active in the Black arts and cultural sectors for nearly 40 years. She has also worked in Local Government in the areas of regeneration and the arts for over 20 years. She is currently a Cultural

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Studies Master’s student at Goldsmiths, London University and will be researching UK based African Caribbean female Sound Systems. June is a member of Sound System Outernational which is an ‘ongoing initiative of practitioners and researchers, in association with Goldsmiths, University of London, dedicated to recognising, stimulating and supporting sound system culture worldwide’. Lucy Robinson is professor of collaborative history at the University of Sussex. She writes on popular music, politics and identity, feminism and punk pedagogy. As well as co-ordinating the Subcultures Network, and the open access digital project ‘Observing the 80s’, she has recently advised on an exhibition on Jersey in the 1980s and on a new documentary project funded by the BFI, Queerama. Lynda Rosenior-Patten has worked in the Creative and Development sectors for over 35 years and in senior management roles for 20 years. She holds a master’s degree in Voluntary Administration (MVA) and a B.A. (Hons) degree in Law, Psychology and French Language, as well as various professional qualifications. Lynda is passionate about developing the professionalism of the Creative Sector, using arts and culture as drivers for economic and social development. She founded ‘Maestro7’ a creative management consultancy in 2016 to pursue a desire to work independently. She specialises in Leadership Development, Strategic Management, Enterprise and Employability Training, Programme Development and Audience Engagement. Projects she has been responsible for include: ‘Destination Salone’ a Creative Enterprise Hub project in Freetown Sierra Leone and the ‘Notting Hill Carnival Pioneers Festival’. Carl Tracey is an independent researcher and practitioner specialising in gospel music. He is a musician, radio presenter, audio documentary producer and DJ/selector of a gospel sound system called ‘Radical Family’ based in the UK. He has completed a degree in Commercial Music at the University of Westminster and a Masters in Theology and Religious Studies at Canterbury Christ Church University. Tim Wells is a poet and a writer who still buys discomixes. He is the editor of the poetry magazine Rising and the author of such books as Moonstomp (2019) and No Weakeners (2020). He runs the blog Stand Up and Spit: https://standupandspit.wordpress.com/.

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Joy White is a Lecturer in Applied Social Studies at the University of Bedfordshire. In 2015/2016, she held the Independent Scholar Fellow award from the Independent Social Research Foundation (ISRF). She is the author of Urban Music and Entrepreneurship: Beats, Rhymes and Young People’s Enterprise (2017). It is one of the first books to foreground the socio-economic significance of the UK urban music economy, with particular reference to Grime music. Her latest book Terraformed: Young Black Lives in the Inner City (2020) is published by Repeater Books. Matthew Worley is Professor of Modern History at the University of Reading and a co-founder of the Subcultures Network. He has written widely on British politics and culture, focusing initially on the interwar period and more recently on the 1970s and 1980s. His research on British punk-related cultures has been published across a range of journals, including Contemporary British History, History Workshop, Popular Music and Twentieth Century British History. A monograph, No Future: Punk, Politics and British Youth Culture, 1976–84, was published by Cambridge University Press in 2017. He is currently researching towards a book-length study of fanzines.

List of Figures

Fig. Fig. Fig. Fig. Fig. Fig. Fig. Fig. Fig. Fig. Fig. Fig.

3.1 3.2 3.3 3.4 3.5 3.6 3.7 3.8 3.9 3.10 3.11 7.1

Fig. 7.2

Fig. 7.3 Fig. 7.4 Fig. 15.1 Fig. 15.2

Reggae Map of New Cross Lez Henry and Les Back Outside Goldsmiths 51 Lewisham Way On the reggae walk 324 New Cross Road Taking notes 439 New Cross Road Black People’s Day of Action Lewisham Way Youth & Community Centre In search of lovers’ rock DJ Ade and Junie Rankin - Private party at the Roseniors’ family home, London DJ Ade at a demonstration on the murder of Jamaican Dub Poet Mikey Smith outside the Jamaica High Commission, August 1983, London Permission given - DJ Ade and Junie Rankin - Wedding Reception - London 1990 Permission requested - Carnival in the Time of the Sound system - Panel discussion BFI, London August 2019 Robert Beckford, Jamaican Bible Remix The West Indian Front Room

33 35 37 39 40 43 45 47 48 50 55 132

135 137 141 293 313

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CHAPTER 1

Introduction: Narratives from the Bassline William ‘Lez’ Henry and Matthew Worley

British reggae emerged as a cultural force in the 1970s. As the heavy basslines from Jamaica reverberated across the Atlantic, they were received and transmitted nationwide by the UK’s Afro-Caribbean community. There was a pre-history, of course. Through the 1950s into the 1960s, as communities formed around those who travelled to Britain from the Caribbean for work and a new life, so blues parties and fledgling sound systems—not to mention underground clubs and record shops, ramshackle studios and record labels run on shoestring budgets—served to provide an infrastructure. The reception was often hostile, with racism rife and prejudices fused to colonialist psyches. But the frequencies and mutating styles of reggae pervaded both the cultural and the urban panoramas of Britain’s cities in the post-war period, soundtracking the struggles and pleasures of everyday life. It was in the 1970s, however, that

W. ‘L’. Henry School of Human and Social Sciences, University of West London, London, UK e-mail: [email protected] M. Worley (B) University of Reading, Reading, UK e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s) 2021 W. ‘L’. Henry and M. Worley (eds.), Narratives from Beyond the UK Reggae Bassline, Palgrave Studies in the History of Subcultures and Popular Music, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-55161-2_1

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British reggae found its own voice and forged its own sounds, reflecting in the process the socio-cultural and political transformations underway as the faultlines of post-war ‘consensus’ succumbed to the tenets of Thatcherism. Numerous authors have pointed to the importance of black music with regard to issues of black identity formation.1 Yet, despite Jon Stratton and Nabeel Zuberi’s important introduction to Black Popular Music in Britain (2014), relatively little is known about how these identities were/are produced and communicated in the UK context.2 Similarly, the role of the reggae sound system, ‘the medium of the reggae message’ (Gutzmore), has rarely been subjected to detailed analysis, despite its ubiquity within the black community.3 So while histories of reggae exist, this book looks to explore beyond the music and towards reggae’s influence on and in Britain more generally. It asks how reggae shaped and continues to shape the cultural landscape; how reggae communicated and enabled; how reggae’s sound transformed musical spaces and places. The aim is to draw together academic and practitioner expertise to consider the diverse influence and underlying values of reggae sound system/bassline culture through to drum ‘n’ bass and grime. Lloyd Bradley’s Bass Culture: When Reggae was King (2000) is rightly regarded as the first major account of the history of reggae. Therein, he traces the culture’s origins in Jamaica and describes how it ‘conquered the world’.4 The book provides many insights into the biographies of reggae luminaries and details their involvement in transmitting the culture to the

1 See, for example, Paul Gilroy, There Ain’t No Black in the Union Jack: The Cultural Politics of Race and Nation (London: Hutchinson, 1987); Dick Hebdige, Cut‘n’Mix: Culture, Identity and Caribbean Music (London: Routledge, 1987). 2 Jon Stratton and Nabeel Zuberi (eds), Black Popular Music in Britain (Abingdon: Ashgate, 2014). See also Simon Jones, Black Music, White Youth: The Reggae Tradition from JA to UK (London: Bassline, 2016). 3 Cecil Gutzmore, ‘The Carnival, the State and the Black Masses in the United Kingdom’, Black Liberator, 4 (1978). For notable exceptions, see William ‘Lez’ Henry, ‘Reggae, Rasta and the Role of the Deejay in the Black British Experience’, Contemporary British History, 26: 3 (2012); idem, What the Deejay Said: A Critique from the Street (London: Nu-Beyond, 2006); Julian Henriques, Sonic Bodies: Reggae Sound Systems, Performance Techniques, and Ways of Knowing (London: Continuum, 2011); Simon Jones and Paul Pinnock, Scientists of Sound: Portraits of a UK Reggae Sound System (London: Bassline, 2018). 4 Lloyd Bradley, Bass Culture: When Reggae was King (London: Penguin, 2000).

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UK. Crucially, too, he relates the genesis of reggae culture to the wider history of Jamaica. However, while British reggae is featured, Bradley’s study ends during the 1980s heyday.5 This will be uniquely expanded upon here, providing a ‘way in’ both to the history and the academic study of British reggae, as well as giving voice to notable practitioners. It will affirm the music’s central place in modern British culture by featuring a diverse range of contributors, necessarily serving to broaden discussion around reggae’s form, purpose and potency. To do this, The System is Sound will journey from roots to lovers’ rock; from deejays harnessing the dancehall crowd to dub poets reporting back from the socio-economic frontline; from the church hall to the dancehall through gospel reggae; from ragga to jungle to grime. In demonstrating how British reggae soundtracked the inner-city experience of black youth, the collection reveals how the music has morphed and melded to reshape the cultural terrain of the UK, in particular offering disenfranchised and disaffected youth an alternative platform to voice their concerns. Our suggestion is that reggae’s influence continues to permeate, informing the sounds and the language of popular music while also retaining a connection to the street-level sound systems, clubs and community centres that opened-up the space to create, protest and innovate. The System is Sound is therefore a testament to struggle and ingenuity. Accordingly, the role that reggae music played and plays in the formation of expressive urban spaces, in which alternative black social, cultural and political views are aired and disseminated, will be presented in myriad ways. The book begins with Paul Gilroy’s ruminations on how we may think about and understand reggae across time and space. He locates reggae’s ‘counterhistory’ and reflects as to how this can be maintained through the shifting forces of socio-economic and technological change. Lez Henry and Les Back then take us on a journey through the reggae-infused landscape of south east London, revisiting spaces and places to evoke memories and historical resonances, particularly in the form of lovers’ rock; a uniquely British genre of reggae. Martin Glynn and Tim Wells both provide personal accounts of their experience as poets. Where Glynn uses his poetry to explore himself and his lived experience, Wells looks at how poetry provided points of connection that transcended skin colour. 5 See also Christopher Partridge, Dub in Babylon: Understanding the Evolution and Significance of Dub Reggae in Jamaica and Britain from King Tubby to Post-punk (London: Equinox, 2010).

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For Lucy Robinson, it is the life and death of Smiley Culture that offers a means to understand the politics and legacies of the 1980s, revealing how the racism of the past serves too often to reiterate the racism of the present. The sound system has oft-been seen as a male domain. Lynda Rosenior-Patten and June Reid, otherwise known as Nzinga Sound, help reset the narrative by recalling their own contribution to reggae culture, noting in the process how other women have similarly blazed a trail. From a different perspective, Kenny Monrose digs into collections of cassette tapes, asserting their value as ‘vectors of cultural transmission’. By so doing, he underlines the importance of cassettes as an archival resource from which we can recover reggae’s cultural and political engagement. More broadly, Lisa Palmer’s analysis of Peoples Community Radio Link (PCRL) allows us to move beyond any London-centric view of British reggae’s dissemination. Hailing from Birmingham, PCRL created—despite state opposition and regional recalcitrance—an alternative cultural space to both transmit music and negotiate resistance within the black community. The regional perspective beyond London is further explored in subsequent chapters. Tom Kew navigates the performance geography of Nottingham’s blues parties, taking us into the rooms and spaces that reshaped the city’s culture while also sustaining its reputation for rebellion. Peter Jachimiak returns to Birmingham via Bristol, journeying around the cities’ record shops to chart the musical networks that nurtured vibrant local cultures. Melissa Chemam, meanwhile, makes the case for reggae’s centrality to Bristol’s reputation as a creative fulcrum, feeding into and mutating the city’s rock and hip hop cultures to innovative effect. Reggae’s influence may be located in other ways. Joy White traverses the lines that connect reggae to grime sonically, socially and spatially. Like reggae, grime is disruptive and emancipatory; it forges and occupies communal spaces, following on from the example of blues dances and dancehall. But reggae also has a spiritual dimension. To this end, Carl Tracey looks at the relationship between Christianity and bassline culture through the prism of the Gospel sound system, while Robert Beckford uses reggae theomusicology, which is Rastafari inspired, to mediate the disconnect between black theology and gospel music. Much more could be added. A subsequent volume might extend our geographical reach to other British cities—to Leeds or Huddersfield,

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Manchester or Liverpool, Edinburgh or Glasgow—where sound system culture was also informative. Investigation of reggae’s influence beyond black communities could be extended. If the ‘punky-reggae party’ and post-punk experiments with dub in the late 1970s and early 1980s are relatively well-known, then less attention has been paid to reggae’s influence within Asian communities or to such musical spaces as festivals or raves. More, as always, could be said about class. Likewise, a focus on reggae’s material culture would allow record labels—be they Trojan, Greensleeves or On-U Sound—to come to the fore, as well as papers (Echoes ), fanzines (Small Axe) and films (Babylon). Methodologically, comparative analysis might be applied; oral testimony brought more to the fore. As it is, we hope that analysing/presenting music from these novel perspectives will give rise to new observational and theoretical information on the ways by which syncretised and hybridised cultural forms impact on music lovers in the UK and beyond. Moreover, the chapters in this book invite you to experience the unlocking of intergenerational and cross-cultural social memories that provide practical mechanisms to cope with multiple (and ever-present) forms of social, cultural and political hardship. Indeed, unlocking these social memories creates pathways for us to explore ‘popular racism and racial exclusion’ (Back), while experiencing racialised identity formations and musical affiliations across time and space.6 This is due to the UK being a nodal point in a multicultural system of creative processes, where various genres have been influenced by Jamaican music and culture for decades. Yet this remains largely unexplored in discussions of just how processes of a counter black identity are worked out as a form of urban politics. Consequently, the contributors demonstrate here that reggae/dancehall are ‘music as politics’, catering for those collectives who deem themselves to be systematically excluded by the state for not possessing a reasoned and rational political opinion. Such a situation arises because these collectives do not represent a recognised ‘public body’; rather the people who are into the types of popular music represented here recognise that their ‘music is politics’, wherein the freedom to express, publish and promote their general interests is taken not requested.

6 Les Back, New Ethnicities and Urban Culture: Racisms and Multiculture in Young Lives (London: UCL, 1996).

CHAPTER 2

Vexed History: Time and the Waning of Heart-I-Cal Philosophy Paul Gilroy

[One] of the chief values of living with music lies in its power to give us an orientation in time. In doing so, it gives significance to all those indefinable aspects of experience which nevertheless help to make us what we are. In the swift whirl of time, music is a constant, reminding us of what we were and of that toward which we aspire. Art thou troubled? Music will not only calm, it will ennoble thee. Ralph Ellison

Musical styles that emerge and become established are really the necessary creations of places where entire communities are struggling, not in a state of sustained oblivion, but in the face of a major, unrelenting threat: the slums of Kingston where reggae slowly takes shape, the ghettoes of New York where salsa bursts into life. Edouard Glissant

P. Gilroy (B) London, UK e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s) 2021 W. ‘L’. Henry and M. Worley (eds.), Narratives from Beyond the UK Reggae Bassline, Palgrave Studies in the History of Subcultures and Popular Music, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-55161-2_2

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Devotees’ of contemporary artists like Lil Simz, Kano, Kojey Radical and Burna Boy will doubtless disagree with me, but the premise of this essay is my impression that the moral authority of black popular music has waned. Their combative, exciting work has built new audiences and linked UK black music with the cultural life of post- and neo-colonial Africa. It demonstrates that political voices are still audible, just as they are in the residues of African American Hip Hop, but those voices have become muted. Radical artists obviously retain good intentions, but most no longer aspire to an extensive philosophical critique of the world as it appears: in racial form. They are resigned to the world in that configuration and want to make it work for them. The reasons for this gradual change are complex. Music has been brought fully into this world. Its profane character has eclipsed its sacred and secular elements. This means that it seldom affords welcome glimpses of alternative futures or provides users with the means of transcendence. What seems to matter more than anything else is to triumph, to win and not to be a loser, here and now. The result is that neither making music in real-time nor the use of commodified musical products are as productively aligned with political movements and antiracist struggles as they were forty years ago when connections between the insurgent aesthetics and politics of sound could have been taken for granted and enthusiastically misread as a permanent state of affairs rather than a fleeting, entirely contingent association. Those largely dormant connections can still be traced, not least through the expanded planetary circuits of ‘soft power’ and the ‘military entertainment complex’. However, where they do survive, they appear vestigial. Vernacular versions of neoliberalism are now operative, even inside the continuing battles over racial hierarchy and inequality. They specify that the will of individuals is considered decisive while economic priorities and arguments always trump assertions of other kinds of value.1 Thinking about reggae requires imaginative return to a period when black trafficking in organised sound was not seen as a valuable activity and the cultural life of metropolitan cores was oddly dependent upon the creative products of the postcolonial periphery. Today, the joy and play in using music tends to fragment oppositional initiatives and disperse the dissenting energy which was once nurtured in the subaltern public 1 Paul Gilroy, ‘… We Got to Get Over Before We Go Under’, New Formations, 80–1 (2013), 23–38.

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spheres where racial community was assembled. Today’s precarious, individuated listeners are more likely to be isolated, lonely, stressed, depressed and anxious than their downpressed parents and superexploited grandparents were. We find them transfixed in the rapturous hyper-reality of bluetooth ‘earbuds’ or lodged in automotive bubbles infused with what can only ever be their personal playlists. Dissident political bodies are being pulled apart, disaggregated. Of course, people still enjoy music but it is now thought of as essentially disposable, a transient soundtrack to other activities. The idea of charity is braided into the normal habits of consumer culture, however, most listeners will no longer willingly spend in order to support the musicians who distract and entertain them. Paid a pittance, precarious artists strive to make a political impact. Their work seldom binds anger and opposition together or fosters the possibility of acting in concert to make the broken world anew. The music’s traditional concerns with love, care, loss, death and inevitable suffering have often taken second place behind the playful iteration of stereotypes, bragging, self-assertion and personal brand-building. We all know that the auditory aspects of political culture have gradually, but steadily been supplanted or corrupted by the dominance of spectacular visual forms. They are transmitted and mediated through screen-friendly technologies premised on the erasure of all boundaries between advertising and entertainment. Excessive visual pleasure has drawn many into the addictive webs of surveillance capitalism where music supplies accompaniment to other, inert varieties of generic ‘content’. These changes also chime with a neo-liberal subjection that projects freedom essentially as an economic matter and reduces black autonomy to the various problems and processes of personal and group ‘empowerment’, all calculated within the framework provided by the existing political and economic order. Capitalism is rarely considered to be a significant problem, mostly because people have been encouraged to refuse the capacity to imagine that they might live otherwise. The insomniac habits of capitalist realism promote their resignation which gets manifested in peculiarly antagonistic intergenerational patterns. The resulting outlook is inhospitable towards the claims of historical knowledge. It challenges the idea that the ‘black radical tradition’ can be adequately understood as an online list of what yesterday’s black radicals wrote down. The political ontology of cultural resistance and dissent no longer assume irreducibly social form. With

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the wholesale privatisation of cultural life, they are now saturated with personal feelings and made meaningful as essentially interpersonal matters. These changes in scale and focus can be mapped through critical analysis of black music and its cultures, but they require new ways of thinking about how history is itself to be constructed. Culture must, for example, be theorised with greater complexity and enhanced resolution. This means operating simultaneously on several scales and cultivating the ability to move between sub-national, national and trans-national methods and modes of inquiry. Individual agency and affect must be placed in wider frames where sociality can be conceptualised so as to acknowledge its metabolic relationships with non-human nature. For more than a century, music was a fundamental medium. It revealed the (meta)communicative networks that connected Africa, and linked the continent and its peoples to various diasporas. What Christopher Small termed ‘musicking’2 was an important vector for the transmission, expression and articulation of oppositional ideas and actions. Music distilled the dissident ethics and utopian dispositions that had anchored and oriented the black atlantic freedom cultures. They were creole and cosmopolitan formations. They had derived originally from the opposition to slavery and slave-trading led by enslaved Africans and their descendants. These cultural transactions included open-ended enquiries, conducted in proximity to some of the world’s most intractable and terroristic racial orders, into what it was to be human, not just what it was to be seen— or recognised—as a human being outside the distinctive nomoi of the racially-ordered world.3

The End of Reggae and a New History of Humankind I must confess that it has been painful for me to accept that reggae music’s creative and political peaks have passed. What gets called reggae nowadays is often just an effect of the old music’s gradual decay, its dwindling presence in an expanded digisphere where YouTube clips 2 See Christopher Small in his books Musicking: The Meanings of Performance and Listening (Middletown: Wesleyan University Press, 1998) and Music of the Common Tongue: Survival and Celebration in African American Music (Hanover: Wesleyan University Press/University Press of New England, 1998). 3 Carl Schmitt, The Nomos of the Earth (New York: Telos Press, 2003).

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constitute the principal archive and Wikipedia is regarded as the greatest historical authority. Reggae’s creative summit resided in the long decade between 1968 and 1982. During that special period, the music blossomed, as did the US rhythm and blues and jazz with which it had become productively and densely entangled. Cross-fertilised by those connections, reggae evolved rapidly and acquired new formal attributes.4 In turn, its generative influence would be transmitted back into those other styles, prompting further innovations, hybrids and creole mixes. Though the etymology of the word reggae suggests a different creative arc, heuristically, the well-known recordings by Count Ossie and the Mystic Revelation of Rastafari can be used to mark the early part of this phase while the computer-based creative output of London’s 90s Junglists can be used to locate its terminal point. For the purpose of this essay it is important to emphasise that the music had advanced energetically in harmony with the Rastafari movement which was being revived during the period that the Caribbean became a hotly contested geopolitical zone as part of the Cold War. The danger of communism creeping across from Cuba was a basic aspect of the celebrated era of Roots and Culture. Grounded sounds5 affirmed the moral and political importance of everyday life while making clarion calls for solidarity with remote anticolonial struggles against Apartheid and other varieties of imperial rule. Babylon’s violation of humanity’s proper relationships with the world and with itself, chimed with an immediate focus on poverty, inequality and the suffering of peoples wherever they were. The figure of the sufferer was identified with the alternative moral and historical order that the music aimed to create. This phase can be defined by what we should call its hearticality. Songs of protest and affirmation contributed to collective memory work. Both were shaped by the desire for decolonization and the need urgently to demonstrate cultural independence from the lingering dynamics of imperial domination. The rates at which this precious formation decayed have varied. For reasons that exceed the scope of this essay, we must note 4 Think of the revolutionary effect of Funk on the approach to bass and drum performance pursued by Carlton and Aston Barrett or of the impact of early 1970s recordings by The Crusaders on Jamaican performers like Cedric Im Brooks and Count Ossie’s Mystic Revelation of Rastafari. 5 Paul Willis, Common Culture: Symbolic Work at Play in the Everyday Cultures of the Young (Milton Keynes: Open University Press, 1990).

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that its positive, radical influences have reverberated longer and more productively in distant diaspora and creole locations than they have in the Caribbean itself. For example, the large international circuit of festivals and other related musical events reveals how outernational activity has become fundamental to sustaining the political economy of reggae and the livelihoods of its aging producers.6 In the dread atmosphere of the 1970s, reggae began its slow break from the playful and often comic patterns that had defined earlier musical styles like Bluebeat and Ska. They had all been strongly influenced by the Jump Blues of US artists like Calvin Boze, Wynonie Harris and Amos Milburn, the ‘new Calypso Bebop’ of Louis Jordan. A new, more serious rhetorical tone emerged. It complemented the musical innovations with which the reggae revolution was closely articulated, and corresponded to the bleak, Cold War reality of postcolonial Jamaica’s economic plight. At that point, the historian and poet, Kamau Brathwaite grasped the fundamental importance of music to the independent Caribbean’s cultural integrity and distinctiveness. He heard the changes that were being made, but understood them only as the emergence of oppositional ‘nation language’. By placing music at the very forefront of our thinking but seeing it more prominently in relation to the claims of language, we arrive at a larger series of claims. We encounter the fateful stirrings of a language of I-niversal sufferation. That idiom was philosophically literate beyond the anti-imperial political theology of Rastafari on which it drew. It was shaped by the vivid possibility of a creole future for our planet and the utopian hope that human beings might be able to dwell peaceably, in harmony with other kinds of life. The history of Caribbean modernity offered pre-figurative guidance towards those difficult goals. Some years earlier, Frantz Fanon had expressed something like the first of these ambitions in a justly famous passage from the final pages of The Wretched of The Earth: It is a question of the Third World starting a new history of Man, a history which will have regard to the sometimes prodigious theses which Europe has put forward, but which will also not forget Europe’s crimes, of which the most horrible was committed in the heart of man, and consisted of the pathological tearing apart of his functions and the crumbling away of his unity … For Europe, for ourselves, and for humanity, comrades, we must 6 Sonjah Stanley Niah, Reggae Pilgrimages (London: Rowman and Littlefield, 2014).

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turn over a new leaf, we must work out new concepts, and try to set afoot a new man.7

These celebrated words reveal something of the political and philosophical context in which we should evaluate the contributions made by Cold War era Caribbean popular culture to global freedom struggles and the pursuit of autonomy by postcolonial and other racially oppressed peoples. There is an ontological ambition in Fanon’s famous phrases but they do not encourage retreat into an inventory of subjected identities and interpersonal antagonisms conceived microscopically. They refuse complicity with the shrinkage of social and political life to the dimensions of individual defeat and the imploded imperatives of revolutionary self-care. Instead, the emphasis falls on other, urgent tasks. We change ourselves by working together to change, care for, the world. First, there is an unorthodox history to be written. It departs from the particular significance of supposedly Christian people holding other humans captive and includes acknowledgements of the continuing effects of racism and capitalism from which any reasonable person would flee. This counterhistory begins with a detailed reckoning with Europe’s past crimes and a specific investigation of the impact of the race-thinking that enabled them.8 They must not be repeated or recycled as new states and nations create themselves from the processes of anticolonial conflict. In the reggae idiom, this novel history—‘the half that has never been told’—must be excavated and articulated not only on a different scale but in a new tempo. It is not a process without a subject. A different universalism awaits. It refuses to separate the desire for the true and the beautiful from the righteous pursuit of the good. Its architects are the humble, organic intellectuals who have not been led astray by Babylon’s miseducation. This righteous universalism will only become plausible 7 Frantz Fanon, The Wretched of the Earth (New York: Grove Press, 1963, trans. Constance Farrington). The more recent translation by Richard Philcox renders the same passage differently: ‘The Third World must start over a new history of man which takes account of not only the occasional prodigious theses maintained by Europe but also its crimes, the most heinous of which have been committed at the very heart of man, the pathological dismembering of his functions and the erosion of his unity … For Europe, for ourselves and for humanity, comrades, we must make a new start, develop a new way of thinking, and endeavour to create a new man’. 8 The Jewels, Slave Trade (Cash & Carry Records, 1979), https://www.youtube.com/ watch?time_continue=2&v=hJ6b7d7-QJ8.

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and compelling once extensive conceptual work has been completed. It presupposes a radical break with the horror of European racial conceit that must be demonstrated and understood. The resulting rupture should be heard and felt. Yet surprisingly, from this angle, the interests of common humanity can be made congruent both with the needs of a re-made Europe, and with those of Fanon’s comrades and co-workers in anticolonial struggle. These efforts promise to culminate in the assembly of a novel conception of humankind elaborated under the rebel banners of Iniversality. There, all tribes are welcome while racism and what Dennis Brown once called ‘prejudism’ are regarded as absurd, outmoded and inappropriate.9 These ambitions proudly carry the imprint of slave history but they are not restricted by that bloody origin. The capacious and daring project of which they were part harnessed intellectual and military efforts in pursuit of a common benefit that is waiting to be extracted from the tangles of global class conflict that had emerged as postcolonial nations took independent shape. A critique of capitalism was consistently and centrally present. Babylon was not understood as a place. It was a system. Respectful appreciation of the interlinked character of human things with other forms of life was a routine starting point, both for individual reflection and for the varieties of collective reasoning that were invested with authority. We should recognise what might be trivially be described as a green outlook. I and I livity exalted in sustainable conceptions of human life, operating with precautionary principles, avoiding any triumphalism in human contact with nature, valuing the slow over the swift and turning towards natural cycles to establish a liberatory, anti-capitalist tempo in human affairs. Ital food, physical activity, and self-respect were all valued over fast food, inertia and indifference. The last traces of the Christianity remain evident in the notions of love and responsibility that were reasoned expansively from close, collective readings of scripture. This perspective awarded absolute epistemological priority to the category of experience. ‘Who feels it, knows it’ was a familiar rallying cry. These revolutionary conceptual adjustments were immediately present in the layered public sphere created by use of the music. They were reaffirmed by sound systems in the dancehalls and then transmitted to

9 Immanuel Wallerstein, European Universalism: The Rhetoric of Power (New York: The New Press, 2006).

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the whole world via the beautiful fruits of superexploited piecework in Jamaica’s notoriously feudal recording studios. The fugitive slave, Frederick Douglass had been the first writer to weigh the power of wild, slave song and music against that of respectable, disinterested philosophical inquiry. By the last quarter of the twentieth century, philosophy’s mission had been augmented by reckoning with the effects of the Third Reich and the nuclear bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The concept of philosophy began to appear in the song lyrics and roots poetry that distinguished the popular toasts and rhymes of that period. Its unexpected appearance in that discourse provides an important, informal measure of the wide appeal of the goals that Fanon had spelled out at a high level of abstraction. They found energetic flesh and renewed material life in the creative contributions of the sufferers and their spokespeople. Repeated invocations of reflexive thought appeared both in music made inside Jamaica and in recordings released outernationally by Jamaicans and their creative associates in locations like London, Toronto and New York.10 Those pointed appeals to philosophical seriousness and the rigors of deep collective reasoning signified the growing impact of dread livity among the rising youth. The resurgent Ethiopianist imaginary was not simply a transposed Christianity. The old solidary impulses had been reworked by the conflict between Italy and Ethiopia. For many affiliates of the movement Selassie was not Christ and the official churches were just weighty pieces in the Leviathan machinery of downpression.11 The music’s reinvigorated militancy carried the unhealed wounds of Jamaica’s 1938 uprising12 and the hushed up 1963 mass killing of Rastafari by the Jamaican military at Coral Gardens.13 It was mediated by the increasing technological sophistication of the music’s authors and composers: poets, DJs and producers whose work—thanks to its increasingly outernational popularity—might have been immediately lost to the transformative postcolonial movement that had borne it. That did not 10 The example immediately in my mind is Black Uhuru’s ‘Stalk of Sensimella’. 11 The Wailers’ ‘Talking Blues’ from the album Natty Dread (1974) speaks about

blowing up a church after it has been understood that the preacher is lying. 12 Ken Post, Arise Ye Starvelings: The Jamaica Labour Rebellion and Its Aftermath (The Hague: Martinus Nihoff, 1978). 13 Horace G. Campbell, ‘Coral Gardens 1963: The Rastafari and Jamaican Independence’, Social and Economic Studies, 63: 1 (2014), 197–214.

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happen, though it is clear that the music was deeply damaged by the tribalisation and gunmanisation of conflict between the affiliates of the JLP and the PNP. Max Romeo’s ‘Socialism Is Love’ is one notable and rather understudied recording, implicated in those battles to represent the authentic voice of the poor and the perennially vulnerable. The intention of this essay is not just to insist that the music’s regular and repeated invocations of philosophical commentary and instruction should be taken seriously, but also to discern the character of the philosophical positions that were being conjured with by movement affiliates in Jamaica and beyond. Ethiopianist political language was borrowed and adapted better to denounce another Babylon and its brutal, uniformed defenders.14 We need to understand how that rhetoric and political theology became connected to the forms and styles of music and performance. This critical ambition requires a shift away from the obsession with Sound Systems that has lately deformed the serious, analytical writing done by academics about Caribbean culture. We need to enhance understanding of what philosophy might have become in those calloused hands. We require detailed, sympathetic exposition of where the respective boundaries of art and politics would have been judged to fall by the oppositional culture to which these vernacular pronouncements contributed so conspicuously. We should not be primarily concerned with the lyrical content of popular songs or improvised toasting. Though the implicit epistemology was, as I have said, heavily invested in the category of experience, this demotic philosophical imagination was not subject centred. If it admitted any ontological preoccupations, they were not only collective and social, but, as I have already suggested, emphatically historical. In other words, they were configured by matters of time and memory and they spoke to, and about, the dynamic inter-subjective processes that connect the production of rebel music to the cultural contexts in which its conspicuous performative power could be revealed to weak hearts, hypocrites, baldheads and treacherous bag-a-wires. The world created by this music, its users, listeners and makers, their rituals, habits and pleasures, shaped specific sites in which particular varieties of subjectivity, individuality and identity were formed, encountered and sometimes reproduced.

14 Dr. Alimantado, ‘Gimmie My Gun’ from the 1978 LP Best Dressed Chicken; The Wailers, ‘Burnin’ and Lootin from their second Island Records album Burnin’ (1973).

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The music’s creativity, emotional force and artistic and technical innovations have proved widely influential. I want to focus on the consistency with which it articulated and summoned the possibility of better worlds, directing precious images of an alternative order against the existing miseries, raciological terrors and routine wrongs of capitalist exploitation, racial immiseration and colonial injustice. Those interconnected gestures of dissent and opposition were repeatedly voiced in distinctive tones. They carry the imprint of slavery and were influenced by the burden of its negation. However, those are not the most important observations to make about them. The transcoding and transcendence of suffering made productive, becoming useful, but never, in spite of what Bob had said, actually seeking redemption, directs attention towards additional elusive possibilities. Energised by combative political and social movements, these musical formations helped to construct and enact a specific sense of historical and political time. They enchanted the division between before and after so that it would be both pleasing and seductive.15 They presented a critical history of the present in demotic form and summoned fragmentary images of an alternative, repaired and transformed future. In turn, that ‘not-yet’ shaped the pursuit of freedom and disalienation by cultural —often specifically musical—means in ways that could be intoxicating. Appreciation of that thrilling possibility was further enhanced by the ingestion of intoxicants. Here we confront the possibility that, under optimal conditions, singers, dancers and audiences, DJs and selectors might be able to collaborate in ways that enabled them to glimpse the jagged edges of the vexed world, to grasp the fragility of the unjust order they inhabited and to apprehend the fleeting, but fundamental possibility of its negation, if not its overthrow. ‘Babylon, your Queendom is falling’ sang Peter Tosh.16 As the walls of Jericho crumble at the sound of the trumpet blasts, new opportunities to restore and repair the world become possible. There was nothing inevitable about that change for the better. But if it was to occur, Jah Music would have played a major part in bringing it about.

15 Ernst Bloch, The Principle of Hope vol. 3 (Massachusetts: MIT Press, 1986 trans. Neville Plaice, Stephen Plaice and Paul Knight) and The Spirit of Utopia (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2000 trans. Anthony A. Nassar), pp. 34–164. 16 Peter Tosh, ‘Babylon Queendom’ (Intel Diplo HIM, 1976).

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It should be obvious that this unruly, determinedly utopian culture was incompatible with the regimented, symmetrical forms demanded by nationalistic thinking or by political action configured to the exaltation of nationality over other kinds of solidarity. Rebel culture was barely in tune with the institution of private property. The rebels’ firmly communitarian sensibilities rendered their musical art akin to an open-source code that would, in opposition to all proprietorial claims, be held in common. The music had its own life and it could be refined by anybody who dared to contribute. When the results of collaboration were occasionally transformed into property, that change could occur only under very specific economic and juridical conditions. A large part of the culture’s unique value seems to have resided in its trademark capacity to resist that ossifying outcome. The 12” 45 rpm vinyl format had arrived during the mid-1970s. The extended performances it made possible allowed the apparently spontaneous creativity of the dancehall environment to be simulated in the hybrid format of much longer, better-sounding recordings. These discomixes accommodated contributions made by several different performers. Producers began to bridge the original song with a toaster’s commentary on it or incorporate rugged, disturbing and deconstructive dub sections. These experiments were orchestrated by producers and engineers who would eventually become known for their signature sonic accomplishments and their transgressive contributions to the music’s atelic, expressionist aesthetic.17 These convergent inputs comprised larger integrated wholes, rich suites of music that gradually redefined the expectations of listeners and dancers who used them to summon or activate fleeting—joyful or dreadful—communities of interpretation, good sense and popular political education. In those transient spaces of reflection and rapture, revolutionary economic, social and cultural change could be imagined, felt and heard approaching long before it could actually be seen. Linton Kwesi Johnson had baptised these developments as “bass culture” before the 12” format arrived on the scene to extend those frequencies. Eddie Yebuah’s legendary valve amplifiers had prompted the refinement of ‘low end’ sonics and stimulated further innovations in

17 Michael Veal, Dub: Soundscapes and Shattered Songs in Jamaican Reggae (Middletown: Wesleyan University Press, 2007).

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design. By the 1970s, Mr. Eddie The Sound Man was building amps with a power rating of 1000 watts.18 As it acquired self-consciousness, this underground formation shaped a fragile (e)utopia not only from the residual traces of Ethiopianism, but also from the promise of universal human rights which were, as I have said, being recast as the possibility of I-niversality. This low-end rebellion discovered new communicative channels. Disposed against existing institutions, they specified what can be called an anti-politricks of sufferation. It was activated and spread by gestures that—even though they regularly overlapped into the repertoire of socialism or were spoken in the borrowed idiom of human rights—were not compatible with the assumptions that those styles of thought made about individuality, mutuality, work/labour and the progressive, linear motion of historical time. In the obscure interior of the music’s hidden public sphere, the traditional imperatives of self-making gave way to improvised rituals of interactive, social becoming. In Britain, reggae’s rebel generation constituted itself as a political body in the dark. It animated itself in hot, smoky rooms, deep in the underground beneath a hostile nation that rejected the possibility of our ever being allowed to belong. Our sense of collective power and historical mission was built from materials we did not choose. They were gifted to us in an enriching dialogue with Black populations and passions articulated elsewhere.

Dub Aesthetics as Populist Modernism It is some years since I first attempted to write about the assertive dub aesthetic that emerged with the bass culture’s sonic innovations. It arose from the rebel generation’s defensive exercises and sweetly improvised excursions into collective self-discovery. My interpretation of dub’s mostly wordless output (at least in its dominant phase), emphasised the music’s deconstructive aspects and hermetic qualities as well as its refusal of the disabling logic in which an auratic original work preceded all subsequent copies. Making an aesthetic virtue out of issuing multiple recordings of the same rhythm shunted that mechanical paradigm into redundancy.

18 Val Wilmer, ‘Vibrate On’, Mojo 153 (August 2006).

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Frontline record shops and Sound Systems were turned into acquisitive libraries staffed by experts who understood the value of a version excursion to passionately connected crowds and performers. I had wanted these novel, unanticipated features of the music to be considered in relation to earlier twentieth-century debates about the character of the art that appeared in the shadow of catastrophe and trauma. This rebel music was similarly being made by producers seeking innovative vehicles for their veiled political commitments which could not betray the depth and seriousness of the problems that had to be overcome. They projected those testing ambitions in unstable, exhilarating, expressionist forms that warrant the importation of a provocative concept: ‘populist modernism’ into the analysis of reggae. This crucial term was coined by the critic Werner Sollors and insightfully applied to Amiri Baraka’s work in several creative fields. Wrenched from that historical setting, the concept deserves a much broader applicability in the analysis of black vernacular culture and ephemera. The contradiction it names had been acutely manifested in Baraka’s sense of how poetry, music and drama might speak to each other in new ways. It is especially useful in this setting because its defining spirit was exemplified in his later—largely forgotten—leftist experiment with political dance music. That 1976 musical intervention articulated a challenge to former comrades still content with cultural nationalism. Distinguished Funk and Soul musicians were drafted into transform his atelic modernist appetite for work pitched at the limits of intelligibility and render his revolutionary artistic aspirations more accessible. They would become affectively compelling within a different, global conception of class antagonism. The source of his motivation is described in this passage: […] there was the fact of performing for the people … you think your work is good, read it to some of these brothers on the street, you know the ones who be digging holes in the ground and they have a half hour break and they be sitting there eating them sandwiches on break. Read your stuff to them and see if it interests them. They are not blocks, nor stones, nor worthless, senseless things. They are human beings. See if your work can reach them. Dare that. That’s your people. In that situation of being out in the street having to deal with people on the real side, then you have to come up with the real thing. You have to make your feelings translatable, reachable. You have to move people and not with no ‘do it baby, do it baby, do it baby’. Not like that. But with the kind of depth and profundity you’re really talking about … And it doesn’t have anything to

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do with the lyrics, it’s (begins pounding monotonously on the table), if I do that your heart’s going to pick it up. Your heart picks up the beat, you can’t help it, and I could be saying: you’re stupid, you’re stupid!, you’re stupid! You need to kill yourself! And you would do it, you will start to say, I’m stupid, I’m stupid, I’m stupid! I need to kill myself. (Laughter.) They do it everyday on television, don’t they. Everyday. And you’ll be walking down the street, if you don’t catch yourself, die, die, die, I’m stupid, I’m stupid, I’m stupid. They know it don’t take nothing but that (beating). Your heart assumes the beat.19

I have turned to Baraka’s influential writing and thinking about music here not just because he was a great inspiration to me, but because his mapping of the birth of music out of the spirit of tragedy (as Kimberly Benston put it in 1976) created a whole generation of poetic critics of black music that extended far beyond the immediate context of late twentieth-century African American politics. The publication of Black Music and Blues People initiated the process whereby analysis of black music began to depart from the rather Germanic interpretative scripts that had been put in place earlier in the twentieth century by the Wagnerian cultural tastes of sages like W. E. B. Du Bois and Alain Locke. The younger disciples of Leroi Jones started to approach music not as an index of progress on the upward trajectory of folk culture becoming classical or civilised, but as a key to a distinctive aesthetic outlook and the hidden public sphere it held together. There were precedents for this view in the anthropological writing of Zora Neal Hurston and elsewhere, but the novelty and force of Baraka’s intervention cannot be overstated. Speaking about music and the impact of his path-breaking contributions to the analysis of African American musical culture requires an element of autobiography not just because behind the black atlantic lies ‘The Slave Ship’ (1967) but specifically because in Blues People which was the first book by an African American about Blues, and to a lesser extent in Black Music, readers of the rebel generation could discover something like a combative black paradigm for cultural studies. Those books afforded 19 On 17 February 1998, Amiri Baraka offered words of advice to the aspiring writers of NOMMO Literary Society of New Orleans. The result was edited and published by Kalumu ya Salaam as ‘A Conversation with Amiri Baraka’. It was posted here for several years: http://www.english.illinois.edu/maps/poets/a_f/baraka/salaam.htm but has now been removed from the internet.

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a mode of speculative, multi-disciplinary, conjunctural analysis focused by the interplay of text and context, culture and sociality, yet rooted in the emergencies and imperatives of ordinary life. Baraka’s work offered a seemingly simple anthropology that uninhibitedly specified culture as ‘simply how one lives and is connected to history by habit’. This approach was oriented politically by the pursuit of ‘unity without uniformity’. It could be readily traced back into the convivial everyday interactions characteristic of good sense: mother wit, and signifyin’.20 Music was always central but this was not a question of descending into its depths to discover, with the help of intoxication, a submerged or hidden world that illuminated the contradiction of the world on the surface above it. It was an opportunity for hearing the world as it had already been summoned and of submitting it to the sensuous intuition of its vulgar architects. They asserted their thwarted humanity by daring to transform that world by the power of their musical imaginations. Baraka’s example is also important because it raises the supremely difficult problem of how a subject, an agent, movement or culture can— indeed must—differ from itself. He articulated not the logic of identity conceived mathematically or serially, but of mutability and plasticity unfolding within historically specified conditions. This was linked to an existential commitment to improvisation and a view of the committed, if virtuously untrained, ‘intellectual’ as an dynamic interpreter and translator. In Baraka’s commentaries, that outcome was an unsought philosophical fruit of the life in the barracoons, on the plantation and inside the continuing segregated nomos of Jim Crow. It was another product of noisy, annular public spaces of secret night-time assembly. Perhaps the idea of a tradition, so important in his early work, is insufficient to bear all the weight that is being placed upon it by these formulations. Perhaps it resolves the daring and promise of Baraka’s insights too quickly into varieties of self-consciousness and self-possession closest to the Marxist perspectives that he was seeking to adapt? Those exhilarating possibilities acquired flesh in his powerful trope of ‘the changing same’ which has

20 Alan Dundes (ed.), Mother Wit from the Laughing Barrel: Readings in the Interpretation of Afro-American Folklore (New Jersey: Prentice-Hall, 1972); Henry Louis Gates jnr., The Signifying Monkey: A Theory of Afro-American Literary Criticism (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1988).

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such a strong resonance in the analysis of reggae because it illuminates the music’s endless practice of versioning. To see how Baraka’s analysis of Jazz, Soul and RnB might inform a critical approach to the study of Caribbean rather than US music, we can turn to his much anthologized 1966 essay in which the Soul and RnB of artists like James Brown and Sam & Dave were, against the critical conventions and the structure of the market in these novel racial commodities, revealed to bear a profound kinship with older vocal and instrumental traditions as well as newer experimental adventures being conducted under the emergent, heretical and offensive new heading of ‘Black Music’. Baraka’s presentation of James Brown as ‘Our number one black poet’ was an especially important catalyst for later writing by Brathwaite and others. It seems to have typified the feelings of the Black Arts movement’s poets—people like David Henderson, who is important here because of his own poetry and his influential, meta-cultural reflections on the revolutionary music of Jimi Hendrix that was anatomised in his luminous biographical study of the guitarist: Scuse Me While I Kiss The Sky. Forty and more years ago, the idea that James Brown could be the worthy object of this kind of detailed critical scrutiny struck me as extraordinary. Baraka’s deadly seriousness and respect for disreputable, funky, cultural forms that were still largely represented as devoid of value, was a liberation in itself. His judgement of Brown’s importance was later confirmed and reflexively historicized by Larry Neal who has offered a very Fanon-centred account of how their thinking about the populist aspects of music and poetry had developed: We began to listen to the music of the Rhythm and Blues people, soul music. That was the other musical tendency that influenced the language. The big hero for the poets was James Brown. We all thought that James Brown was a magnificent poet, and we all envied him and wished we could do what he did. If the poets could do that we would just take over America. Suppose James Brown had consciousness? We used to have big arguments like that. It was like saying, ‘Suppose James Brown read Fanon’.21

Returning to that moment some years later, Baraka would put it like this: 21 Larry Neal, ‘The Social Background of the Black Arts Movement’, The Black Scholar, 18: 1 (1987), 19.

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You ever seen somebody wild with Jesus? That’s what I was saying about James Brown a long time ago. Poets were thinking they were getting out there, but they had better check out James Brown. His voice was further out than Ornette and them because James’s voice had more himmy, dimmy, shimmy scrappers in it. To me it was just a release of the whole consciousness.22

The changing same essay opened up a new portal through which I could begin to imagine my own contribution even if I could not then appreciate either the full richness and complexity of Baraka’s wilful speculations or his pointed simplification that aligned the black vernacular with the blues continuum on one side and on the other, diverted it away from the classaccented output of upwardly-mobile ‘penthouse’ jazz on the trajectory towards greater respectability under the corporate direction of producers like Creed Taylor. There was a means to connect the new music of the ‘avant garde’ to the anti-war RnB of Curtis Mayfield and the jazz-literate, cosmopolitan jams of street-funk bands like War, Mandrill and The Blackbyrds which had made such a big impact in the Caribbean. Drifting southward on the waves of US radio, that funk linked to the creole heritage of Congo square and the New Orleans second-line pulse audible in Zigaboo Modeliste’s revelatory work in the Meters’ drum chair. It would soon be wired into the electric music of Miles and Herbie Hancock which had already asserted its own connections to the world of pop via the game-changing innovations of Sly and Jimi. At exactly the time of Baraka’s unsuccessful populist experiments with Marxism-Leninism-Mao-Tse-Tung thought failed to excite the discos of the tri-state area, Jamaican musicians produced work that was formally radical and forbidding in its desire for both innovation and escape from creative precedents. Like Baraka’s agit-prop music, it was not inclined to be hierarchical, elitist or out of step with the appetites of the ordinary mass of common people.23 Looking back, my attempts to come to terms with this transformative musical moment should have made greater space for conversation on the

22 Kalamu ya Salaam, ‘Amiri Baraka Analyzes How He Writes’, African American Review, 37: 2/3 (2003), 231. 23 Paul Gilroy, ‘Steppin’ Out of Babylon’, in CCCS (ed.), The Empire Strikes Back (London: Routledge, 1982).

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one hand, about the effects of intoxication and, on the other, the fundamental significance of technological development—especially the arrival of drum machines, Casio keyboards, ATARI computers and sequencers. Though the rhetorical rules of resurgent Ethiopianism explicitly repudiated merely political intentions, less was said about the possibility that music could acquire political effects. Some additional clues as to the direction of this approach can be gleaned by returning to well-known material. The Wailers’ song ‘Trenchtown Rock’ featured a combative, Rude Boy invocation of music’s healing qualities in its famous, ironic chorus: ‘hit me with music, brutalise me with music’. That notorious song suggests that the solidary power and therapeutic significance of music are to be contrasted with the residual effects of slavery that extend down the years into the present and retain sufficient force to disrupt and distort the social relations of both the postcolonial Caribbean and of Britain’s second Babylon. Marley explains that ‘one good thing about music is that when it hits you feel no pain’ then the still wailing Wailers push that sardonic observation further. ‘Hit me with music’ they demand, ‘brutalise me with music’. The song remains notable as a means to consider the numbing property discovered in music by an assertively dissident rebel culture. It speaks to and about suffering and is also as an inducement for critics to investigate where the memory of slavery had been preserved and how it could be revived and employed both as a creative stimulus and an hermeneutic resource. It shows how the half that has never been told could become useful as a metaphysical and an interpretative device. Characteristically, slavery is not explicitly mentioned, but the quality of violence that is being remembered and affirmed in the song derives its force from that unspeakable source. Like several other recordings from the same extraordinary creative period (Prince Lincoln Thompson’s haunting ‘Kingston Eleven’, Steel Pulse’s ‘Handsworth Revolution’ and Tribesman’s ‘Finsbury Park’), it specifies the spatial and cultural boundaries of a ghetto community through a specific announcement of the location inhabited by the music’s creators. Those situating gestures were simultaneously delivered into the communicative circuits of a more extensive, trans-local constituency. Detailed announcements of the various locations from which these recordings arose, specified a common predicament and as I have argued elsewhere, endorsed a distinctive moral economy. Music flowing from those nodes was endowed with a higher value than any price that could be placed upon it by exploitative commerce. It combined a militant critique of racial

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capitalism with indictments of Babylon’s debased, colour-coded justice, and its fatal invitation to find, in work and labour, the most important means of freedom and self-creation. Contemporary waged work was often presented as a surviving trace of slavery. Those wrongs could be undone, and identifying them in song and sound was a fundamental step in the long process of their inevitable destruction. The capacity to name the music’s places of origin on a larger public network was also a normal feature of Sound System culture which stubbornly maintained its trans-local geography. As the music travelled, innovative drum patterns associated with Jamaican areas such as Tivoli Gardens or Dungle were learned and their origins noted. Spatial fixity and the politics of attachment—roots and culture—were preconditions for an extravagant desire to play with time. It shaped a grounding aesthetic practice that was articulated with an impulse to refine the sonic and musical tools that could accomplish time’s subordination and, from that overcoming, to begin to build styles in which pleasure could be generated from the artful command of time’s mutability. Those events are infrequent, but not rare, features of real-time musical performance. They are familiar to any concertgoer or Sound System maven. In a small way, the rewinding or restarting of a tune as the DJ and Selector haul it back or pull it up to the delight of listeners and dancers, should be judged here as an instance of the desire to restart not just a record but an historical moment. We begin again and take pleasure from our unruly capacity to restart our common experience of beginning.24 James Baldwin touched upon this very possibility with an unsettling clarity in one of his pointed meditations on the history of black music and the failure of critics adequately to come to terms with it: Music is our witness, and our ally. The ‘beat’ is the confession which recognizes, changes, and conquers time. Then, history becomes a garment we can wear, and share, and not a cloak in which to hide; and time becomes a friend.

Baldwin’s provocative observation solicits further inquiry into the conditions that could make music into a witness and an ally as well as those that may have helped time itself to ‘become a friend’. In his formulation, 24 Edward Said, Beginnings: Intention and Method (New York: Columbia University Press, 1985).

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musical time, which he refers to as the beat, has acquired a constitutive power to subdue historical time. He seeks an amicable relationship with the passage of historical time, but that shift must be preceded by history’s subordination to the beat. This obeahistic transformation takes place in the penumbra of music, in the circle of the dance. Organised sound intervenes and transforms the way that duration and historicity are apprehended by the senses. This vernacular magic entrances us and raises the possibility that history, in its turn, can acquire some of the properties of an object. It is open to manipulation. For Baldwin, it is less a tool than a chosen sign or perhaps a useful prop in the larger drama of dissent and oppositional freedom-seeking that can not only destroy raciality but also fulfil the deviant desire to re-make humanity entirely. Black musics have been more than either allies or weapons. They have provided a precious means of healing and recovery. They have valuably promoted the distant possibility of ‘empathic repair’,25 and offered a number of important therapeutic and aesthetic instruments. They have supplied expertise and welcome lubrication for the evolving machinations of the autonomous self. Organised musical sound is therefore welcomed for the way that it conjures with the material, cymatic prefiguration of the alternative worlds that are summoned in collaborative performance. These epiphanies can be anticipated and rehearsed. Occasionally, they can even be shared. It bears repetition that vibrations from those utopias were registered bodily, by the nervous system and the sense of touch, as much or more than that of hearing. Before they could be seen, they could be felt and even heard approaching in the distance. James Weldon Johnson, the African American polymath was among the first to identify those sonic possibilities and invest them with a distinctive aesthetic value. He referred his readers to the ‘… elusive undertone, the note in music which is not heard with the ears’.26 Like Ralph Ellison, later in the twentieth century, Johnson pointed to the complex phenomenology of musical experience that he understood to be somatic in character. After forty years, I have 25 This is Pumla Gobodo Madikizela’s phrase. See her ‘Empathic Repair After Mass Trauma: When Vengeance is Arrested’, European Journal of Social Theory, 11: 3 (2008), 331–50. 26 James Weldon Johnson, Autobiography of an Ex-colored Man (New York: Vintage Books, 1989 [1912, 1927]) and also his Preface to The Book of American Negro Spirituals (New York: Viking Press, 1925), pp. 11–50.

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returned to these problems of vernacular critique, political belonging and trans-local presence, of solidarity and shared suffering, because I think that approaching the history of black music on the supra-national scale of diaspora displacement can still contribute a distinctive understanding of the great transformation that has taken music away from the traditional black atlantic culture of dissent, and reduced it to the status of disposable entertainment. More than that, by focusing on music, the modern historical processes that created and opposed the racial ordering of the world can be seen from below. Considered from that angle, this counterhistory challenges the primacy of the crude economic logic that has been employed increasingly to marginalise or obscure the complexity of culture as well as to justify the marginalisation of the political factors which the vexed history of black music forces into the frame.

CHAPTER 3

Reggae Culture as Local Knowledge: Mapping the Beats on South East London Streets William ‘Lez’ Henry and Les Back

Where can reggae knowledge be found? Where is the extraordinary contribution made to British culture by dub lyricism and bass culture to be found? After half a century of reggae music it remains true that its story is not adequately documented in books or on the university curriculum. With some honourable exceptions, the story of reggae in Britain remains

Photos Courtesy Olivia Thompson W. ‘L’. Henry University of West London, London, UK e-mail: [email protected] L. Back (B) University of London, London, UK e-mail: [email protected]

© The Author(s) 2021 W. ‘L’. Henry and M. Worley (eds.), Narratives from Beyond the UK Reggae Bassline, Palgrave Studies in the History of Subcultures and Popular Music, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-55161-2_3

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hidden or, at best, only partially appreciated.1 Yet the form can be used to explain the significance of the stories told by a group of citizens that have been, in many cases, othered in the land of their birth. This means considering city spaces and alternative public arenas, within which stories that ran directly in counter to the dominant, mainstream, white representations of black life in Britain, could be heard. Consequently, the voices of the British born/based performers that ensured the perpetuation of this socially, culturally and politically driven genre right up to the present moment will be given the prominence they deserve here. Our argument is that in order to tell and show the story of ‘bass culture’,2 we need to find new ways to bridge the gap between the social worlds in which the music is made, its collective memory sustained, and the spheres of official academic knowledge. We focus on an experiment with showing, telling, recording and mapping local histories of reggae culture in South East London, to access these very public ongoing intergenerational discussions about what it means to be black, African, Caribbean, etc. in the UK. It is crucial we do so here because such discussions represent the types of historical and contemporary cultural concerns that question the role of aesthetics in the process of any racialised form of identification. This also forms part of the internal registers by which an ‘Africentric’3 ‘consciousness’ is understood through discussions about the reality of the racist exclusionary practices that need consideration in any meaningful account of black subjectivities as represented in the reggae performance. The basic premise of this approach is that we need to look and listen for reggae knowledge in the places where it circulates; in street corner conversations and in public places like barber shops, Caribbean food takeaway 1 See Linton Kwesi Johnson, ‘Jamaican Rebel Music’, Race & Class, 17: 4 (1976), 397–412; Paul Gilroy, There Ain’t No Black in the Union Jack: The Cultural Politics of Race and Nation (London: Hutchinson, 1987); Les Back, ‘“Coughing Up Fire”: Sound Systems in South-East London’, New Formations, 5 (1988), 141–52; Anna Arnone, Sound Reasoning (Brighton: Arandora Press, 2017); Lloyd Bradley, Bass Culture: When Reggae Was King (London: Penguin Books, 2000). 2 The term ‘Bass Culture’ (1980) was first used as the title of an album by the dub poet Linton Kwesi Johnson, released on Island Recordsl. 3 Paul Gilroy, The Black Atlantic: Modernity and Double Consciousness (London: Verso, 1993); William ‘Lez’ Henry, What the Deejay Said: A Critique from the Street (London: Nu-Beyond, 2006) for an explanation of the usage of this term as opposed to ‘Afrocentric’.

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restaurants, personal record collections and reggae record shops; where its traces are embedded in local city worlds. In order to access this local knowledge, we argue you need to get out, walk, encounter and participate in the unfolding life of the city and the mute traces of the past in an endeavour to make them speak. Therefore, we focus on an experiment with recording and telling the culture and history of reggae through walking and mapping local streets in South East London. We begin our journey in New Cross where Goldsmiths, University of London is based within the Lewisham borough, where both of us have studied and lived for much of our lives. It is a part of London that played a very significant role in the development of reggae in Britain and is home to important sound systems like Jah Shaka and Saxon Studio who played reggae extensively in the network of youth clubs, house parties and churches that offered alternative public spheres for black Londoners. Lewisham borough is also the home of the historic ‘Eve Recording Studio’ where lover’s rock as a genre was created and, in the first instance, female performers from London and beyond sung an ‘ethic of loving blackness’ into being in politically harsh and hateful times.4 Thus, according to Lisa Palmer: I am suggesting that Caribbean communities in Britain have used the erotic and political intersection of lovers’ roc5 and conscious roots reggae to reconfigure the stereotypical, loveless and nihilistic representations of their identities found within popular British media discourses on ‘race’ and ‘immigration’.6

The above, makes known the complexity involved in the rendering of the form in a palatable way because lovers’ rock unapologetically

4 Lisa Amanda Palmer, ‘“LADIES A YOUR TIME NOW!”: Erotic Politics, Lovers’ Rock and Resistance in the UK’, African and Black Diaspora: An International Journal, 4: 2 (2011), 177–92. 5 Unless otherwise stated, taking a lead from Lisa Palmer, ‘lovers’ rock’ will be used to speak to ‘an integral component of the reggae music landscape of that period’. See Lisa Amanda Palmer, ‘“Men Cry Too”: Black Masculinities and the Feminisation of Lovers Rock in the UK’, for a detailed analysis of the genre and its historical, social, cultural and political worth to contemporary studies of the black presence in post Windrush British scholarship. 6 Lisa Amanda Palmer, ‘The Politics of Loving Blackness in the UK’ (PhD thesis, University of Birmingham, 2010), p. 266.

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promoted a powerful black aesthetic that not only challenged but, as suggested by Palmer, ‘reconfigured’ what it meant to belong to postWindrush7 Britain. Black people were/are not supposed to embrace their blackness, much less be proud of it, which is why lovers’ rock offered a profound challenge to the dominant white aesthetic encapsulated in the song ‘Black Pride’ (which we will return to below) written by John Kpiaye and sung by the group Brown Sugar. These songs were representative of ‘music as politics’, demonstrating how during the 1970s and 1980s there was a unique development in the cultural landscape that would promote loving blackness, espousing black pride in novel and interesting ways.

A Reggae Map of New Cross For more than a decade we have been taking groups of people for walking tours through this postcolonial landscape and telling reggae’s story in the places where it was made. In 2018 we attempted to collate what we have learned through creating an on-line open access map called the Reggae Map of New Cross (Fig. 3.1).8 This was part of a larger project called ‘Bass Culture’,9 an oral history of reggae in Britain directed by Mykaell Riley and funded by the AHRC to make public various hidden dimensions of reggae seminal role in British popular music. As Riley put it: It’s a very important part of the history of pop and I make that reference because often we tend to separate things. Pop simply stands for popular music. Lovers’ rock is an important step on the way to where we are with regard to British popular music. It’s a part of the subconscious memory of

7 June 22, 1948, the passengers aboard the ship HMT Empire Windrush who had made the 8000-mile journey from Jamaica, Trinidad and other ports of call, disembarked at Tilbury Docks in Essex. This is where the name of the current political scandal involving ‘The Windrush Generation’ is derived from, which is an aspect of the UK Government’s ‘Hostile Environment’. For an insightful account on the experiences of Caribbean migrants in Britain see Jack Webb, Roderick Westmaas, Maria del Pilar Kaladeen, and William Tantam (eds), Memory, Migration and (De)colonisation in the Caribbean and Beyond (London: University of London Press, 2020). Downloadable Pdf: https://humanities-dig ital-library.org/index.php/hdl/catalog/book/memory-and-migration. 8 To access the map online type into a search engine: ‘Reggae Map New Cross, Les Back and Lez Henry’. 9 See: https://www.westminster.ac.uk/current-students/events/bass-culture-70-50.

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Fig. 3.1 Reggae Map of New Cross

those who have grown up in the UK […] So lovers’ rock that kind of came about late 1970s was a natural evolution of first-generation Caribbean’s to take ownership.10

The point is that reggae music has since its inception sustained black communities through direct communal action experienced within and through the songs and stories that were presented across the airwaves through various mediums. Therefore, while the odd reggae tune will occasionally gate-crash the mainstream pop market, the underlying messages of the form per se purposefully counter and transcend a dominant white culture in myriad ways; thereby giving a potent voice to the voiceless that is premised upon loving blackness. In what follows we want to take you on a walk through this cultural landscape, using words and images to explain how this project is an example of how reggae knowledge might be made and communicated in the present. Walking is not just a technique for uncovering the mysteries of city life. Rather, it is also a form of pedagogy or a way to learn

10 Mykael Riley featured in The Story of Lovers’ Rock (dir. Menelik Shabazz, 2011).

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both individually and collectively,11 because it involves thinking on the move as we encounter the damage to the city; its exclusions and paradoxes; its gendered, racialised and classed rights of way and the invisible, yet tangible, barriers that denote the rights to freely wander. So, reggae walking is more than a matter of applying the lens of a library to magnify and interpret city life. To walk is to be surprised; to be challenged by the world unfolding with the limits of what we know; to confront the tricks that memory can play (Fig. 3.2). A favourite moment in drawing the map was our search to find Childers Street Youth Club in Deptford, which was a popular sound system venue in the 1980s. It is where Ghettotone sound system played Saxon regularly and it is mentioned in Lez Henry’s important history What the Deejay Said.12 It was here in the summer of 1982, during one of these sessions, that Lez was given, in a spontaneous naming ceremony, his deejay name and dubbed Lezlee Lyrix by three of his friends: Loosh, Basher and Jackson. This happened while he was ‘chatting’ one of his lyrics when they got the selector to ‘pull up’ the track and then loudly proclaimed ‘dem bwoy deh can’t test! You have di most lyrics. Ah Lezlee Lyrix yuh name!’ We returned one summer afternoon in 2018 to try and find the site. After both being led by our failing memories to the wrong place on a couple of occasions, a local elder helped us out. She pointed out the place where the club had been located. She said: ‘The young boys used to play music in there on a Saturday night’. Lez replied ‘Yes, I was one of those young boys’. We all three laughed and then she replied, ‘well you are not a young boy no more’. The prefabricated building that the youth club was housed in has been knocked down and replaced with a new development, but we managed to find the right place on the map for its historic location. This fable is a reminder of how easily memory fails, how quickly even familiar streets play uncanny tricks on us and how it is important to try and ensure that the detail—in this case—of how reggae music created an alternative public world in politically harsh and racist times is not lost.

11 Maggie O’Neill and John Perivolaris, ‘A Sense of Belonging: Walking with Thaer through Migration, Memories and Space’, Crossings: Journal of Migration & Culture, 5: 2–3 (2014), 327–38. 12 Henry, What the Deejay Said, passim.

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Fig. 3.2 Lez Henry and Les Back

For Michel de Certeau the experience of city life at ground level is mysterious, both immediate and often illegible.13 In order to see beyond the familiarity of the streets we need to transform them into an understood landscape, or what de Certeau calls this ‘space’, i.e. where knowledge of a specific place is assembled, historicised and situated. ‘Every story is a travel story’, de Certeau writes, highlighting this process of making space

13 Michel de Certeau, The Practice of Everyday Life (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1988), p. 93.

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through telling stories.14 Through walking and mapping historic sites we aimed to render reggae spaces as forms of local knowledge. On the surface this is very different from the walking-tour guides that have proliferated in London’s tourist economy and yet, as Adam Reed points out in his brilliant study of self-employed tour guides in the capital, both require ‘personification’.15 Urban knowledge is personified and made the individual property of the guide, and this, Reed warns, risks closing down understandings of the city. As we continue this journey on the page with you, we want to warn against personification. We are not making an exclusive claim to know the meaning and history of reggae; nor that Lewisham borough was the only important site in its genesis as a form in the UK, although we do not deny our own lives are woven intimately into this story from very different positions. As a deejay Lez Henry understood the culture of reggae sound systems from the inside and ‘on the mic’, thereby appreciating the vital therapeutic power of the music as a means to live and survive the experience of coming of age in a time where racism in London was at its most vicious and violent. For Les Back, his entry into the world of reggae culture was as a white friend who was invited into the alternative public world hosted by black young people. Whites who gained access to the dances where sound systems played had to ‘prove’ themselves within a face-toface negotiated form of everyday ethics. It meant acting with respect and affiliations and humility. As Gail Lewis has commented, London in the 1970s and 1980s was really a chequerboard of racialized spaces.16 The great hypocrisy of this racialised coding of space meant that as a white Londoner Les Back could gain access to black hosted spaces, while black Londoners like Lez Henry would be excluded from racist white spaces. To introduce these nuances within the cityscape, our walks/talks take many different routes through the reggae map of New Cross, but we always start at the same place outside the gates of Goldsmiths College, University of London (Fig. 3.3).

14 Ibid., p. 115. 15 Adam Reed, ‘City of Details: Interpreting the Personality of London’, Journal of the

Royal Anthropological Institute, 8 (2002), 127–41. 16 Gail Lewis, ‘From Deepest Kilburn’, in Liz Heron (ed.), Truth, Dare, Promise: Girls Growing Up in the Fifties (London: Virago, 1985), pp. 213–36.

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Fig. 3.3 Outside Goldsmiths

First Steps … 51 Storm Inna Lewisham Goldsmiths was founded 1891 as Goldsmiths’ Technical and Recreative Institute by the Worshipful Company of Goldsmiths in New Cross, London. It was intended from its inception to provide practical education for this poor district of London that was both an industrial centre and part of its dockland economy. Acquired by the University of London in 1904, it retained a commitment to community education offering evening classes that were available to the local people. By the 1970s and 1980s it was a thriving centre for the Caribbean community that had settled in this part of London, largely through the availability of affordable property and private renting. In the 1970s legendary Jamaican artist/producer Joe Gibbs had a record shop opposite the college at 29 Lewisham Way. While the mission of Goldsmiths was to be connected to its locality, it remained through the 1980s a ‘white Island’ in an increasingly postcolonial sea, especially with regard to the undergraduate and postgraduate programmes taught during the day. While there were some exceptions, like the poet Linton Kwesi Johnson, who started his sociology degree in 1973, the intellectual and political life of black London was sustained and defined off campus. In many ways, the staff teaching sociology and anthropology classes during the day were oblivious to the vitality of the

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black expressive cultures that were being created, sometimes literally, next door. It is always different when we do the reggae walk together. There is never a single coherent definition of place and no definitive version of its history, unlike the story told by the Caribbean elder who put us on the right track on Childers Street. We are not suggesting that reggae walking is simply a matter of ‘being there’ or getting close to places where this history unfolded. Rather, we want to suggest that part of the value of this form of reggae knowledge is not just of proximity but the value of returning and staying with the unfolding story of the culture and the people who have made it. This house, at 51 Lewisham Way, was the place of regular dances in the 1980s and many local sound systems played there as deejays innovated their own unique style of cultural and political expression on the mic. It was just a few doors away from where the sociology department was located during the 1980s–1990s and, on the opposite side of the street, is where the offices of the anthropology department are to this day. It is a simple fact that students and staff studying culture during the day were, perhaps, completely unaware of the fact that the bass culture of reggae music shook the foundations of the buildings by night (Fig. 3.4). Me never start MC till the end ah 81, the first Sound me chat pon was Saxon, in ah 51 Storm down inna Lewisham, is I daddy Rankin an ah next bredder-man, ah Mello an Levi at the microphone stand, Rankin ask D Rowe fi mek me ride the version, pon ‘Shank I Shek’ me put the mic in ah me hand, me start chat lyrics in ah different fashion, me look pon Levi face ah bare confusion, is like him couldn’t understand what’s going on, seh when me mash it up ah bear congratulation, an Levi ask me one question, Lezlee which Yard-tape you get them lyrics from, me seh move pirate that’s origination, happy an you love it say murdee.17

It was on 31 December 1981 to 1 January 1982 that Lez first performed on Saxon, a reggae sound system owned by ‘Musclehead’ 17 Lezlee Lyrix, Ghettotone Sound System 1983, cited in Henry (2006, p. 15).

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Fig. 3.4 51 Lewisham Way

and ‘D Rowe’ at the time. Yet, it is the naming of the venue that is of interest here because the ‘51 Storm’ alluded to in the lyric above was in fact number 51 Lewisham Way. Interestingly enough, understanding the history behind the naming of the venue is a good example of why we chose to ‘map the beats of the south London streets’ in this way. The name ‘51 Storm’ was coined from ‘Hurricane Charlie’ which devastated parts of the Caribbean, including the Island of Jamaica, in August in 1951. Some 152 people were killed and millions of pounds worth of damage was caused. Consequently, the very naming of this site linked

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those in London across time and space with this aspect of Caribbean history and Jamaica, demonstrating how reggae music acts as a conduit for cultural continuity. During our walk we point out, as mentioned above, that the staff and faculty at Goldsmiths College were perhaps unaware of what transpired on a Saturday night in this alternative public arena, where the seminary was more organic in its orientation to a collective learning process. A form of learning premised upon countering much that was taught in formal institutions like Goldsmiths College, where black people learn little or nothing positive about themselves. Moreover, this standpoint partially explains why students occupied the old Deptford Town Hall, which is now a teaching space at Goldsmiths, from March to July 2019 (137 days in total) (Fig. 3.5). The occupation was in protest at the historical and ongoing racist treatment of the 40–45 percent BAME student population. Ironically, then, the occupation of this building makes known that there is a physical and an intellectual closeness between these valuable sites of learning that, when commandeered (which is what took place on Saturday nights), can

Fig. 3.5 On the reggae walk

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speak to different truths using their own frames of reference. Therefore, as Shauneen Pete suggests, there is ‘two-eyed seeing when you can observe the colonial constructions around you and you can see the decolonial possibilities offered by indigenous ways of knowing’.18 This, in turn, may be captured using the ‘A-Side and B-Side metaphor’ based on the 45-inch single.19 It is fair to say that without the 45-inch singles produced in Jamaica and played on sound systems, which then criss-crossed the ‘Black Atlantic’ spreading the reggae message in the form of singing vocals on the A-Side and toasters/deejays on the B-Side, there would be no content for this book. This is not an exaggeration, as every form of musical expression discussed in this collection can be rooted back to this primary source; Jamaican reggae and sound system culture. The A-Side was the recorded tale that would be played across the airways or in dancehalls and, as such, represented the thoughts and feelings of the performer, captured on plastic and immutable in the sense that once recorded and produced they could not be altered. This, in many ways, represents the stories that were told about the black presence in the UK from an outsider perspective and far too often misrepresented the lived reality. But the B-Side, other than when it contained a deejay version, was the blank canvas upon which any performer could paint their own picture beyond the confines and constraints of the recording studio. This meant that performers could speak ‘live and direct’ to audiences of their peers, enabling them to use the amplified public platforms that are reggae sound systems to, among other things, chant down Babylon without apology. To make this point clearer we will continue our journey and take in some of the other sites that are featured in the reggae walk.

Stand Firm! Jah Shaka the Cultural Warrior Walking back along Lewisham Way towards New Cross we often take the group to 324 New Cross Road, where Jah Shaka had his Culture Shop in the 1980s selling records and dread paraphernalia (it is now Locks Unique). Record and culture shops like this offered places of learning 18 Shauneen Pete, ‘Meschachakanis, A Coyote Narrative: Decolonising Higher Education’, in Gurminder K. Bhambra, Dalia Gebrial, and Kerem Ni¸sancio˘glu (eds), Decolonising the University (London: Pluto Press, 2018), p. 177. 19 See Henry, What the Deejay Said for an in depth explanation of this.

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and historical memory. Jah Shaka (Neville Powell) was also known as ‘Nocky’ within the sound system world. He took on the name Shaka for his sound after the warrior Shaka Zulu. Born in Clarendon, Jamaica, he travelled to London with his family in 1956 where he went to Samuel Pepys Secondary School in Brockley. Samuel Pepys was also the school that Lez attended and is where he knows Shaka from. Since the mid1970s, the name Jah Shaka has become synonymous with Rastafarian roots music, dub wise and Marcus Garvey’s black consciousness. He cut his teeth with a South East London sound system called Freddie Cloudburst’ but, by the late-1970s, Shaka’s sound system was a vital part of black London life (Fig 3.6).20 As a young white teenager, Les would often go to Shaka’s shop to buy records from him. While Shaka himself did not pay him much attention, the environment of the shop was furnished with its owner’s dread philosophy and an alternative curriculum was on offer to students like Les who was open and receptive to it. Lez Henry had been part of Jah Shaka’s sound system in the early days and recalls: I know this world well and in the early days our local ‘Big Sound’ from Lewisham was Jah Shaka; a sound system I was affiliated with from its creation in the early 1970s as a ‘box bwoy’. A box bwoy is like an apprentice on a sound system that, as I have argued extensively elsewhere, has a structured and highly efficient ‘division off labour’ where everyone knows what their role is. The box bwoy’s role was to travel to the venue in ‘di van back’ with the equipment and then help unload the equipment from the ‘Sound Van’ and help set out the speaker boxes. We would then run the wires to them from the amp, which often meant finding yourself in some precarious positions when ‘stringing up’. We could not touch the amps or deck or mixer, etc. as that was the sacred rite of Shaka or one of the ‘bigger man dem’ who had a more senior role in the sound system […] Likewise, we were not allowed to connect the wires to the speakers or to the amp, but we did get the kudos of being associated with one of the best British sound systems ever, that is still going strong to this day. Our ‘payment’ of course was free entry to the sessions and the chance to meet people from all over London and other parts of the UK. Interestingly enough, I was reasoning with Paul Gilroy years ago about some of the best dances back then and we realised we were both in the Metro Club in Westbourne Park when the resident sound system, Dennis Bovell’s Sufferer, clashed with Jah Shaka and Quaker City from Birmingham.

20 See William Henry, ‘Jah Shaka’, in A. Donnell (ed.), Companion to Contemporary Black British Culture (London: Routledge, 2002), p. 155.

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Fig. 3.6 324 New Cross Road

The houses and parties where the sound systems would string up would be made into places of refuge, reasoning and joy when they were filled by the bass frequencies of reggae. It for this reason that they were targeted by the institutionalised state-racism of the police and the freelance racists within the wider community. Just a mile away, on Saturday 26 April 1975, there was an infamous police raid on a Shaka dance on Malpas Road, Brockley. Race Today covered the story:

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More than 200 young blacks danced to the sound of the popular Jah Shaka at Malpas Road on Saturday/Sunday 26th-27th. After visiting to demand the sound be turned down, the police reinforced in numbers and violent in attitude […] ordered everyone to leave the building. One of the organisers who stood at the door was dragged out and thrown into the van. The police proceeded to kick, punch and truncheon people indiscriminately. Not content, they went on to wreck £400 of equipment with their truncheons. Sixteen people were charged with crimes ranging from assault to drunk and disorderly behaviour […] one police officer exuding arrogance warned Jah Shaka that the sound was banned from playing in South London.21

The buildings in the area no longer carry visible traces of that violent history of racism from the police and the wider community in the form of fascist organisations like the National Front and Combat 18. Yet, anything that is buried within social memories can be excavated, revealed and reasoned through. In a way, our walks are an attempt to develop an archaeology of everyday life. They are also attempts to make an inventory of not just the pain, but also the joy and playful association that was created through the music that black youngsters raved to in their endeavours to deal with racialised disaffection and disenfranchisement (Fig. 3.7). Across the street from Shaka’s shop was Warehouse, a venue run by the aforementioned Loosh, where sound system dances were held beneath what is now The Venue. Dance goers would have to enter from the back of the building, which was formerly The New Cross Super Kinema that opened in 1925. Originally, there was a cinema on the ground floor and a dance hall above. It retained its Kinema title until 1950 when it became part of the Gaumont chain of venues, closing its doors in 1960. The space was brought back to life and, during the late 1980s to 1990s, the underground part of the building was a popular venue for reggae dances. These sessions would sometimes start around midnight on a Saturday and finish on a Sunday afternoon. There is a good reason why the culture of reggae is often referenced as part of an underground movement, because much of its life was sustained literally underground. A short walk away along Deptford High Street

21 For more details see http://transpont.blogspot.co.uk/2015/10/mek-it-blow-policeraid-new-cross-jah.html.

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Fig. 3.7 Taking notes

we find The Crypt in St Paul’s Church. Beneath the church was one of the most important sound system venues in London during the 1970s and 1980s. The Crypt was undoubtedly one of the most popular venues in Lewisham during its heyday and many big sound systems from all over played there, such as: Frontline, Sir Coxone, Jah Shaka, Neville The Enchanter, Dnunes Sound, Soprano B, Saxon, King Tubby, Fatman, Lord Koos, Count Shelly, Prophecy, Sledgehammer, Trojan Sound System and even Ghettotone, which was part owned by Lez Henry. Lez suggested elsewhere that during that moment we were ‘tomb ravers’ and the famous sound system clash scene in Franco Rosso’s film Bablylon (1980), which featured Jah Shaka’s sound system, was filmed there. The Crypt was also a venue for other musical events including psychedelic rock ‘all nighters’ featuring live bands. We often bring the walkers back to 439 New Cross Road where the mood becomes more solemn. In the early hours of Sunday 18 January 1981, a fire broke out here killing 13 young black Londoners as they were celebrating the sixteenth birthday of Yvonne Ruddock, one of the victims. The party goers were listening to reggae that night and, tragically,

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nearly two years later, the fire took another victim, bringing the official death count to 14. Concerns about racism had been running high in the area due to the active presence of the National Front and, more importantly, several racially-motivated arson attacks had already taken place in Lewisham. Les Back often tells that: As a teenager I regularly passed the ruined house at 439 New Cross on my way to college at Goldsmiths. In the doorway was a makeshift memorial stating ‘thirteen of our children murdered’ and beneath these words was a list of their names. The burnt out three-storey house was a reminder of the nature of the offence like an open wound scorched in the body of the city. Today that trace has been replaced by a marker on the house remembering those lost young lives and the futures that were stolen from them that night.

Eye-witness accounts pointed to arson and the suspicious behaviour of a man who drove off in a white Austin van. Fire had been a staple weapon of racist violence and there had been other arson attacks on black community centres, youth clubs and private homes, including the petrol bombing of a house party in Sunderland Road, Forest Hill, SE23. Some 35 years later the origins of the New Cross Fire are still unknown. When we take people there, we stress it is important to remember the shameful indifference to these deaths at the time within the media and the political establishment (Fig. 3.8). In the days that followed there was little coverage of the terrible loss of young lives in the newspapers, with the exception of The Sun reporting it on its front cover. There was no statement of condolence from then Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher.22 The cold silence of the white establishment is one of the undeniable facts of this tragedy and conveyed a brutally simple message: the loss of young black lives was unimportant. As Johnny Osbourne sang pointedly in the tune that was released in the wake of these events, ‘13 Dead (and Nothing Said)’. Out of the ashes of this terrible tragedy came an unprecedented political mobilisation led by the families, the New Cross Massacre Action Committee and the wider black community. It resulted in the historic

22 See New Beacon Books, The New Cross Massacre Story: Interviews with John La Rose (London: New Beacon Books, 2011).

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Fig. 3.8 439 New Cross Road

‘Black People’s Day of Action’ on Monday 2 March 1981, where 15,000 people from all over the country filed by 439 New Cross Road bound for the Houses of Parliament and Fleet Street. The photographs of the young people who lost their lives were carried as a demonstration that their humanity mattered and Lez Henry was one of the marchers on that day. The march was documented by photographer and writer Vron Ware who was working for the anti-fascist magazine Searchlight at the time. In May 2017, a free exhibition of Vron Ware’s photographs took

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Fig. 3.9 Black People’s Day of Action

place at Goldsmiths.23 The images bear witness to an historic moment of community organising and resistance in post-war Britain (Fig. 3.9). During our walks we take these images into the street and, using the screen of our laptop, trace the vantage point from which they were taken. The results are often uncanny, summoning ghosts and traces of that past that can so easily remain mute or invisible. At this point of our walk we often play Linton Kwesi Johnson’s ‘New Crass Massahkah’.24 The tune conveyed in dub poetry both the musical joy of the party and the terror of the fire, offering in word and bass perhaps the most enduring and powerful form of historical witness. Our point here is that what is offered on the reggae walk is an alternative to the theorisation of black life premised on the voices and perspectives of the livers and doers of the culture during the so-called ‘crisis’ periods of the 1970s and 1980s. The emphasis is thus located in notions of black culture and

23 See ‘13 Dead Nothin Said Exhibition’, 2017, https://www.gold.ac.uk/calendar/?id= 10585. 24 This can be heard on Linton Kwesi Johnson’s Making History album, released in 1983 on Island Records.

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identity, which are understood as knowable and observable ways of being because they speak to the importance of recognising the consciousness that births counter-cultural forms. These are crucial aspects of rethinking the self autonomously into being, finding an alternative ‘hidden’ voice to make known a perspective that counters the myriad racist distortions that othered blacks in the white imagination.

Lewisham Way Youth & Community Centre Heading east from Goldsmiths we congregate outside Lewisham Way Youth & Community Centre. We pause here to talk about why youth clubs were so significant at the time and how this youth club was a regular venue for dances and various other activities, including a football team, a netball team and a very successful martial arts dojo. Run by Harry Powell, it was a place of refuge and joy for young black people during the 1970s, 1980s and beyond. On Friday evenings there was the occasional dance where huge sound systems were brought in. The photographer John Goto remembers the physical impact of the baselines vibrating through the floor.25 Most of the attendees were regular members of the youth centre, though not all (Fig. 3.10). On the steps of Lewisham Way Youth and Community Centre, we often show the portraits that Goto took at another venue, less than a mile away, and they are like the ghosts of young lives and shadows of this once vibrant world. Goto photographed portraits of local dance goers in March 1977 and these portraits were recently published in his photographic book Lovers’ Rock.26 Joan Douglas, who attended the sessions and is featured on the cover of Goto’s collection, informed us: The portraits were taken on two occasions. The first occasion was on a Tuesday evening at Crofton Park School, Youth Club, which is where John Goto was working with the youth who were interested in learning photography on a weekly basis. The second was at the same venue on a Thursday but the difference is there was a dance that evening, featuring Small Axe sound system with Bad Breed Jesse and Donald C at the control. So, as part of the process of developing the portraits, we regularly posed for him not knowing that one day they would be published in a book. That explains 25 John Goto, Lovers’ Rock (London: Autograph, 2013). 26 Ibid.

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Fig. 3.10 Lewisham Way Youth & Community Centre

why some people are dressed up in the images, while others are casual, and it was quite a shock for me to see myself on the front cover. What people need to recognise is that for all the pressure we were under with the ‘suss laws’ from the police and the racist treatment we got at school, at work and in the streets, we were proud of who we were as black people and the lovers’ rock music was our release; our time to escape from the harshness and celebrate and love each other.27

Joan’s insight is telling as it adds necessary detail to the portraits Goto took, conveying experience so eloquently and with so much of the feeling of the time, represented here in the clothes, both dressy and casual, black youth wore during that moment. Joan also speaks to the resilience of black youth during this historical moment, where an indomitable spirit was on display in spaces that were safe, cathartic and necessary to black communities in Britain. Consequently, in the images that were taken by

27 Joan Douglas, personal communication, March 2020.

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Goto, you can see representations of this black pride and, more importantly, how it was celebrated within alternative public spaces; free from the sanction, judgement and gaze of an overtly hostile racist society at its peak in parts of Lewisham in 1977, when the photographs were taken. This is important to grasp because these spaces were, as Joan suggested, safe spaces for black youth and crucial to maintaining a sense of self-worth, regardless of what type of black youth you represented. At the time there were ‘Criss Girls’ meeting with ‘Sweet Boys’; ‘Soul Heads’ meeting with ‘Ska Shufflers’; ‘Roots Man’ meeting with ‘Ital Steppers’; ‘Skankers’ meeting with ‘Heartical Rastas’. And no one felt out of place because all belonged. This sense of belongingness did not exclude white youth who wished to venture into that world, because they knew they would not be attacked or harassed, which was absolutely not the case in white-dominated spaces at the time. Reggae has always been inclusive in this sense because the music was played in local places that linked to wider cultural and musical networks, where people from all walks of life could mix and mingle in peace and safety. It is interesting now to reflect on the power the music possessed to protect young black people from the psychic damage of racism during that moment. The music and the places where it was played provided a physical and psychological refuge in an otherwise hostile city. John Goto’s enduring achievement is that he enabled these young people to be themselves in those moments in front of the camera, perhaps not recognising that one day they would be used as exemplars of loving blackness; a theme we will develop further below.

Lovers’ Rock and Eve Studios and Loving Blackness Lovers’ Rock, a noticeably different style of reggae music from that produced in Jamaica, was made in the UK and in a large part was sponsored by music lovers and supermarket owners Dennis and Eve Harris. From their ‘Eve’ recording studio, which housed their Dip Records label in Upper Brockley Road, Lewisham, they worked in tandem with musicians like John Kpiyae and Matuumbi’s Dennis Bovell. From this collaboration a sound was produced that mirrored their relationship with Jamaican roots and US soul music, while also being influenced by coping with, and speaking to, all aspects of everyday life in 1970s racist Britain. As Dennis Bovell explained:

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Dennis Harris, the managing director of Dip Records, called me up and said he was building a studio [and] would I be interested in being the sound engineer and kind of session musician and producer as well. Now, Dennis was looking for a name to represent what we were doing in that studio and Augustus Pablo had a tune called ‘Lovers’ Rock’. And it was at that point that that tune was doing big things in the dance, right. And that was like one of the names just brandished around a little bit, like all the other old names. And then he said ‘yeah that’s it’, and then he took his thing and drew a heart with an arrow going through and that’s gonna be the label.28

Bovell’s insight enables us to get a feel of this seminal moment in British history, taken from an interview in the excellent documentary The Story of Lovers Rock, directed by Menelik Shabazz in 2011. What is telling here is how Bovell explains why the name was chosen, what it became representative of, and who the music would speak to, not just locally but also outernationally. They went on to have a string of hits that further defined the genre as something uniquely British in flavour. We knew we were creating something distinctively British, right! It was a kind of local scene […] where we were hoping one day to be as big as any other genre. Something that was home grown in Britain. Local musicians but melodies that could stand up alongside any of the great melodies.29

By suggesting that ‘we knew we were creating something distinctively British’, Bovell recognised from the outset this unique, melodic style would become more popular than many of the Jamaican reggae imports. Crucially, this partially explains how lovers’ rock played a significant role in overcoming the bias against British reggae music, which was largely deemed inauthentic when compared to Jamaican music. This is important for us to deal with here because during this historical moment reggae, ‘real reggae’, could only be produced in Jamaica and thus could only be performed by born Jamaicans. Many producers and performers would press their records on a white label and pass them off as prerelease imports from Jamaica to claim this ‘authenticity’. Dennis Bovell,

28 The Story of Lovers Rock (2011). 29 Ibid.

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for example, has commented that his band Matumbi used this ploy for their early releases.30 Despite this pressure, lovers’ rock producers and performers were even more determined to accentuate (literally) the stylistic and lyrical differences between them and their Jamaican counterparts. Thus, opportunities arose for British performers to take centre stage in the promotion of lovers’ rock, which obviously culminated in the meteoric rise of Janet Kay and the immense popularity of the form. According to Kofi: We were asked to come in and do an interview with a record company called Dip to do some backing vocals for TT Ross. She was releasing a track called ‘Jealousy’ and we did some backing vocals for her and were very excited about that and really enjoyed it. And I think that the interest grew once they heard the backing vocals.31

The ‘we’ Kofi speaks of were the members of the group Brown Sugar, Pauline Catlin, Caron Wheeler of ‘Soul to Soul’ fame, and Carol Simms (as she was known then). However, after becoming disillusioned with the treatment they received,32 they moved on from working with Dip Records and recorded as a group before branching off into solo careers. Lovers’ rock was soon to influence the Jamaican music scene, as exemplified by Sugar Minnott’s cover version of Michael Jackson’s ‘Good Thing Going’ and his tribute song ‘This is Lovers’ Rock’ (1980), the title track of an album of the same name which began with the iconic and heavily sampled ‘Okay people! This is Lovers Rock’. Indeed, many of the biggest names in Jamaican reggae—Dennis Brown, Beres Hammond, Gregory Issacs, Freddie McGregor and Sanchez D—are often regarded as lovers’ rock artistes, as is the UK’s Maxi Priest. The passion for lovers’ rock soon spread throughout Britain, producing artistes and groups like 15, 16 & 17, Brown Sugar, Sylvia Tella, Louisa Mark, Carroll Thompson, Sandra Cross, Jean Adebambo, Kofi, Caren Wheeler, Junior English, Lloyd Brown, Marie Pierre, Winston Reedy,

30 ‘Tru Reggae Story’, interview with Dennis Bovell, Summer School project (2006: Nu-Beyond Learning By Choice). 31 The Story of Lovers Rock (2011). 32 The poor treatment of artistes in reggae is a highly contentious point and space does

not allow for an in depth analysis of it here, but some insight can be gleaned from the film ‘The Story of Lovers Rock’ (2011).

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Paul Dawkins, Trevor Hartley, Trevor Walters, Victor Romero Evans, Peter Hunnigale, Peter Spence, Tradition, The Investigators, The Instigators, Cool Notes, Natural Mystic and The In Crowd. But it was Janet Kay’s ‘Silly Games’ (1979), a song written by Dennis Bovell, that really put lovers’ rock as a genre on the map, firstly in the UK pop charts where it reached number 2 and then throughout Europe and other parts of the world. It was the first lovers’ rock song featured on mainstream British TV, with Janet Kay performing on the BBC’s flagship music programme Top of The Pops. Looking back, the title lovers’ rock can be a touch misleading as the music was spawned in a time of overt and hostile racism, when police harassment of—and violent attacks on—black people from farright groups like the National Front were daily occurrences. That is why, although the genre focused on black love and harmony and was dominated by female performers, it also had a conscious edge to it, with songs speaking of ‘Black Pride’ and being ‘In Love with a Dreadlocks’. Dennis Bovell suggests that ‘to say I am in love with a Dreadlocks was a radical thing to say at the time inside the black community and outside it’.33 This is a a point endorsed by Lisa Palmer, who states that the powerful sensuality of tunes like ‘I’m In Love with a Dreadlocks’ enabled musically the ‘formation and transformation of loving countercultural identities’.34 This is important to note here because the predominance of the female voice meant the form was often reduced to ‘romantic reggae’. Yet the songs of love were no less politically significant than the explicit political messages being communicated by the deejays on reggae sound systems (Fig. 3.11). The song ‘Black Pride’ offered a direct challenge to the dominant white aesthetic, using ‘music as politics’ to state: ‘I’m so proud to be, the colour that God made me’. Whereas, ‘I’m in Love with a Dreadlocks’ dealt with many of the internal and intergenerational concerns, thereby challenging the idea that collective black identities can be reduced to where you were born, how you dress and how you wear your hair. This aesthetic argument is as important now as it was then, and we only need

33 Dennis Bovell, personal communication, November 2018. 34 Lisa Palmer, p. 183.

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Fig. 3.11 In search of lovers’ rock

to consider the affliction of skin bleaching35 and other forms of black ‘racial suicide’ to appreciate its relevance from within the culture. Too often, these discussions are muted in the wider public arena, for various reasons, which explains why the counter-cultures that deal with these issues in plain and simple terms are critically important to maintaining this form of dialogue. ‘Brown Sugar’ demonstrates how artistes were and are regarded as a mouthpiece for particular sections of the black community who otherwise would remain absent of a potent counter-cultural mode of expression. To this end, they generally echo, very publicly, the overall sentiments and sensibilities on the most important issues at any given time. This is a crucial point we make on our walk: lovers’ rock music—in line with the ethos behind the reggae message—has since its inception sustained black communities through direct communal action

35 For an in depth analysis of this cultural phenomena, see William Henry, ‘Shades of Consciousness: From Jamaica to the UK’, in Ronald E. Hall (ed.), The Melanin Millennium: Skin Color as the 21st Century International Discourse (Michigan: Springer, 2013).

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experienced within and through songs and stories presented across the airwaves in various mediums.

Conclusions Returning to the question we posed at the beginning of this chapter, reggae knowledge is embedded in the places where this music was made and listened to. Learning reggae’s history requires a kind of archaeology of local city life and the musical threads that link London to the reggae diaspora, to the Caribbean, and to the world. Every time we conduct these walks, something new is revealed about the richness of reggae music in this historic corner of London. In order to learn this history, we suggest that sociable methods of knowledge creation need to be found which create communities of thinking and understanding that place the makers of this musical world at its centre. All of this is necessary for the kind of reggae pedagogy shared by many of the contributors to this volume; a form of slow release understanding achieved through staying there, taking another attentive stroll and thinking again on our feet. What experiments like our reggae walking and mapping project point towards are more open and inclusive forms of knowledge that truly have a social impact. Telling reggae’s story with the people who made it in more sociable and connected ways is simultaneously a form of ‘local knowledge’ and an ‘outernational perspective’ that is both embedding in a place but never confined to or rooted only within it. This contribution to the lifeblood of London life and British culture more broadly is ignored or simply looked past, but as the iconic Jamaican singer Bob Marley reminds us: ‘in the abundance of water, the fool is thirsty’. One of the lessons learned time and time again from our walks is the persistent, localised presence of the people who have made this history and culture, which always results in passers-by tagging along to take in the experience. One reggae loving resident put it this way: ‘we haven’t gone anywhere … we are still here … we are still here’, because the walks bring the history of London into a conversation with present realities. Today the alternative public sphere of black life, the youth clubs and record shops that were animated by reggae music, are largely gone and little more than the ruins of a once vibrant world remain. The reggae walks make us confront the fact that the institutions of black community life are being erased, dismantled and are in danger of

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being forgotten. The fact that these stories have been ignored and disparaged for so long is a shameful indictment of the failure of our educational institutions to tap into the empirical richness of their local communities. Yet, the enduring power of reggae is an undeniable fact of London life and to tap into the pulse of the city, by ‘walking’ its streets, is a way and means to honour and record that important UK legacy. What we have argued throughout is that this might be embraced in open sociable forms of knowledge exchange, where no one claims to know the whole story but where ‘each one’ really does ‘teach one’ by taking one step beyond the UK reggae baseline.

CHAPTER 4

A Who Seh? Reflections of a Lost and Found Dub Poet Martin Glynn

Prologue Driving home from Wolfson College (University of Cambridge), after participating in an inspirational reggae symposium organised by my colleague and bredin, Dr. Kenny Monrose, I pulled over to the side of the road where I paused for a moment of reflection. During the symposium I performed one of my most treasured dub poems ‘de ratchet a talk’, and was confronted with a troubling question; ‘why had I abandoned the very art-form that helped shape my creative-personal identity by pursuing an academic career?’ It took me a while to compose myself before driving off. For the rest of the journey home that question reverberated around my head. That night I lay awake troubled, as more memories, thoughts and visions collided. It was as if I was being punished for ignoring the Ancestral messages that I’d blanked out over the many intervening years. The spirit of Mikey Smith’s passionate call to arms for all dub poets screamed

M. Glynn (B) Birmingham City University, Birmingham, UK e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s) 2021 W. ‘L’. Henry and M. Worley (eds.), Narratives from Beyond the UK Reggae Bassline, Palgrave Studies in the History of Subcultures and Popular Music, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-55161-2_4

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in my ears ‘mi cyaan believe it!’ How could I have been so blind as to not realise that those Ancestral voices proclaiming the message of ‘dub poetry’ have been trying to recall me back into active service but to no avail, because of the deafening sound of academic rhetoric. Clarity bound into my consciousness with the impact of a wrecking ball. An answer to my years of distress as a consequence of rendering my passion for poetry invisible suddenly emerged. I knew then why I was at the event in Cambridge. I also knew that this moment must not go unheeded in terms of what I must now do. Following the conference, a further communication from Professor Lez Henry, a stalwart of everything reggae urged me to consider writing a chapter. The call had been answered. So here I am. This is my story from a lost and found dub poet. Cum, Walk Wid Mi!

Reality Check As my voice continues to be both silenced and muted within academia, the pervasive on-going assault on my ‘freedom of expression’ is hurting. Once again I’m reminded that for those of us who do speak up against privileged whiteness, words like ‘militant ’, ‘radical ’ and ‘too political ’ are thrown at me, for daring to speak and (re)present my counter-narratives. This chapter therefore is not a conference speech, nor is it an academic treatise designed to probe the sub-textual nuances of my writing; neither is it seeking permission to tell its own story. My opening focuses less on giving a potted history lesson on dub poetry, but more on my personal odyssey designed to illuminate something about the culture that I was, and still am, part of. There are numerous articles and books that have been produced on the discipline, all equally noble in their intent, which reduces the need for duplication. Quite simply this is my own personal counter-narrative, where I intend to hold hands with my poetry and walk down the path towards the villages of ‘redemption’ and ‘liberation’.

The Beginning For me it all started back in the 1970s and 1980s when I heard Linton Kwesi Johnson’s ‘Sonny’s Letter’, Mikey Smith’s ‘Mi cyaan believe it’, the powerful music of Aswad, Steel Pulse and the Naturalites, all supported with the power and vibrancy of the sound system culture I followed and

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was a part of. —Names like Coxone, Mafia, ‘V’ Rocket, Quaker City, Saxon, Jungle Jah Masigan, Baron, Quantro—to list but a few—defined and shaped my cultural identity that was neither governed, controlled, or infiltrated, by white people. My early years involved in the world of dub poetry was a period of experimentation that grounded me in the vernacular which comprised of an intersection of Jamaica-English speech patterns, with a narrative shaped by the hostile environment of being immersed in British street culture. I say this because many commentators writing about dub poetry at the time defined dub poetry as solely the domain of poets from Jamaica. The dub poetry family was global as I discovered when I attended several international dub poetry festivals in both Canada and Jamaica. I was a cultural hybrid much the same as lovers rock was, where my influences acknowledged the sum total of my parts, Afrikan, Caribbean and British. This was contrasted with my many cultural influences; theatre, literature and music. All in all I knew I was on a journey, one that has lasted over 40 years. However, very few of us who were there at critical times in the development of dub poetry have spoken publicly about our truths and experiences. This reflexive offering is less about validation or the need for accolades but more of a legacy statement on where I started and where I’m headed. I say headed, because in spite of reaching my early 60s, a new awakening has now come upon me as expressed earlier. So, to my family in Jamaica, who nurtured me back to the vernacular, to those who picked me up when I got knocked down, and those who loved me when I stopped loving myself I say thank you. I make no claims for the impact we have had, or will have, using dub poetry. However, what I do know is that with the ascendency of drill, trap, grime, the commercialization of hiphop, dub poetry still has a role to play in bringing cultural consciousness to communities whose anger understandable as it is, at times lacks the nuances of the richness of black survival, resilience and capacity for transcending adversity. For me, dub poetry rides on the shoulders of reggae music, and is timeless, affirming and, more important, part of my DNA. I wrote ‘Musical Heritage’ back in the 80s when I needed to remind the community where our music came from and what it became. The message is clear. Musical Heritage Dem beat wi, kill wi, an’ dem slave wi A nun lie mi a tell, yu know full well

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Wen yu ‘ear de truth’, doan refuse it It woz Afrikan pepul giv de worl’ musik Fi tousandz of yearz I mus’ state De Afrikan drum did communikate To de pepul of de village, to de pepul of de tribe Is Africa firs’ get de musikal vibe Den de slavemasta cum ‘cross de sea Az wi all know dat woz slavery Out of dis oppreshan, sumting did spring Two type a music, dat de Afrikanz sing One call’ Gospel, de otha called bluez De two a dem carry, different newz Gospel woz God, bluez ‘bout life De two a dem start, from historical strife Afrikanz, wi av a reputashan Passed down thru’ a whole heap of generashan In de field of musik we mek a contribushan An from dis fac’, draw one conclushan Music is our cultcha, our his …. tery From wi deya Afrika, thru’ slav.. ery Thru’ de worl’ warz ‘n’ evry fight Thru’ evry day ‘n’ evry night But de ting mi nuh like, if yu check Wi du all de givin’, while de white man tek Nearly evry likkle penny, evry poun’ note Enuff to mek yu waan sick up yu throat Wen yu check out do musik dem call’ rock Wen yu check out de programme call’ top of de pops Wen yuh check out de man dem Beethoven ‘n’ Straus Wen yuh listen country musik inside yu ‘ouse Iz wi start de revolushan Dat mek all music an institushan While OPERA did a gwaan two music did a roll One called JAZZ , de other called SOUL Dem all av de ridim, of de AFRIKAN BEAT Sum mek yu listen, or dance pon yu feet While all a dis a ‘appen, across de sea Pepul in de CARIBBEAN movin musikally ROCK STEADY … BLUE BEAT.. ‘n’ MENTO STEEL PAN MUSIC … like CALYPSO A whole heap a progreshan, as yu can see Dancin to SOCA or SKANKIN REGGAE Meanwhile in de STATES, man an ‘uman get drunk

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Dancin to de ridim of fas’ JAZZ FUNK So, dem is jus a few of our creashanz Many more will cum in futcha genrashanz Yuh could be A DANCER, SINGA or A MUSICAN De roots of our music iz AFRIKAN …..

A significant part of the dub poetry family was the endless discussions, reasonings , limings and gatherings centring on key issues that would require our attention lyrically. We all have different styles, tones, but are united by a common aim. Namely, to respond to inequality and injustice using dub poetry. There was no competiveness of egos. You were validated based on content, style and lyrical ability. Sessions would only stop when they came to an end, not based on any time-bound rule. Dub poetry could not be constrained by time. Equally as important was we responded instantaneously to the political issues of the day. Something that is sadly lacking in many of today’s younger generation. Of course there are many young artists speaking truth to power constructively and addressing themselves to a variety of agenda. However, we never saw ourselves as celebrities, nor did we have social media as a mediating force between the artist and the audiences. Our audiences were live and primed ready to act on what we spoke about. I’m not being nostalgic, but the essence of the Afrikan oral tradition is that it is not diluted or distorted by the imposition of technology. Again, I reflected on my own responses to some pressing contemporary issues. I remember waking up to the news that George Zimmerman had been found not guilty over the death of Trayvon Martin. Not least because my own son, was the same age of Trayvon. A dead black body killed with a bullet appears not to be evidence enough to convict the perpetrator. Trayvon’s death became both a recurring theme within the past and current US ‘race and crime’ landscape, as well as a reminder that black lives didn’t matter. Similarly, Oscar Pistorius reminded me that justice, can be brought to us via prime-time pantomime politics. How so called ‘post-apartheid’ like its cousin ‘post racial’ reminds me that the possibility of equity for non-white people globally just breeds more false consciousness. At the time I had studied a parallel case in South Africa of a young man from the townships who killed a young woman outside a nightclub in similar circumstances to Pistorius. He got 45 years, while Oscar Pistorius I’m sure will be the subject of a book, and Hollywood film deal. Maya Angelou’s prophetic line springs to mind, ‘ I know why the caged bird

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sings’. What did I do? Talk about it with students. I should have written and spat my truth using dub poetry. Shame on me! I now observe many ‘black bourgeoisie’ associates escaping from the confines of the inner city in favour of the sunnier climes of American racism, in search of a bigger salary and improved status. I know the attraction of a higher glass ceiling gives them much more scope in relation to being ‘black’ and ‘middle class’ but again where are the voices of those who spoke out against things back in the day? Tempting as it was, and still is, it doesn’t really appeal to me. Don’t get me wrong, inner city living can be depressing and the downward spiral of how things have become here in the UK are at times hard to accept, but my current options make me happy with the situation here. I do not like Trump’s America, any more than the polarised debates on Brexit, the Windrush scandal or the state of our criminal justice. Going to the US won’t help, merely push me into yet another toxic racialized space, with more money, private insurance and the need to enact the ‘right to bear arms’. The point being here is while many of us run for the cover of the conference, the journal and endless talk shops meandering through the maze of ‘white privilege’ and ‘interest convergence’, my poetry calls out to respond to those who over the years told me dub poetry was not real poetry. As this next piece ‘a who seh so?’ will attest, my work speaks from a place of resistance, not privilege. So even thinking that I will be validated as a so called establishment poet is something that I have no desire to contest. What matters is I have something to say in a voice that encapsulates how I want to say it. Enjoy …… A who seh so? Dem tell mi Mi iz nat a poet An so it iz time to show it Mi iz a luv poet … perform inna de club … poet Mi iz a jazz … reggae … an’ dub poet Mi iz a wurdz … soun’ an’ powa poet Mi iz a sit inna mi ebonyy towa poet Mi iz a cuss two bad word poet Mi iz a shout tingz dat mus’ be herd poet Mi iz a talkin’ nonsense an’ bein’ absurd poet Mi iz a critical… analytical … political sometimez cynical … poet Mi iz a revolushanary … ordinary… oven ready poet Mi iz a son… brotha… father… an’ elder poet Mi iz a special … intellectual … common sense … ical poet

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Mi iz a wise … a big surprise …. mek nuff noize poet Mi iz a practical … tactical … factual poet Mi iz a magical … fanatical … lirikal … poet Mi iz da newz … sing da blues … express mi views poet Mi iz a spiritual … deal wid ritual … say tingz Dat doun sit too well poet Mi iz a technician… a magician … always tek a posishan poet Mi iz a vex … love to flex an’ az good az sex poet Mi iz a fantastic … bend like plastic … lirikally orgasmic poet Mi iz a no full stop … be-bop … hip-hop poet Mi iz da voice of da slave … beyond da grave … A syllable tidal wave poet Mi iz a joke… who will poke… yu brain… give yu a stroke poet Mi iz a trickster … a mixture … who paints a lirikal picture poet Mi iz a wrong… sumtimez sing a song … on too long … poet Mi iz a drum … mek yu numb … lost my father an’ my mum poet Mi iz a fighta … a writer … a chanter… a ranter … wurd planter … A sowa… a growa … A revolushan … a conclushan … An earthquake… A wordshake … lirikal manipulator … Verb escalator … adjective technician Noun politician … a griot wid wisdum Dem tell mi told I am not a poet … to me dat is … sh … it … an so it … goes on Tryin’ to define… refine … twist mi min’ Dem continue to analyse… criticize … orchestrate my demise But I have a surprise … open yu eyes… den yu will realise Mi nuh bizniss weh yu waan call me

Another question emerges; ‘ is engaging students who merely want to get a job, is as important as using the power of dub poetry to mobilise oppressed people into political action?’ For the critics, I would like to remind you that Brazilian educators Paulo Friere used education and Augusto Boal used theatre to actualise Praxis. Praxis enables oppressed peoples to transform their own lives through the use of a transforming medium. So why not use dub poetry to actualise Praxis? Again, the delusion of thinking as an academic operating within the comfort of white privileged academic spaces I can operationalize Praxis, reminds me why dub poetry becomes important for my own sanity and contribution to the struggle for equity. If I’m being totally honest having a doctorate in spite of increasing my status, continues to breed ‘false consciousness’ about how effective I can be in addressing significant issues regarding racialized oppression and social justice.

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False Consciousness Recent filming for a TV documentary has confronted me with a continuing dilemma facing some black scholars like myself. Namely, do we operate from inside the cosy corridors of the academy hoping our work will be promoted on a national and international stage? Or do we put ourselves into the public domain using popular mediums such as TV, radio and the social media? Many of us are now struggling to find a sense of purpose within our respective institutions when the right to selfdefinition is continuously being undermined by the oppressive nature of racialized constructs that are not helpful in untangling the complexity of belonging and nationhood for non-white people in academia. A history of racial subordination has made me more vigilant and defiant in the face of continuing and sustainable pressure coming from forces designed to keep me down. I’m personally tired of having to seek permission, gain access, go through intermediaries and negotiate with gatekeepers. I’m worn down by continually providing evidence only to have it replaced by bias and limited theories who claim some kind authentic right to judge my own views without challenge. As a mixed-race man who has lived in academia I know first-hand what it feels like to have my voice denied, hence the time has come to speak without fear of recrimination, as I refuse to obey the dictates of those in power whose motivation is to control and oppress me and others who look like me. How then does someone like me maintain the balance between challenging the status quo, while at the same time not get sucked into the very psychic machinery that tries to grind your energy down to nothing? My continuing engagement with academia would suggest the growing lack of passion, combined with my stunted emotional connection to the department is a reflection of how isolated I become at times. I realise that if I am to seek transformation as a way of transcending my subordination, then I must seek transformative spaces where the interrogation of the obstacles and barriers to my freedom is given voice, complete with the development of an action plan designed to push our counter narrative into a strategy for change.

Balance Again, my work in the world of dub poetry gives me voice, purpose, stability and more importantly love. From the international poetry festivals in Canada and Jamaica, sharing platforms with prominent poets who gave me space to assert myself without judgement. Our stages were full

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of fun, upliftment, challenge, words, sounds and power. It was full of moments where many of us pledged that enough is enough and we will no longer stay silent. Again, to my guilt and shame, academia has muted my voice and tried to replace it with the false promise of an academic career, where Jamaican vernacular is banned by creating open plan offices where conversation is viewed with cynicism, where white students coopt phrases garnered from their black peers, while middle-class black staff swap rice and peas at lunchtime for cold sandwiches and cappuccino’s. To you who want to drive my voice underground, I say ‘I will no longer’ … I will no longer I will no longer be bound by notions of race I will no longer be held captive or lost without trace I will no longer be tied to the tone of my skin I will no longer be imprisoned by the darkness within I will no longer be oppressed by biased assumptions I will no longer be driven by greed ‘n’ consumption I will no longer smell the aroma of fear I will no longer be scared of shedding a tear I will no longer worry ‘bout ‘keepin’ it real’ I will no longer be bothered by havin’ to feel I will no longer be wrapped up in status or ego I will no longer be fearful of lettin’ the past go I will no longer be trapped by bein’ told I’m not equal I will no longer be concerned with reruns or sequels I will no longer be frightened to talk from the heart I will no longer be annoyed at going back to the start I will no longer be engaged in keepin’ myself down I will no longer be hateful of those who want me to drown I will no longer conceal or hide the truth I will no longer be in denial coz I’m living proof I will no longer pander to distortions about me I will no longer hold on to a fractured identity I will no longer hide my gifts and my talents I will no longer accept feeling imbalanced My freedom ain’t a mystery, nor wrapped up in clues Or based on your theories, or relies on your views It emerges from struggle, commitment, and toil Shaped by my needs, with a passion that’s loyal My freedom is here, right now. And I’m taking it As I will no longer defend my right to be me

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Around 11 pm one Thursday night I receive an email which keeps me awake for the rest of the night. The contents reveal the recall back to prison of a young man I have worked with for many years. He has served a long sentence, gets released and few months later, we are reunited. He is so impacted by incarceration, the despondency and helplessness of not knowing where he now fits into his life, family, or the community in which he was raised. Our conversation meanders in and out of his pain when the inevitable parting comes. As I watch him disappear into the dark shadows of the train station, I reflect on him telling me about how the last 20 years in prison is all he knows and how he is institutionalised. He then informs me that returning to prison is his only option for his sanity. Little did I know that his desire to return to the comfort of his misery would be both self-inflicted and prophetic? Needless to say, I was very upset and deeply saddened at my inability to bring some hope to someone I had known and journeyed with for over 20 years. Again, to my deep shame, this situation becomes anecdotal, not part of a package of healing that could be best expressed through the construction of syllables, sentences, verses and performances. I went into the darkness and shadows, contemplating what being in the light really means. I similarly become absorbed and deeply troubled about the increase in knife crime. For over 4 decades I have worked in prisons, community and many other spaces trying to engage both perpetrators and victims to desist from this dangerous pursuit. Yet again, a few lectures, sound bites of TV becomes the sole response to something I’ve been involved with for years. What to do now?

Dark Shadows Standing in Wolfson College I launched an assault on the issue of knife crime in the only way I knew how, my dub poetry. The sadness was that this piece was written back in the 80s, and was a relevant as it ever was. Once again I felt the presence of my old constituency berating me for leaving this powerful narrative behind in favour of the comfort of the ivory tower. How stupid I felt at not trusting the power of my work. On reflection it was much more impacting at the primal level, than any article I had ever written. To Muta, Oku, Cherry, Nabby and Tommy, I apologise, as you’ve never strayed from the path. Please accept my humbling apologies.

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DE RATCHET A TALK De ambulanceman a tek weh de victim De policeman a tek weh de criminal But dat deh night, In de scuffle an de fight De guilty one escape. One man iz dead, de blood iz red, De ratchet did ‘ungry, so it did haffe fed. In de bleakniss of de ganja smoke Man ‘n’ man a du ‘im ting An de night jus’ a run farward. But A bredda ova deh so a mek de special brew Rule ‘im brain It a tun ‘im fool An dat nuh cool De way ow ‘im a stumble ‘Im a gwaan like a mule ‘Im trample man foot ‘Im a bounce An ‘im a push an a shove Until ‘Im body jus’ lose control. An de ratchet still a sleep … not stirrin, But always ready to wake and talk To a man who disturb de sleep of de ratchet As de rhydm Tek de man, Special brew Tek de man An drunkiness Tek de man, An de man bounce a bredda Who a buil’ up a spliff An de risla an de weed Plus de tiny black seed Lick de ground No apology cum No apology cum So de bredda get vex wen no apology cum Wid no weed to smoke an’ An angry face. De bredda Wake de ratchet.

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Wid a cut an’ a chop De man’s skin pop Blood jus’ a fly An de drunk man drop De man lick de groun’ HELPLESS De man lick de groun’ BLOODLESS De man lick de groun’ LIFELESS In a de bright red pool Pepul jus’ a look An’ nah say nutin’ While pepul in de corner Jus hold doun de bredda Who chop up de man De dance ………..stop De cuttin’ ………. stop De man’s heart …….stop Because de ratchet did talk De ratchet did talk Wen de ratchet talk Man an ‘uman fraid fi walk So like mi seh De ambulanceman a tek weh de victim De policeman a tek weh de criminal But dat deh night In de scuffle an de fight, De guilty one escape De guilty one escape DAT A DE RATCHET

How do we tell the histories of slavery, lynching, colonialism, race riots, the rise of the far right, Islamophobia and numerous past and present issues without distraction? How do we respond to black incarceration, the constant attacks on black popular culture such as hip-hop, privileged moral barricades, labelling of young black men in street gangs, the problems associated with racialisation of stop and search procedures, and the increase of racially motivated attacks, highlighting they are all inextricably linked in some way to shaping our perceptions of what constitutes the racialisation of Britishness? Central to this proposition is in the way our counter-narratives are produced. It may be that there is a need to create and produce a revised ‘counter narrative’ to give voice to those who are rendered invisible from a more diverse context using all spoken word

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forms, dub poetry being one such conduit, to bring a rallying cry from which to go into battle with apathy and liberal gestures when looking at our racialized subordination in its widest context. The current situation is not about forcing a few black success stories in my face, or trying to diffuse some of the other real concerns I have to wrestle with locating my difference in the wider society in areas like the media and academia. It is about recognising that things are far from satisfactory and need strengthening in many areas that relate to the complex nature of crime in our society. Things cannot be explained away by revealing how many black people watch crime drama’s, or how many black actors were not in an episode of Midsomer Murders, or how many inner-city youths can you cram into an episode of Crimewatch. It is about decisions, power and resources. It is about notions of diversity, interpreting reality through shared cultural experiences, as well as the possibilities to become equal partners and stakeholders within shaping the cultural life of any environment we occupy. I perk up! The reason being is that I left dub poetry, it didn’t leave me. So, I still have the tools to drop and deliver counter narratives. How time and space can diminish the ability to believe in the power of the spoken word. It’s something that must be resisted at all times, otherwise we are defiling the messages from the past that many of us continue to ignore. Sankofa! Can you hear me?

Counter-Narratives Maybe it’s time for a black revisionist story to be told; to the critics, well poisoners, gate keepers, fire fighters, blaggers and, of course, those black people who are cool to live in the master’s house while locking others out, ‘To whom it may concern’ is for you; TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN Starin’ at mi reflection Itz time fi look inside ‘N’ learn Itz time to be at peace wid mi To whom it may concern Mi may not fit de profile Or gone thru’ many a twist ‘n’ turn Helpin’ mi iz not about control To whom it may concern

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At times you mek it hard fi me Mek mi scream ‘N’ squirm Patience exchanged fi bullyin’ To whom it may concern Yu comments have not been helpful ‘N’ wen mi would crash ‘n’ burn Yu nurturin’ tun oppressive To whom it may concern Then mi lose mi way ‘N’ fizzled out ‘N’ all yu did waz spurn Acted like a wreckin’ ball To whom it may concern Thought dat we’d connected Wasn’t smart enuff to discern Mi distress became yu weapon To whom it may concern At timez mi lose mi way Didn’t know wen i would return Asked miself ‘where did I go?’ To whom it may concern Anga replaced yu tolerance De mask yu wore was now stern No more smilez and laughter To whom it may concern To be accepted fi mi ‘N’ who I am Sumthing’ I did yearn Expectashanz wanted ‘one size fitz all’ To whom it may concern Yu becum judge ‘n’ executioner De case for mi yu did adjourn Foun’ guilty of carryin’ hurt and pain To whom it may concern Most of mi life mi struggle

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Get ketch up in life’s downturn Luv ain’t alwayz ‘bout conditional To whom it may concern Mi de pon on a different journey now A need to fin’ mi ‘N’ sojourn Thanx fi de support and guidance To whom it may concern Things cyaan be de same again Control of mi will be overturned Accep’ mi flaws ‘n’ faults ‘n’ me To whom it may concern Mi Garn!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The sheer power of speaking and watching dub poetry is in itself liberating. The experience of being part of a dynamic collective of voices all working and engaging with each other gave me a sense of family, where there was no judgement, just challenge designed to improve the art I produced, alongside my inner soul. I have discovered to my distaste that many white academics become fearful of the ‘ebony tower’ and retreat, recede, ignore you and render my humanity ‘invisible’. When I refuse to pander to their game, I am duly slapped down, forced to compromise my integrity, where I begin to question my sense of self. This position is both confusing and disconcerting at the best of times, as their attitudes at times try to make me believe that I am responsible for my own oppression and subsequent subordination. I am not a revolutionary with a single focus hell bent on destroying white society. I merely want to feel less of a black man, but a man in my own right, free from the clutter of labelling that forces me to accept the mediocrity of racialized judgements.

The Burden A connection with Lester Spence, an African American professor at Johns Hopkins helped me contextualise my own predicament, moving me beyond the realms of being boxed into a corner. Lester was tired of being defined by white people’s expectations and decided to reframe his sense of ‘self’ and ‘place’, choosing to situate himself within the confines of Baltimore’s black community. He revealed his need ‘to have a space in which

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he did not have to defend his racial existence’. His humanity therefore was borne out of a desire to just ‘be’, not to defend his difference to those who didn’t share the same perspective. Not only do I share his view, I also refuse to succumb to the will of others, who feel that assimilation is good for the control of my soul. I like who I have become, but am sick and tired of being around those energy-draining individuals who wander around aimlessly trying to impose their fragile elitist personas onto me, as subtly as a sledgehammer knocking a wall down. African American feminist Patricia Hill-Collins talks about the need for black women to find space for ‘self-definition’ and to reclaim a sense of lost identity. Not only do I echo her sentiments, but I refuse to surrender my identity to those individuals who would seek to convince me otherwise for the sake of maintaining their privileged position over me. This in essence means there is always an on-going challenge to contest the pervasive ‘white privilege’ of academia, alongside having to occupy an uncomfortable space with those who fear my assertion.

Me, Myself and I When my mannerisms, demeanour and aesthetic reflect the dominant culture at the university; there is a sense of ease and acceptance. However, the moment I present a persona that is pro-black, urban and intelligent, words like radical and militant cascade out of their mouths, like a gushing waterfall in the Scottish highlands. This then has a knock on effect whereby the so-called ‘black middle’ class because of their fragile relationship with the power structure distance themselves from those of who are more akin to activist scholars, as they themselves struggle to gain acceptance from middle-class white people. These individuals who on the one hand talk about self-determination, but on the other hand welcome Government handouts when they are strapped for cash. The need to stand still for a moment and realign myself was as a consequence of reaching a place where being defined according to the distorted gaze of others now becomes both problematic and intrusive. So a key phase of my dub poetry journey was to consider the most revolutionary act, that of ‘love’. Something that is so simple that can be encapsulated in 4 letters, still becomes an elusive experience for most of us. How could I take a revolutionary art-form such as dub poetry and use love within keeping within the parameters of the vernacular? I asked myself that question many years ago when I became weary and tired of the constant expression of my

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pain. I thought of lover’s rock and how LL Cool J, expressed his need for love in his seminal hip-hop track ‘I need love’. To my surprise, love was another classic part of my repertoire that was massively received all over the world, from community to prison to church. The power of love is encapsulated in one of my favourite pieces, ‘luv dub’. LUV DUB I’m de ackee … you’re da saltfish I’m da rice ‘n’ you’re da peas I’m da bank ‘n’ you’re da riva I’m da bun ‘n’ you’re da cheese I’m I’m I’m I’m

da da da da

ying ‘n’ you’re da yang tai ‘n’ you’re da chi biscuit … you’re da suga water … you’re da tea

I’m I’m I’m I’m

da da da da

sock ‘n’ you’re da foot toes ‘n’ you’re da shoe eyes ‘n’ you’re da glasses old ‘n’ you’re da new

I’m I’m I’m I’m

da da da da

bottom … you’re da top inside … you’re da out spirit … you’re da soul tongue ‘n’ you’re da mout

I’m I’m I’m I’m

da da da da

ridim … you’re da beat chorus… you’re da song melody … you’re da bridge weak… ‘n’ you’re da strong

I’m I’m I’m I’m

da tree ‘n’ you’re da forest da petal… you’re da flowa de daylight… you’re da moonshine da minute you’re da hour

I’m I’m I’m I’m

da teet ‘n’ you’re da toothpaste da soap ‘n’ you’re da skin da water … you’re da shower a needle … you’re da pin

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I’m I’m I’m I’m

a ship … ‘n’ you’re da anchor da rain ‘n’ you’re da breeze da lemon you’re da aid da chill ‘n’ you’re da freeze

I’m I’m I’m I’m

da da da da

I’m I’m I’m I’m

da man ‘n’ you’re da uman da fingers… you’re da glove da silver … you’re da gold below … ‘n’ you’re above

I’m I’m I’m I’m

da da da da

blood… you’re da heartbeat muscles… you’re da veins breath ‘n’ you’re da lungs thought ‘n’ you’re da brain

ache ‘n’ you’re da ointment massage ‘n’ you’re da rub movement … you’re da stillness studio one ‘n’ you’re my wicked dub.

Reconnection So, in essence, reconnecting to dub poetry has brought some powerful new feelings to the surface. I’ve gone back and relooked at Malcolm, Martin, DuBois, Fanon, Rosa Parks, The Niagara Movement, Negritude, The Harlem Renaissance and many other hidden stories that I’d forgotten. The revelation emerged where I had to accept that it’s less about one leader and discovering the leader within all of us. As I reflect on how far I’ve come on my journey in life I know I have now made the transition into mid-life. I am happy that I have looked at myself and updated my survival strategy as and when required. I now try to avoid stressful situations designed to damage me and edit those situations, which I know will affect me adversely. I have learnt how to listen to myself and try to act on what I hear. Listening to myself is important, as it is one of the few mechanisms I can use, in times when others are not available to support me directly. I have some extremely good men and women in my life now, but distance, time and other things do get in the way of a continuous flow of good moments. I knew that I must atone for past behaviours that have hurt and distressed others; children, family and friends. I also knew that I must forgive myself and not carry the burden of guilt that for so

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long had weighted me down. I cannot change the past but I can affect the future by drawing on those valuable life lessons that only make sense when age and wisdom collide, forcing me to take stock of the precious time I’ve been given on this earth.

Rebirth I’m not bitter about what my life has been about, but accepting that life is about ups and downs, combined with developing a strategy for managing what is given to you has at times been extremely challenging. I’m now feeling a huge sense of relief regarding my lingering self-doubt, as It’s been hard having to accept that with all the success I’ve had, all the incredible journey’s I’ve been on, and the promise of a great future I can feel so debilitated at times. I started my journey with a poor start in life, became a father at a young age, wasn’t parented safely, never settled in relationships, made a mess of my own parenting, struggled to cultivate real friendships, and have always felt an outsider. I have always wanted to gain acceptance from others, without accepting myself first. Now I’m at a place where I like who I am and what I’ve become, there are too few people to share it with. Those who knew me from the past are at times still stuck there and constantly try to pull me back into a time that has past. Those who are with me now, do not know my past, so my current and past support structures are strangers to each other. Friends are dying off and those that are around are more isolated from each other, so we drift apart. My children are on their own paths and I can no longer hold onto what I feel it should or shouldn’t be in terms of our relationship. My parents are both dead, so emerging questions cannot be answered. I have a twin brother who died at birth, whose name I never knew. Carrying the burden of never knowing him makes me feel incomplete, empty and lost at times. I know I must now step into the light and become the person my mother knew I was, the person who people around me see, the person that many cannot or will not see, and those who when they do see it are intimidated. Important as they all are, it’s about whom I see myself as and want to be. I have lived a lie. Not by design but by default. On further introspection I knew I needed to unify my love of dub poetry, with my similar passion for jazz poetry. Having worked with many African American jazz poets, I heard their spirit memories warning me not to abandon the older cousin of dub poetry. So I searched my archives and (re)discovered a reworking of one of my all-time favourite pieces, ‘ The

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Revolution Shall Not Be Televised’ by the late, great Gil Scott-Heron. This unification heralded a shift in both my consciousness and poetic growth. In unifying my passions for jazz and reggae I was reaffirming my commitment to use the diversity of poetic tools I had been given to continue in my struggle for humanity and soulfulness. This shift enabled me to move comfortably into mid-life where the spirit family had now grown significantly; DIGITAL REVOLUTION (Dedicated to Gil Scott -Heron) You will not be able to stay in the comfort of Your high-rise block or detached house in The suburbs … brothas and sistas … You will not be able to walk away … run off … or hide You will not be able to smoke a spliff … take crack … Place a bet or get drunk … The revolution will not be digital The revolution shall not be brought to you By Dixon’s … PC World …Curry’s … The World Wide Web or Email … The revolution will not show you Satellite images of Black on Black crime … false consciousness … Depression… or a community in crisis The revolution will not be digital The revolution shall not be brought to you By Eddie Murphy … Chris Rock or any other Black comedian Who believes that comedy kills pain The revolution will not hide your ugly attitude The revolution will not hide your fears The revolution will not make your weave look better The revolution will not make your sex drive improve The revolution will not make you a better Christian The revolution will not make you more acceptable to White people The revolution will not be digital There will be no still images of single Parent mothers ‘N’ Brothas passin’ on The virus to Sista’s

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There will be no software for the countless victims of physical and sexual abuse who remain silent. There will be no CD of the brotha who Commits suicide in his cell as he struggles To deal with a life sentence. No amount of memory on the hard drive Will be able to stop the yout’ who explodes coz he’s had enough The revolution will not be digital The BBC will not be able to make a docu-soap about ghetto life And Executive Producers will be unavailable for comment As they would have fled the scene … Makin’ Uncle Toms Scramble for the crumbs left behind The revolution will not be digital There will be no pictures of the police feedin’ An evenin’ meal of baton … boot … and fist … To a brotha who was in the wrong place at the Wrong time with the wrong colour skin There will be no repeat performances after the watershed There will be no pictures of upwardly mobiles Having their superiority complexes destroyed by a young brotha who wants what they have as he’s Tired of being fed lies and false promises. The revolution will not be digital There will no photographs using Adobe Photoshop depicting hi-rise blocks … mentally ill Black people … and tortured souls sellin’ their bodies for crack. Dream weaver will not be used to create a website with images of Afro centric Wannabe’s wearing Kente Cloth … tellin’ young Urban Warriors about Malcolm ‘X’ and pseudo revolutionary Urban politics. Macromedia Director will not be able to create a CD Rom about gang members who disregard the call to lay down arms and take you out by any means necessary The revolution will not be digital Designer clothes will not be relevant We won’t care if she slept with her Sisters Boyfriends Cousin’s Brother on Jerry Springer

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We won’t be bothered how many pieces of Kentucky Fried Chicken you can get for four pounds … No one will be interested in your man.. your 3 baby mothers … Fake attitude ‘n’ American Express smile Coz terror and its cousin fear will be occupying the streets The revolution will not be digital There will be no repeats on News night or Channel Four News And we won’t give a damn if there’s no Black newsreaders The Spice Girls will not write the musical introduction Or Boyzone … It will not be sung by Robbie Williams Shania Twain … Elton John or any other fake Wannabe Black boy band The revolution will not be digital The revolution shall not return after a commercial break Party political broadcast Or a newsflash about corrupt politicians There will be no subtitles or sign language There will be no pay per view option You will not have to worry about Keeping fit … Holistic living … Healthy eating Or child care provision The revolution will not get better with Heroin The revolution will not stop cancer The revolution will not care how many stocks and shares you have The revolution will not care if you live in the suburbs The revolution will not care if you go skiing in France The revolution will not care if you’ve got a degree The revolution will not care if you’re a vegetarian or meat eater The revolution will not care if you’re a Christian Or Jehovah’s Witness You won’t be watching from the sidelines In the stand… Or the front row Coz it’ll infect you like a rash… eatin’ you alive The revolution will not be digital Will not be digital Not be digital Be digital The revolution will be live ‘n’ direct And you’ll be playin’ a staring role Are you prepared for the digital revolution?

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I now seek solace and council with those who have gone before and those whose legacy I have humbly inherited. Inspirational figures such as James Baldwin, Richard Wright, Ralph Ellison, Langston Hughes, Amiri Baraka, Patricia Hill-Collins, bell hooks, Kimberly Crenshaw, Derrick Bell and numerous other intellectual soldiers have all come to my aid. I had also meditated on and revisited my artistic and cultural influences to reground me at this transitional moment in my life. The defiant poetry of Gil Scott-Heron and the Jazzed lyrics of Ted Jones, combined with the politics of the Last Poets, Watts Prophets and Mutaburuka, sprinkled with the vocal dexterity of Bobby McFerrin have blended together with the haunting passions of Miles Davis, and John Coltrane remind me about staying true to ‘who I am’.

Libation In some respects, this cultural libation guided me to a place of safety confidence and more importantly balance. I have become and am now seen as a intellectual, inasmuch as I occupy two binary opposed spaces, community and academia, who are continually suspicious of each other and at times are incredibly unsafe places to occupy. Once upon a time I was quite happy to go along with the surreal nature of university, while at the same time consuming the undiluted passion and rawness of the community in which I reside. However, in these turbulent times when many people are suffering, where young people are lacking in direction and struggling to find purpose, the urgency to unite these two fractious entities became increasingly significant. At times this unresolved conflict reminded me of two warring family members who in spite of being able to justify why they don’t get on, can’t remember what they were fighting about in the first place. So here I am, acting like a referee, stuck in the middle of two things I’m passionate about, and feeling incapable of resolving this on-going silent feud. There is so much unseen talent in both the community and my university where the sheer level of insights, skills and knowledge, is rarely seen or accessed by either side. The sad irony of this situation is they co-exist rarely visiting each other, which for me is such a sad state of affairs. This has been the case for many years. I’m just more aware and impacted by it, than I was previously.

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Change Is Inevitable Many things have changed, not least me. The irony of feeling both liberated and trapped in both spaces is at times draining and painful in equal measures. Unable to go back to what I was, yet not yet fully formed in terms of being re-birthed is a strange paradox. The opening paragraph of Ralph Ellison’s book Invisible Man (1952) springs to mind. He states: I am an invisible man. No, I am not a spook like those who ‘ haunted Edgar Allan Poe. I am a man of substance, of flesh and bone, fibre and liquids and I might even be said to possess a mind. I am invisible; understand, simply because people refuse to see me. When they approach me they see only my surroundings, themselves, or figments of their imagination, indeed, everything and anything, except me.1

Like Ellison’s character, I also possess a mind. At times I’ve played a flawed character in a comic tragedy written and directed by others. In some respects, I have been content to play minor roles in my own life, and occasionally play the lead. Always miscast but content to play the trickster, I have always concealed a deeper longing to play my authentic self. 6 decades later I’ve arrived at a new destination, having journeyed through light and dark, sweet and sour, sad and hurtful. None of this would have been possible if my wife Jennifer had not stuck with me steadfastly through my self-doubt. She encouraged me, worked with me, challenged me and more importantly through the power of love, made me realise that it was my duty to do the right thing by reconnecting to those I thought had left me behind. I was truly wrong and stand corrected. I also know they were right and I was wrong. I nearly stopped believing in myself, whereas they didn’t, as I’ve lived in the darkness for too long.

Closure The one thing I have never done is to forgive myself for the things that have happened to me in my life that I have had no control over. I’ve allowed my past to control and fuel my self-doubt to a point where it has crippled my ability to become the person I am now. This new journey has pushed me beyond the boundaries of that scared child hiding in the

1 Ralph Ellison, The Invisible Man (London: Penguin, 2001 edition), p. 3.

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corner, to a child who wants to explore new things without living in fear of taking risks. Like an adrenalin rush new desires, thoughts and feelings have now pushed my curiosity to new heights. Mediocrity has no place in my life. Like a marathon runner I’m poised to begin a long arduous journey where the route is mapped out, but my training has prepared me well. I have met myself for the first time. I am now more philosophical, gaining new wisdom and have acquired a mind not held captive by oppressive and dark forces. I now know my weaknesses are merely vulnerabilities that others have used to make me doubt myself. The need for validation has subsided, as accepting myself is more important than the emptiness of seeking the approval of others. In this discovery of my authentic self I am facing a critical decision. Do I continue to occupy space in a state of deceit and denial? Or do I accept who I have been hiding from for over 60 years? I no longer want to be held captive by biassed assumptions, subordination, false consciousness or want to pander to the lowest common denominator. I like smiling, simple pleasures, and find comfort in doing very little. The bigger picture which I have been socialised to embrace has little meaning when I reflect on what really matters; love, family, accepting myself, stealth and generally living in a deeper state of calm. The future may be uncertain and full of trepidation, but I’m relieved I have given myself permission to pursue my freedom. Returning back to my dub poetic place of rest has enabled me to finally walk off the plantation with a vow, never to return. Thanks for walking with me … Acknowledgements I want to acknowledge dub poetry village that raised me: Jean ‘Binta’ Breeze, Cherry and Nabby Natural, Moqapi Selassie, Mikey Smith, Lennox Carty, Adisa, Lillian Allen, Michael St. George, Clifton Joseph, Benjamin Zephaniah, Linton Kwesi Johnson, Lez Henry, Kenny Monrose, Tommy and the Jamaican Poetry society, Afua Cooper, d’bi young, ahdri zhina mandiela, Mutaburuka, Desmond Johnson, Levi Tafari, Anilia Soyinka and the many others who built a movement of resistant voices.

CHAPTER 5

‘What a Devilment a Englan!’ Dub Poets and Ranters Tim Wells

Jamaica has a distinct voice, as do the regions of Britain. Each is used proudly and defiantly by those who speak it; and to separate and condescend by those who do not and prefer to speak ‘the Queen’s English’. As such, the British working class has enjoyed a long and deep love affair with Black music, be that rock ‘n’ roll, soul or reggae. Each style has been embraced and new forms have sprung from the UK’s shores: lovers’ rock and grime continue to fill the dancefloor. In 1969, the year skinheads were dancing to reggae in youth clubs across the nation, Alton Ellis had a B-side to a record on the Gas label called ‘English Talk’.1 The song was about the funny way cockneys spoke, and Alton even pronounced ‘a cup of tea’ and ‘a sloice of cake’ in a cockney accent. Reggae, going back to ska, has constantly been in conversation with British working-class people. Whilst this chapter is about dub poetry, it is written through my own experience. It is not definitive; it’s not even a thorough history. 1 Alton Ellis, ‘Diana’ b/w ‘English Talk’ (Gas, 1969).

T. Wells (B) London, UK © The Author(s) 2021 W. ‘L’. Henry and M. Worley (eds.), Narratives from Beyond the UK Reggae Bassline, Palgrave Studies in the History of Subcultures and Popular Music, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-55161-2_5

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But dub poetry found a home in Britain, and not just in Black Britain. Dub poetry, along with reggae music and the footballing ‘Three Degrees’ (West Brom’s Laurie Cunningham, Brendon Batson and Cyrille Regis), was an open door to hearing each other; to understanding and sharing our experience; to seeing how much we had in common, however, it was expressed and despite those who separated and contained us.

From JA to UK Jamaican poet Louise Bennett (7 September 1919–1926 July 2006), known widely as Miss Lou, was a much loved writer and performer of poetry in deep Jamaican dialect. Her work told the stories of ordinary Jamaicans in the language and voice of everyday people. As recently as 1971, however, the Longman school textbook West Indian Poetry noted: ‘… enjoyable as she is in performance, Louise Bennett’s range is often restricted to topicality and journalism; it is only with the emergence of Edward Braithwaite that what is nowadays being called “the folk speech” comes into its own as a literary medium to be stretched and coiled and tuned in West Indian poetry without any need being felt simply to reproduce dialect as it is spoken.’2 As ever, those being schooled had schooling of their own to give. In 1982, the Jamaican poet Michael ‘Mikey’ Smith said of Louise Bennett: I consider Louise Bennett to be the mother of the young dub poets; Linton, Oku, Mutabaruka and myself. She has really stood up against colonial values, in which it is understood that real communication would have to be in the Queen’s English. To really communicate and be understood by all, you have to communicate in the language of the oppressed and dispossessed people you’re dealing with […] She elevated the language so the people can take pride in and a feeling of positiveness about themselves.3

The choice of vernacular was evidently important. Whilst supporting Gregory Isaacs on a 1982 UK tour, Smith told the reggae paper Black Echoes:

2 Kenneth Ramchand and Cecil Gray (eds), West Indian Poetry: An Anthology for Schools (Oxford: Longman, 1971). 3 Quoted in Paul Bradshaw, ‘Dub Poets of the Eighties’, NME, 30 October 1982.

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There was one time that someone upset me by asking why I didn’t write in standard English. I think I wrote just one poem in standard English: ‘I sit someday not meditating on people clapping, shouting, hallelujah making, but meditating freedom and I shall not die a natural death but fighting …’ That as the result of that conversation. But then I countered with another poem called: ‘Me nah disown this a chat yah!’ I think it’s just colonial values being projected, trying to force us to believe that the only way to proper acceptance of your work is write it in standard English. I had to overcome that feeling of insecurity that was being projected and forced upon me at that time. I just wrote how I wanted to. It has a lot to do with how you want to express yourself and the easiest way that you find to express yourself.4

Quintessentially English writers have also considered whether to write in their own vernacular or standard English. Alan Bennett noted: ‘… the first television play I wrote, A Day Out (1972), and I see from the script that as a beginner I thought it necessary to write the dialogue in dialect, or an approximation to it. This practice I later abandoned as being no help to anybody…’.5 In Britain, moreover, there is a tradition of proletarian poetry going back to the formation of the working class and further, certainly to the pamphleteers of the English Civil War and Ranters such as Abeizer Coppe (1619–1672). Feargus O’Connor’s The Northern Star and Leeds General Advertiser was a Chartist newspaper published between 1837 and 1852, best known for advancing the reform issues articulated by its proprietor. The paper published poetry by Shelley as well as poems sent in by working-class readers. In the same and subsequent century, Music Hall too was an embracing home to working-class culture, including poetry. Though usually less strident than much nineteenth century and Edwardian political verse, the turns at the Halls had ample impertinence, sauce and gender bending. And in the Caribbean, this cheek and comment also found outlet. Calypsonians were known as much for their innuendo as social comment. Lord Kitchener’s 1948 song ‘London is the Place for Me’ is a well-known testament to West Indian immigration to Britain, and is as much loved by Britons, black and white, as his salacious 1963 record ‘Dr Kitch’.

4 Quoted in Sonia Pascall, ‘Hearing Is Believing’, Black Echoes, 4 December 1982. 5 BBC, Objects of Affection (1982).

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Punk rock was influenced—infected is not too strong a word—by Music Hall. The punks also had an ear for, and understanding of, reggae music. That was a two-way street, with punk and reggae bands frequently gigging together. One of the successes of Rock Against Racism (RAR) was that so many disparate voices said the same thing. Whilst punk and reggae musicians sang about ghettoes (albeit with reggae having more real-world experience), everyone was smart enough to know that wasn’t where they wanted to stay: musically or politically. Linton Kwesi Johnson (LKJ) was stressing the point as early as 1975. In a review of Pedro Pietri’s Puerto Rican Obituary, he wrote: ‘For the committed poet, words cannot be shallow echoes of themselves, or poetry the outer thrust of the inner cry, nor yet the cryptic construct of abstract ideas with hidden meaning. The poet who is making a political statement and is dealing with a social situation – who is writing from the people to the people – must perforce use the language of the people, not the private rarified language of the poet’.6 Ranting, the term adopted from seventeenth-century radicals and applied to poets emerging in and around punk, was more comedic. ‘I consider myself to be a cross between stand-up comedy, poetry and slapstick; sort of a cross between George Formby and the 4-Skins’, Attila the Stockbroker (John Baine) told the Melody Maker in 1982.7 Both Attila and Seething Wells (Steven Wells) read at the Poetry Olympics at London’s Young Vic in 1981. ‘ Our contributions were totally unscheduled and we wiped the floor with the others’, Attila reported. ‘People said to me “it’s like punk hit poetry”, ‘cos Cooper-Clarke was never like that. He had a different delivery and a very original style and he was funny, but JCC was never threatening, he was always nice, safe entertainment. Me and Swells aren’t. We are controversial. People get angry when they see us’.8 For Attila, this was the beginning of ranting. ‘Everything started after that, it really took off. People like JCC and Linton Kwesi Johnson have had the scene to themselves for so long. Me and Swells and people like Little Brother from Bradford and Mark Mywords from Sheffield are

6 Linton Kwesi Johnson, Book review of Pedro Pietri, Puerto Rican Poet (1973), Race and Class, 16: 4 (1975), 442–45. 7 Quoted in Lynden Barber, ‘The Ultimate Hooligan’, Melody Maker, 19 June 1982. 8 Ibid.

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determined that LKJ and JCC are gonna have their monopoly bust open sky-high. There’s room for more than them.’9 Short-lived music paper Soundmaker took notice: ‘What poets like Benjamin [Zephaniah], Attila the Stockbroker, Seething Wells, John Cooper Clarke and Linton Kwesi Johnson have done is to demystify poetry and to make it relevant to those people who are likely to listen’.10 Garry Bushell noticed too. Writing in Sounds, in 1982, he commented: ‘Attila’s commitment to the real world sees him at 50 benefits and gigs for every one poetry festival. For example he’s currently compering the “Jobs Not YOPs” Right To Work Campaign march round London. Indeed it was after such a benefit on the back of a lorry in Woolwich that he and his partner in street-radical rhyme Seething Wells first decided to gatecrash the Poetry Olympics at the New Vic “for a crack”’.11 Attila told Bushell: ‘Most of the people in contemporary poetry have been doing the same stuff for 20 years. 20 years ago it was valid and real but now they’re just totally irrelevant and self-indulgent […] John Cooper Clarke made them redundant in ’77. He showed that poetry should be for the people and that it could be put across by anyone […] There’s a hell of a lot of kids writing poetry and I’d like to get them all doing something […] We want to crash through the gates of the Poetry Establishment with a pen in one hand and an axe in the other’.12 Bushell saw poetry as a medium of working-class expression. He put several poets on the Oi! albums he compiled next to various punk and skinhead bands, and championed Lewisham’s Beverley Skyers, a 17 year-old who wrote in a style similar to LKJ (see below). The political connotations of ranting were clear. Attila and Wells both claimed Socialist Workers Party (SWP) connections, as had Bushell. Predictably, Marxism Today had much to say, pointing out that poetry was once a publicly practised oral art that included curses. The article also mentioned the growing number of working female poets and further related:

9 Ibid. 10 Joe Hosken, ‘Verbal Riddim’, Soundmaker, 22 September 1983, pp. 8–9. 11 Garry Bushell, ‘You’re the Hun That I Want’, Sounds, 27 February 1982. 12 Ibid.

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A similar upsurge of black poets has occurred. The experience of oppression in this country backed up by whites’ attempts to deny it has led black poets to mine the riches of Caribbean culture and mix proud angry words with music to testify to their need and determination to survive racism and celebrate a history whites would rather forget. Lynton Kwesi Johnson, now internationally known through his live appearances and his albums, recently completed a successful national tour with Manchester bard John Cooper Clarke, thus proving that black and white can cooperate. He is just one among many: John Agard, Grace Nichols, James Berry, Keith Jefferson, to name but a few.13

The article looked at the white poets who were gigging alongside the black poets. ‘Some white working-class poets go so far as to declare that poetry is dead and long live rant. The Ranters, drawn from north and south, include Attila the Stockbroker, Joolz, Seething Wells, Little Brother, Little Dave; they draw on the tradition of scurrilous ballads in rhyme and, like the other groups, produce their own fanzines and magazines’.14 The political situation, then as now, impacted on the poetry of the time. Austerity post-2010 is all too familiar to those of us who lived and tried to work through the Thatcher years. In 1984, when the Marxism Today article was written, there was another six years of Thatcher to go and the miners’ strike was a month away and ready to kick off. The article considered the social context of the poetry and the poets, suggesting that the ‘public role of the new generation of radical poets is, oddly enough, aided by the current recession’. As theatre companies close for lack of funds and grants, so the actors involved have re-formed into variety acts performing at the many cabarets which have sprung up across London and other large cities and which offer a cheap night out: beer and music, mime, comedy, poetry and backchat. This is very different from the hushed churchly atmosphere associated with traditional poetry readings where the emphasis remains on the written text read from rather than performed in a mixed-media entertainment setting.

However, the article also accused establishment poets of ignoring the ‘diversity of choice now available, which reflects our multi-cultural society’. Citing the recently published Penguin anthology Contemporary 13 ‘The Trouble with Poetry’, Marxism Today, February 1984, p. 39. 14 Ibid.

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British Poetry, the article pointed to the furore caused by its concentrating solely on the work of a small elite group of poets (all white and mostly male. Too many critics, Marxism Today argued, remained ‘happy to disdain as tainted or corrupt poetry that is in any way connected to politics, to dismiss feminist poets as shrill hysterics, and to patronise working-class and black poets as occasionally interesting minority inhabitants of a peripheral zoo’. For Marxism Today, a distinction was further made clear by the fact: These new poets are frightening, subversive and dangerous. Radical poetry heals the splits our culture inflicts as necessary (common-sense) wounds between intellect and body, man and woman, mother and revolutionary, conscious and unconscious, theory and ideology. Radical poetry tries to speak what has been unspeakable: working-class, black and female experience. The Left is not always comfortable with this. Nor am I: other poets give me disturbing, shifting images which don’t correspond to my yearnings for simple socialist-feminist heroism. Radical poetry allows the unconscious back in. Labelling it as irrational, opposing it to scientific theory doesn’t make it go away. Poetry makes us laugh or shudder or weep or desire when perhaps we’d rather fantasise controlling the world through a political language which is almost never playful and inventive.15

Throughout, and whatever the political trajectory, the connection between radical poetry, ranters and reggae was clear.

Dub Poets In poetry, as in insults, a word can have more than one meaning. In dub you hear the original cut of a record in your head at the same time as hearing the dub with your ears. Such a correlation was clear in the dub poetry covered by the music press in the 1970s and 1980s, a poetry that became an integral part of British youth culture. In 1982, for example the NME ran a feature on ‘Dub Poets’ comprised of interviews with Mutabaruka and Michael Smith. Mutabaruka first published work in Jamaica’s premier music mag Swing in 1971. A volume of poems, Outcry, came out in 1973; in 1976 he jointly published, with Fabian Miranda, Sun and Moon. Both volumes

15 Ibid.

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were reprinted as Mutabaruka: The First Poems in 1981 and used in schools and for Jamaica’s Festival. He told the NME: We a deal with a work. We a deal with words. We a deal with certain things that if you not writing poetry then you’d pick up a gun. But you know that you can’t win with a gun right now so you have to raise the consciousness of the people by using the word. The word is power; politicians use the word, preachers use the word. I feel we can generate a certain interest in terms of the liberation struggle in South Africa or what’s takin’ place in England right now just as Linton Kwesi Johnson is doing. Linton is doing great work.16

Linton Kwesi Johnson’s activities on the political front with the Race Today collective are well known. But political activism for Muta was an ‘ism’ which generated little enthusiasm. ‘I is not a politician. I’m not a Marxist, or a capitalist. I feel that black people can’t use another man’s ideology to free themselves. African people must use African influences to free themselves’.17 Dub poetry had deep roots. Oku Onuora began writing poetry in Fort Augusta Prison in 1971 whilst serving a 15-year sentence. He had a history of rebellion and political involvement. He was the first prisoner allowed to perform with a reggae band when Cedric ‘Im’ Brooks’ band, The Light of Saba, played inside the prison in 1974. After the gig, however, Onuora’s poetry was declared ‘subversive’ and his writing confiscated from his cell. Onuora considered himself a political prisoner and continued to write. His poems were smuggled out of prison and found an audience. In 1976, Onuora won three prizes at the Jamaican Literary Festival and was allowed out of prison to read the following year. Jamaican newspapers printed several of his poems. His first book, Echo, was published in 1978. Onuora recalled: ‘I was influenced by people like Bob Marley, Peter Tosh, Burning Spear. Even growing up, I was never seriously a deejay fan. I love deejay music, people like Big Youth, URoy. They are great. But for me Bob Marley is one of the greatest poets.

16 Quoted in Bradshaw, ‘Dub Poets’. 17 Ibid.

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People like Bob Marley, Peter Tosh and Burning Spear were the people who influenced me as a writer’.18 Onuora is often credited with coining the term ‘ dub poetry’, though he himself noted: There’s no need to coin the phrase “dub poetry” because, prior to me using the phrase “dub poetry” we had the phrase “overdub”, “dubbing”, “dubplate”; and then the words “dub poetry” came about while I was in prison and I would come out in the morning and this brother realised that I was writing poetry and all of that and he would say “Come on! Dub a t’ing! Dub a piece of poem!” And I wanted to distinguish myself from the normal poetry! I wanted to distinguish myself from all these people, Miss Lou, Chaucer, Shakespeare.

Not that Onuora had anything against Miss Lou. He appreciated her humour and use of folk rhythm. Rather than be a folk poet, however, Onuora saw what he was doing as ‘a process of dubbing’. The aim was ‘to dub out some unconsciousness, and dub in some consciousness. I dub the reggae rhythm into my poetry: the rhythm of my poetry is reggae’.19 With regard to Linton Kwesi Johnson’s article in Race Today, where he described deejays as dub poets, Onuora felt ‘that’s too much of a different thing! He had never used the phrase to describe poets as such. He was describing the deejays as dub poets […] But I am a dub poet, I don’t need to coin the phrase: I am the first Jamaican poet whether here or in Britain, to use that phrase to describe my poetry, not a deejay, ‘cause I am not a deejay …’.20 Mervyn Morris made the connection between Onuora and LKJ.21 But the connections ran much further. In the early 1980s, Linton Kwesi Johnson was a headline act in the UK; Mikey Smith toured widely and was much loved; ranting poets were gigging anywhere they could stand still long enough. The excitement of authentic voices leapt from record players, fanzines and stages. Sister Nita and Frederick Williams gigged

18 Quoted in Eric Doumerc, ‘An Interview with Oku Onuora’. Miranda, 17 (2017),

1–8. 19 Ibid. 20 Ibid. 21 Ibid.

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aplenty; Osibisa’s bassist Spartacus R even did poetry gigs with Angelic Upstarts singer Mensi. Liverpool poet and all round top bloke Levi Tafari remembered: Me and ranting poet Ginger John were the same, saying the things politically but from different traditions. We came out of a similar place and the results were the same in how we executed what we were doing. It was very much a family, gigging back in the early 80s, all sorts of different poets. I gigged with Nick Toczek a lot, John Hegley, Ben Zephaniah. We were even gigging overseas, with Christian Habekost who did the Dub Poetry book in 1986. He got a degree in dub poetry and called himself Dr. Dub. We were commentators of the times, politically, socially, spiritually.22

Habekost’s Dub Poetry was an essential anthology, collecting work from 19 English and Jamaican poets including Jean ‘Binta’ Breeze, LKJ, Sister Nita, Michael Smith, Levi Tafari, Frederick Williams, Anita Steward and more. Hearing the poetry is crucial and the 1983 Heartbeat album Word Soun’ ‘Ave Power is a compilation of seven dub poets including Jean ‘Binta’ Breeze, Malachi Smith and Glenville Bryan. Just as LKJ’s albums had sat alongside punk albums in bedsits throughout the country in the late 1970s, this one sat alongside the Newtown Neurotics and Son of Oi! albums in the ranters’ record collections. A year earlier, though, the 1981 English Centre Poetry Competition got thousands of poems from Inner London Education Authority (ILEA) schools. These were published as City Lines in 1982, a book collectable today mainly for its photographs of schoolkid skinheads. Being the ILEA, there are also plenty of CND pictures too. But the lad who wrote the following poem was 16 and went to Tulse Hill School, the same attended by both Linton Kwesi Johnson and Smiley Culture. Us Dreads In a dis ya skool us dread rool. Soul head dem saaf mek us dreads laugh demno no how fe dress but us dreads strickly de bess. Gal dem cool an 22 Interview with the author, 3 April 2019.

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control dem part ah de skool. Mek us dreads feel sweet each day ah de week. Teachars all weird mek saaf buoy scared but us dread move together an control de skool. De music we play nice up de day. Rythdym just nice it Teachar dem no like it. When exam come some dreads run dem carn do dem tings. In de enn teachar dem win. Us dreads carn get no wok we strickly brok lose out in de enn but us dreads still frienn. Dave Martin

Beverley Skyers was a teenage poet in the early 1980s and came from Lewisham. This poem is from late 1981. Run Riot A brethren throws a brick an’ a bull get lick A sister throws a stone an’ more bull come down. babylon tek out dem riot shiel’ but dat nah stop dem from bleed ‘Stop all this violence’ a shout from de crowd, but it was no use, the frustration grew loud. Babylon a run but me don’t know why Youthman a run but me still don’t know why School children a run, but why? “Dem a run fe dem life Man a fe hol’ up him wife dem a try to survive

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fe stay alive.” A white man chucks a rock an’ a shop window brok, Black han’ white han’ looting out de lan’. Looting, fighting against the babylon. Trying to achieve a war dat should be won. “Fire,” shouted one man. They had lighted a light bue van. Riot on de lan’ from those with the wicked han’. Will de violence ever end, and the heart aches ever mend? Shall we have truth and right, and stop the fuss an’ fight? Beverley Skyers

Both poems have a distinct voice. It’s the one that young Black British people spoke in and were now speaking out in.

Mi Cyaan Believe It I was at many reggae dances, punk gigs and poetry gigs in the early 1980s; I was doing poetry gigs too. I am lucky enough to have read with Benjamin Zephaniah, Linton Kwesi Johnson, Seething Wells, Attila and all the ranting poets many times. The fact that we were all reading on the same stages was seen by us as a win. We all had our stories. Ben Zephaniah’s ‘Dis Policeman Keeps on Kicking Me to Death’ was a poem we related to because many of us had been on the receiving end of that boot; four broken bones courtesy of Islington old bill, albeit a truncheon rather than a boot in my case.23 The poem was on Zephaniah’s 1983 album Rasta. A year later, in 1984, with the miners’ strike raging, that same boot was stamping the country hard. It was a poem that gained resonance and understanding from the audiences that heard it. Zephaniah’s first record, in 1982, was an EP called Dub Ranting. ‘I don’t have to think too hard or imaginative to write my poetry,’cause it’s there all the time’, he told the NME. 23 Benjamin Zephaniah, Rasta (Upright Records, 1983).

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If it’s not somethin’ on the news, then it’s somethin’ that happen to me […] But I want to know that what I’m saying is really relevant to every person in the audience. So if I say, ‘The boat is sinking, we’re goin’ down, do you want to sit there and let these people drown, on this automatic star? The boat is sinking, we’re goin’ to drown, young ones don’t jus sit there’, everybody in the audience knows I’m talking to them. Sometimes I don’t even know if we should call it poetry.24

Zephaniah wrote as he felt. He liked ‘Rasta company more time, but I live very cosmopolitan amongst a very diverse set of people. All of them is important. Who feels it knows it, and a lot of the things I’ve felt have been because I’m black. A woman will feel it because she is a woman. If I take my experience out there people will learn to understand, ’cause a lot of racism stems from fear’. From understanding ‘black people struggles’, he suggested, ‘then I start to understand white people in England are struggling; then I get to understand it’s international’.25 I remember that Ben Zephaniah and I would often be on the same bill and we’d meet at the bar; lager top for me, orange juice from him. The middle-class social worker types who ran many of the gigs would introduce us and be shocked that DMs, Ben Sherman, crophead me and dreadlocks, all round nice guy Ben knew each other. We knew more than they thought we did. The poet Lee Nelson wrote about being taught Michael Smith’s ‘Mi Cyaan Believe It’ at school. Smith was murdered in 1983, caught up in Jamaica’s political division. In his poem, he provides evocative snapshots of Jamaican life, the poverty, the violence, but also the community. Nelson was shown a video of Mikey reading ‘Mi Cyaan Believe It’ on the 1982 Arena documentary ‘Upon Westminster Bridge’ for his A Level in Luton. Having seen John Hegley twice on ‘home turf’ in 1990, he went off to college in Crewe he saw Henry Normal, then Lemn Sissay in Manchester, and Joolz and Benjamin Zephaniah. ‘I listened and was delighted and excited and wanted to do it too and, when I wanted to go and talk to them afterwards, I had something to talk about as I was getting my book signed. “Have you seen that video of Mikey Smith?”’ In reply, Zephaniah told Nelson to ‘stand firm in the downturn and I started to think that maybe what I was taught might not all be true’. Nelson then 24 Quoted in Paul Bradshaw, ‘The Bard of Stratford’, NME, 27 November 1982. 25 Ibid.

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went on marches ‘and found that the news wasn’t true either and so I kept asking irritating questions and telling other students off for being apolitical posh kids and got more and more angry that things were so unfair’. Through poetry, Nelson thought he ‘would change things in England by asking questions and knowing the difference between right and wrong […] And, when the cool old lecturers I wanted to argue with tried to be all cool and play Linton Kwesi Johnson records about what a bitch England was, I could go “Yeah, but what about Mikey Smith, have you seen that video?”’. As this suggests, ‘Mi Cyaan Believe It’ was a ‘way in’ for Nelson. It was: A way out of one thing I might have been, a more solipsistic thing, and a way into another, something that I have now been doing for 25 years; hearing words, speaking words, picking them apart to find out what’s inside and assembling them just so to carry my own meanings. And always hoping to be carried and liberated by rhythm and the often dark laughter of connection. And being angry and wanting to share that anger, not just for its own sake, but in the hope of communicating it in a way that people will get and share in and maybe then we can go on to do something with that anger.26

Reggae moved from roots into dancehall in 1979. By 1985 digi was the musical style of the day. Wayne Smith’s ‘Under Me Sleng Teng’ was the first massive tune and remains a dancefloor classic, up there with Althea and Donna’s ‘Uptown Top Ranking’. The lyrical concerns of reggae softened as fashions and politics changed. Slackness permeated lyrics—it had always been there—and a gunman swagger took over from consciousness. This, again, had always been there. One exciting dimension was female artists like Lady Saw and Tanya Stephens who were slack as hell but used it to question misogyny. In poetry, rap and social media have swept all before them. One of the reasons I started the Stand Up and Spit blog was to document the spoken word—ranters, dub poets, music and the politics that gave it context— from a time that was pre-internet, pre-YouTube, so invisible to the young poets. Spoken word now contains a myriad of styles and voices, and I’m glad that’s something us older poets helped to make room for. Worryingly, the young poets are frequently surprised when they find out ranters 26 https://standupandspit.wordpress.com/2015/04/18/learning-mi-cyaan-believe-it/.

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and dub poets were all gigging together, drinking together and fighting the same causes. We might have looked and sounded different but we had, and fought, the same enemies. It’s sad to see us separated and pigeonholed by terminology in these ‘woke’ times. Linton Kwesi Johnson made it clear when talking about his poetry and the Race Today organisation in 1981: We want to work with those whites who are interested in isolating the fascists among them and dealing with them in the same way that we have to isolate those backward racists amongst us as well. We have the small minority of blacks who believe in the ‘back-to-Africa’ idea, or nonsense like hating the white man. These elements represent the ass-hole end of black politics. They preach the same kind of race hatred that the British Movement and the National Front preach. You saw what happened at Brixton when the police started their swamp intimidation. Black and White people rose to the occasion and made their protest that they were not going to take any more of this. As long as these conditions prevail acts of insurrection will happen.27

Dub poetry was an insurrection of its own, and one that didn’t happen in isolation. There was a clear black voice from poets like Miss Lou and James Berry but dub poetry spoke to and from those of us on the dole queues, in dead end jobs and prison cells. Looking back on the 1980s, James Berry wrote: ‘For black writers who draw on a Caribbean culture, their participation on the British scene has meant that the narrow trail they ignited in the ’70s exploded widely in the ’80s. With their cultural distinctiveness, the Caribbean-background poets broke through and launched a poetry performance revolution. Best known as the main contributor to that enlivening of things is Linton Kwesi Johnson. In his role of both performer and recording artist Johnson’s voice rang from the ’70s to the ‘80s’.28 There are many young poets now making the same connections to community and struggle, poets from the people as much as for the people. Sharmilla Beezmohun, who produces literary events with Speaking Volumes, makes clear that there are relevant young writers who

27 Quoted in Desmond Hunt, ‘Equality, Justice, Peace’, The Other Side, 1 (1981), pp. 12–13. 28 James Berry in Poetry Review, 79: 4 (1989/90).

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may not be writing in a dub poetry style, but who produce authentic work in an authentic voice, and that there’s an audience and ear for that voice. ‘These artists and writers, still coming mainly from working class and minority ethnic backgrounds, feel that in this time of unbridled neoliberalist capitalism, they still have a lot to rage against’.29 As for today, LKJ is a Penguin Modern Classic (but so is that arse Morrissey). Salena Godden is on Radio 4 and Tim Wells still buys discomixes. Joe Gibbs rules innit.

29 Interview with author, 28 March 2019.

CHAPTER 6

Smiley Culture: A Hybrid Voice for the Commonwealth Lucy Robinson

There has been a lot of work recently on the gains and lessons learnt from Rock Against Racism (RAR). It has a place in the canon of cultural history, and is perennially used as evidence that through music ‘black and white [can] unite and fight’. But beyond the carnivals and marches, if we acknowledge that racism is everywhere, experienced individually, locally, nationally, and through international structures, then we might explore the ways in which it was resisted everywhere too. Whole cultural forms had been defending black lives, speaking truth to power and forging collective identities for themselves, locally, nationally, across the postcolonial structures. Stuart Hall pointed out that black popular culture has a particular politics. It does more than to bring an audience together or represent a particular group. Black popular culture becomes the community, encompassing both performer and audience. Hall wrote that black

L. Robinson (B) University of Sussex, Brighton, UK e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s) 2021 W. ‘L’. Henry and M. Worley (eds.), Narratives from Beyond the UK Reggae Bassline, Palgrave Studies in the History of Subcultures and Popular Music, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-55161-2_6

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popular cultures ‘come to signify the black community’, represent experience and construct counter narratives.1 He understood the importance of black cultural experience, not as the ‘other’ but at the heart of the British context. ‘This is the time of Brixton and the time of New Cross’, Linton Kwesi Johnston told Zig Zag magazine in 1981. ‘I think we have reached the stage now where reggae music is part of British popular culture’.2 Yet black popular culture remains marginalised in histories of contemporary Britain. Similarly, the history of the Commonwealth has been significantly overlooked in work on Britain’s alignments during the second half of the twentieth century.3 A cultural history that takes reggae and rap seriously—and understands the structures of feeling, and identities, around the Commonwealth—could be a way into what Stephen Howe has called Britain’s ‘internal decolonization’ in the 1980s, whereby individuals, communities, nations and transnational structures shifted to accommodate change or defend the imagined old order.4 So when Rupert Murdoch’s Sun newspaper backed Margaret Thatcher and declared ‘who cares if every single black nation walks out?’ of the Commonwealth structure, it might as well have been talking about every black and ethnic minority community in Britain.9 The same tensions around race, politics and the law were played out regardless of the scale of the stage: the Commonwealth, the nation, the community. The legacies of empire, the policies of nationhood and everyday experience fed these tensions over race in Thatcher’s Britain. The growth of the far right, ever tightening immigration control, moral panics around black youth and experiences of racist policing built into a storm of street resistance. Areas identifiable and connectable through their visible black and ethnic minority communities erupted in riots in 1980, 1981 and

1 Stuart Hall, ‘What Is This “Black” in Black Popular Culture?’, in John Storey (ed.), Popular Culture and Cultural Theory: A Reader (Abingdon: Routledge, 2006), pp. 479– 89. 2 Dave Hill, ‘Linton Kwesi Johnson’, Zig Zag, July 1981, pp. 28–29. http://standupan dspit.wordpress.com/2014/06/05/linton-kwesi-johnson-zig-zag-july-1981/. 3 Sue Onslow, ‘The Commonwealth and the Cold War, Neutralism, and NonAlignment’, The International History Review, 37: 5 (2015), 1059–82. 4 Stephen Howe, ‘Internal Decolonization? British Politics Since Thatcher as Postcolonial Trauma’, Twentieth Century British History, 14: 3 (2003), 286.

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1985. Fears over the economic implications of unemployment and immigration were used to legitimise racism when the National Front polled 18.5% of the vote in the Leicester by-election. By 1976 the NF were the fourth largest political party. In March 1977 they beat the Liberal Party to their traditional third place in the Stechford by-election in Birmingham. Furthermore, they had gained a significant number of votes in the Greater London Council elections. A decade later the Conservative Party picked up the mantle. In 1987, the Conservative Party manifesto Our First Eight Years listed their achievements in office so far. Under the heading ‘better race relations’ there was only one point made: fewer people had been accepted for settlement in the United Kingdom since the control of Commonwealth immigration in 1962.5 In London the local and transnational were dialectically aligned as multicultural Britain reciprocated Britain’s post-colonial decline. The 1981 New Cross fire, the policing of the Notting Hill Carnival and the racially applied use of the ‘Sus’ laws all suggested an uneasy covenant— between the nation, the law, the far right and the police—that excluded black and ethnic minority communities. Old orders were defended, but some were challenged. Ideas of sovereignty were re-examined in Northern Ireland, Hong Kong, Gibraltar and the Falkland Islands. Meanwhile the Falklands War ignited a form of jingoism that many assumed to be long over, helped in the process by a ‘Special Relationship’ with US President Ronald Reagan that wiped out memories of the humiliation at Suez. The Cold War maintained Britain’s military support role for the United States, all be it with the Queen’s annoyance at the United States’ invasion of Grenada in 1983. In terms of the domestic politics of the Commonwealth, Thatcher’s relationship with the Commonwealth had been in the words of Derek Ingram ‘dark and stormy’.6 Her tenure had begun dealing with Rhodesia and was dominated by divisions over South Africa. Thatcher rejected the Commonwealth nations’ use of economic sanctions against South Africa. The Commonwealth, as a concept, an imagined community and constitutional structure, was re-evaluated. In the Cold War balancing act, the Commonwealth ‘represented a global sub-system which both permitted

5 The Conservative Party, Manifesto: Our First Eight Years (1987). 6 Derek Ingram, ‘Thatcher and Ramphal: A Long and Turbulent Relationship’, The

Round Table, 97: 398 (2008), 781.

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and enabled multiple identities’.7 By 1989 it was ‘simply not what it was’.8 It was no longer ‘Britain’s Commonwealth’.9 Just as the domestic issues of race had fragmented ideas of Britishness and brought legal and political structures under scrutiny, Commonwealth summits in 1985 and 1986 marked the end of any assumed Commonwealth consensus.10 Its cultural spaces reiterated these tensions. As Hall’s work on black popular culture suggested, cultural spaces did not just provide an audience for the Commonwealth message, they built the community. In the Gleneagles Agreement from 1977, Commonwealth countries agreed to discourage sporting competition between Commonwealth teams and countries where sports were segregated by race, colour or ethnic origin. The 1986 Commonwealth Games held in Edinburgh explicitly ignored the Gleneagles commitment. As a result, the Edinburgh games ‘ended in utter disarray – boycotted, broken and bankrupt’, with 32 out of 59 teams withdrawing.11 The Games’ free market funding had failed. Robert Maxwell presented himself as the Games’ knight in shining armour. The English Games authority licensed two white South African athletes, runner Zola Budd and swimmer Annette Cowley, to break the anti-apartheid boycott—and all at a time when immigration controls set harder and harder targets and made more and more exclusions so that the Conservative Party could measure its success in developing ‘better race relations’. When Budd and Cowley’s applications were rushed through, the link between national identity and immigration policy seemed uncomfortably self-serving.12 The moratorium on South Africa’s participation in international sporting competition ended when South Africa made a late application

7 Onslow ‘The Commonwealth and the Cold War’, 1059. 8 Stephen Chan, ‘The Commonwealth as an International Organization: Constitution-

alism, Britain and South Africa’, The Round Table, 78: 312 (1989), 397. 9 Derek Ingram, ‘Lusaka 1979: A Significant Commonwealth Meeting: Informal Links Produce Results’, The Roundtable, 69 (1979), 275–83. 10 Chan, ‘The Commonwealth as an International Organization’, 393. 11 Stuart Mole, ‘Glasgow, the Referendum and the Commonwealth Games’, The

Roundtable, 103 (2014), 454; Aviston D. Downes, ‘Sport and International Diplomacy: The Case of the Commonwealth Caribbean and the Anti-Apartheid Campaign, 1959– 1992’, The Sports Historian, 22: 2 (2002), 23–45; PREM-19-3568, CSAD, ‘South Africa Cricket: Letter from Prime Minister’, June 1991 (National Archives). 12 Mole, ‘Glasgow, the Referendum and the Commonwealth Games’, 453–55.

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for a desegregated team to be included in the Cricket World Cup in 1991, the year after Mandela’s release. In Mandela’s view cricket was the appropriate cultural space, with its particular Commonwealth connotations, through which to introduce the new South Africa back into the international community. The hope was that it would encourage other sports, like athletics, football and rugby, to ‘put their house in order’. As the chairman of the International Cricket Council pointed out, there was no way the ICC wanted to be seen to have ‘knocked back Nelson Mandela’.13 A working party then set out to strengthen the Commonwealth Games in the new configuration, building towards the 1994 Games in Canada.14 As a result, the relationship between the Commonwealth, the government’s position and global mood on South Africa realigned. Whilst Budd and Cowley had been rushed through the system in the name of sporting competition, immigration policies were excluding rather than including Commonwealth communities. The 1981 New Nationality Act (which came into force in 1983) abolished the imperial concept of the British subject and created a separate citizenship of the United Kingdom for those who had a close personal connection with the United Kingdom (i.e. had parents or grandparents who were born, adopted, naturalised or registered citizens of the United Kingdom). All others became Citizens of the British Dependent Territories, or British Overseas citizens, neither of which carried the right of entry or abode in the United Kingdom. This became a major issue in 1989 with the crushing of the pro-democracy movement in China and the impact on Hong Kong. Visa requirements were brought in for visitors from Sri Lanka in 1985 and from India, Pakistan, Bangladesh, Nigeria and Ghana in 1986. In 1987 airlines and shipping companies were made liable for enforcing visa regulations. The 1988 Immigration Act repealed rights of men settled before 1973 to be joined by their families. In a number of high-profile cases, Britain was seen to overturn pre-existing refugee status in order to repatriate individuals. The right of appeal for deportees was removed in August 1989. So, throughout the period, there had been a consistently tough policy

13 PREM-19-3568, Colin Cowdrey, ‘Memo to Andrew Turnball’, September 30, 1991 (National Archives). 14 PREM-19-3568, ‘South Africa: Game Plan on Sport’, undated (National Archive).

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towards visitors, students, immigrants and asylum seekers. As their Manifesto had explained, the Conservative Party’s ‘firm but fair’ policies were justified by the argument that they contributed to the good race relations. Beyond top-down political accounts of Thatcher’s career, institutions like Europe, NATO and the Commonwealth mattered to people. They provided pockets of space. They were ways of imagining communities, defending identity groups and sharing their stories. The hurt and anger surrounding the Windrush scandal, in 2018, when approximately 63 members of the Windrush generation were wrongly detained and deported, with many more threatened with deportation, reached to the heart of the Commonwealth as a historical imagined community and the faultlines of hostility that cut across that community.

Smiley Culture Smiley Culture’s career illuminates the formal and informal structures of identity in multicultural Britain and the Commonwealth. Through his surprise breakthrough singles, popularity in the press and role as a figurehead of the Commonwealth Institute, he tied together the everyday experiences of race in Britain with the history and role of the nation on a global stage. He was the first black British MC to appear on Top of The Pops, moved from sound system culture to mainstream broadcaster, was a figurehead of numerous campaigns, and brought the complexity of black British identities into his lyrics, music videos and media interviews. Smiley Culture was born David Emannuel. He began developing his style when he started performing at 14-years old, practising with his friend Asher Senator copying Jamaican-style ‘chatting’. He was part of the renowned Saxon Studio International sound system, which had been going since the mid-1970s. Saxon developed their own sound; it was rooted in their experiences growing up in London, avoided crude or ‘slack’ lyrics, and had a continuous narrative form, like poetry. In 1984, Smiley Culture released the single ‘Police Officer’. It was the first hit for a small-scale specialist record company Fashion Records.15 Fashion Records succeeded in gaining impressive amounts of press coverage on a pretty non-existent promotion budget and a DIY/makedo-and-mend ethos produced from existing rhythm tracks. The song, its 15 Jon Stratton, ‘Chris Blackwell and “My Boy Lollipop”: Ska, Race, and British Popular Music’, Journal of Popular Music Studies, 22: 4 (2010), 437.

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success and its legacies all carry this blend of what is found (heritage) and what is new (context). Through the song Smiley tells a story about being stopped by the police in his car, a Lancia. Concerned that a search of the car would uncover his stash of cannabis (ganja), he considers bribing the police but thinks better of it. In the end the police officer recognises his name and lets him off with a different type of exchange; he asks for Smiley Culture’s autograph ‘for his mother’. Like all of Smiley Culture’s work the track is a ‘continuous verse’ with no repeated verses.16 Culture explained the role of personal experience in the track, explaining that it ‘was a true story—the police used to take my weed. It was better than being arrested, and I made that into a hit’.17 We could read this as a piece of cultural revenge, taking the everyday experiences of racist policing on the street, exposing it, ridiculing it and using to become a celebrity in the process. ‘Police Officer’ reached number 12 in the charts and stayed in the charts for 13 weeks. Smiley Culture’s success raised the profile of Saxon Sound, Fashion Records and the British reggae scene more generally. ‘Police Officer’ was so successful that Fashion Records re-released his previous track ‘Cockney Translation’. As Hall suggested, the song became a way in which communities could signify themselves, for themselves, particularly through the phrase ‘Police Officer no give me producer’. The ‘producer’ in this case was the police form HO/RT1. It was the short form filled in at the roadside which required drivers to produce their full driver’s licence and provide evidence of road tax and insurance to an elected police station. The term, ‘producer’, ‘ha[d] already become something of a London catch-phrase’.18

16 Robin Denselow, When the Music’s Over: The Story of Political Pop (London: Faber & Faber, 1989); Mark Paytress, ‘Smiley Culture a Great British Urban Music Pioneer’, Blog, Open Salon (2011). 17 Robin Denselow, ‘Smiley Chats His Way to the Top’, The Guardian, December 21, 1985. 18 Hall, ‘What Is This “Black” in Black Popular Culture?’, 479–89.

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The Power of Laughing at Power As Lez Henry’s work on sound systems shows, black popular culture could simultaneously document social experience, critique society and, at the same time, speak into being a new form of community.19 In Gilroy’s terms, black popular culture is therefore both ‘interpretive’ and ‘participative’ for ‘British blacks and their inner-city associates’.20 The London MCs were sometimes derided as politically lightweight compared to the US alternative of, for example Public Enemy. Whereas in the US rap found an early market on college campuses, the context and music markets in the United Kingdom were different, and crossover successes were often treated as novelty records or as dilutions of a message and a style. The Saxon sound was distinguishable from the United States, and from other London MCs, by the sound of its Jamaican roots. Their work took inspiration from recordings of Jamaican dancehall sessions, Yard tapes, but combined these with their own style, subject matter, doubletime speed and a move away from sexually explicit lyrics (slackness). The importance of bringing the catchy Jamaican hook into English DJs’ style was emphasised. In 1984, NME’s Paul Bradshaw hailed the new generation of MCs associated with Saxon at that time, whose ‘young bucks’ comprised Smiley Culture, Asher Senator and Phillip ‘Papa’ Levi. Together they had fast built a name for themselves as the ‘vanguard of a new generation of supa-dupa dejays … playing reggae’s subterranean ghetto dance circuit’. Senator and Levi received NME muso plaudits as the sound of the ghetto. The inclusion of Levi’s track ‘Mi God Mi King’ on NME’s Department of Employment giveaway cassette had launched his career (or at least as far as the NME were concerned it had).21 But it was Smiley Culture who crossed over in a way that Culture’s own Jamaican-influenced roots had not. Culture moved beyond the gate keepers of the ‘serious’ music press, ‘the inkies’, and into teenage aimed glossies like Smash Hits.

19 William ‘Lez’ Henry, ‘Reggae, Rasta and the Role of the Deejay in the Black British Experience’, Contemporary British History, 26: 3 (2012), 356. 20 Paul Gilroy, There Ain’t No Black in the Union Jack: The Cultural Politics of Race and Nation (London: Hutchinson, 1987), p. 304. 21 Paul Bradshaw, ‘Smiley Culture, Papa Levi and Asher Senator: Three Baad DJ’, NME, August 4, 1984.

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For Culture, his light-hearted approach was a specific political tactic, an issue of the form and voice. ‘He [was] convinced that making people laugh [was] the best way to deliver a globally serious message. “Life without humour is not life at all”’, he told The Guardian.22 ‘Police Officer’ was just one of numerous tracks that used humour and cartoon-like characters to represent the structures of power, ridicule them, and bring them down a peg or two. There was a particular impetus to laugh at the police as a way of speaking truth to power. The official report on the Brixton Riots by Lord Scarman found incidences of misconduct by the police spiralled into total distrust. John Fraser MP responded to his visit to homes that had been raided by the police in Brixton by declaring: ‘I come to no conclusion other than that a large number of policemen had deliberately set out to wreck the houses, to make them uninhabitable, by taking up floorboards, breaking water pipes, removing gas and electric meters, handrails and banisters and smashing almost every window’.23 Such seeming contempt for local communities in their own homes was reiterated in parliament following the 1981 riots. Kenneth Oxford, the local police chief, described the inhabitants of Liverpool 8 as ‘the product of liaisons between white prostitutes and African sailors’. The police were also experienced as complicit in other attacks on black communities; for example in the New Cross Fire of 1981, where 13 young people died in a racist firebombing at a birthday party. Failures to adequately investigate and take fears of far-right violence seriously were compounded by the Coroner’s direction to push for an accidental verdict on the death, which in turn challenged the police’s commitment to the local community and the neutrality of the law. Linton Kwesi Johnson explained the community reaction: ‘I mean, they found an incendiary device outside of the house! I mean how can they explain that away? They found this device and tried to cover it up. But it eventually came out in the inquest. And blacks are very very angry about this’. There was a belief in a conspiracy between the Home Office and the police to cover the ‘whole thing up’.24 The poets and reggae wordsmiths like LKJ, Johnny

22 S. Hattenstone and D. Taylor, ‘Going with the Flow’, The Guardian, August 23, 1990. 23 House of Commons, Hansard (1981), 16. 24 Hill, ‘Linton Kwesi Johnson’, pp. 28–29.

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Osbourne and Benjamin Zephania used their words to call the police to account. LKJ’s ‘Dread Inna Inglan’ exposed police for the framing of George Lindo and celebrated the local communities’ resistance and resilience in the face of racist police harassment in Bradford in 1979. The poem helped to support a successful campaign to release Lindo. His ‘Reggae fi Peach’ called for the Special Patrol Group (SPG) to be held accountable for the death of anti-Nazi campaigner Blair Peach in 1979. ‘Sunny’s Lettah’ exposed the impact of ‘Sus’ and how police defaulted to collective armed violence when dealing with black youth. Benjamin Zephaniah asked ‘Who killed Colin Roach?’ Roach had died of a gunshot wound in the foyer of Stoke Newington police station in January 1983.25 In his work on hybridity, Les Back situates black music cultures that bear a complex history. As well as speaking truth to power, reggae artists, rappers and poets spoke truth as power. Papa Benjie’s inspector, Buster’s Judge and Macka B’s job interviewer were all mimicked representatives of power (and all performed in particularly English accents). In ‘Police Officer’, Smiley Culture used the mimicked voice of the oppressor as a collective recognition of the institutional racism in Britain. In his cockney voice Smiley Culture mimicked a disparity of power. He also spoke of the duality of British working-class experience. This was more than impersonation. It was political critique demonstrating, as so many black intellectuals had argued, that it is the subjugated who understand how a system works in its entirety. Smiley Culture certainly understood the role of broadcast media in marginalising cultural representation and experiences of race in Britain, and in offering faultlines through which to intervene. Alongside the bastion of BBC’s pop programming, Top of the Pop, he also appeared on Channel 4’s less successful Ear Say and popular latenight comedy and music show Saturday Live in 1985. Smiley Culture acted as a tour guide into a scene for the external viewer and offered collective self-representation for those who were familiar with it but who barely saw themselves represented in mainstream media in any positive light. For example, he was interviewed on Pamela Armstrong’s afternoon chat show for BBC 2 alongside journalist and author Robert McCrum, promoting his book The Story of English. He also appeared in Carol

25 Hackney History, ‘Deaths in Custody: Songs for Colin Roach’, Blog, May 18, 2014.

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Jacob’s 1988 documentary Step Forward about the South East London music scene, alongside UB40, Courtney Pine, Jah Foundation and Maxi Priest. The MC was therefore a bridge to subterranean scenes and politics, someone who mapped a sense of community and drew that community into broadcast media cultures. After the success of his appearances on Top of the Pops and a wellreceived cameo in Julien Temple’s film Absolute Beginners, Smiley Culture helped to develop Channel 4’s new music programme Club Mix.26 The programme, like Channel 4’s other music success 6:20 Soul Train, put black musicians, producers and presenters to the front. Channel 4 also recognised the attraction of reggae’s mega events. It broadcast Reggae Sunsplash in 1984, when 250,000 people watched Sly and Robbie, Prince Buster and Black Uhuru at Crystal Palace. The following year, Smiley Culture and Maxi Priest appeared alongside Gregory Isaacs, Third World and Sugar Minott. As black programming grew, Smiley Culture was there to host and represent. He MC’d at ‘crossover’ festivals like the Brent Show All-dayer at Roundwood Park, where he appeared alongside folk punks the Men They Couldn’t Hang. He presented Club Mix with cohosts Baz Bamigboye, David Grant and Grace Bailey. It was a ‘cocktail of black music, the arts, sport and politics’, a black lifestyle magazine show designed as a ‘showcase for black talent’. One episode, for example combined Somalian model Iman, funk band Black Britain and performers of ‘black influenced music’ like Paul Weller.27 Other episodes included black writers and fashion designers, or sports personalities. In this context Smiley Culture’s ‘Police Officer’ was not just poking fun at a generic representative of power; he exposed a particularly rooted embodiment of institutional racism. So, as his song seeped into evening television, schools education and charitable organisation, it bore witness to accounts of racism, exposés and calls for justice. If the Top of the Pops audience or tabloid readers could accept the narrative that the police stopped Smiley Culture because he was black and had a nice car, then let him go in exchange for an autograph, that was one step nearer to acknowledging police set-ups, complicity and cover-ups.

26 Paul Bradshaw, ‘Smiley Culture Remembered by Dennis Bovell and David Rodigan’, The Guardian, February 16, 2011. 27 ‘Television’, The Guardian, April 10, 1986; ‘Television’, The Guardian, April 3, 1986. ‘Television and Radio’, The Guardian, November 19, 1986.

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Doubling audiences by doubling his voice worked well for Smiley Culture and for Fashion Records. Fashion’s founder, John MacGillivray, told Ear Say that any reggae record that sells over 10,000 copies on 12” was doing very well. Indeed, ‘Cockney Translation’ had outsold 12,000 by this point and was still selling strongly.28 By so doing, it again affirmed Lez Henry’s argument about combining political critique, counter-narrative and speaking into being a new form of community. By using a white working-class cockney accent, Culture was both a cockney and a black British Londoner. Moreover, although ‘Police Officer’ was his breakthrough single, it was his first and third release, ‘Cockney Translation’, that many recognised as his ‘best piece’.29 The song, set in a class room, plays with the different lexicon of youth, translating from patios to cockney, which he locates in East London. So a yardy ‘sticks man’ is a Cockney ‘tea leaf’, cockney ‘wedge’, is yardy ‘corn’, etc. ‘This is extraordinary work’, Robin Denselow argued in The Guardian. Beyond its musical qualities, this was social analysis that should be ‘recommended to sociologists and linguists’.30 What is shared by both, however, is ‘respect for the different style pronunciation’: they share a position of recognition.

Representing: London---Britain---Commonwealth---World The dub poet, rapper and sound system spoke of, and to, power, and built collective identities. They also stood as alternative role models. Smiley Culture’s performance as MC and his status as a community spokesperson were the same role. Smiley Culture’s lyrics and videos often emphasised the role of school in identity formation. He told the press that he wanted to ‘perform [his] songs and lecture in morning assemblies, starting in London’. He thought that working-class kids, black and white, should know about the evils of drugs and how important an education is.31 Songs like ‘School Days’ encouraged listeners to stick with education. He supported the Youth Trade Union Rights Campaign that petitioned parliament against withdrawal of benefit for jobless teenagers if they didn’t 28 Channel 4, Ear Say (1984). 29 Robin Denselow, ‘Smiley Culture’, The Guardian, December 21, 1984. 30 Ibid. 31 S. Wright, ‘Culture’s Crusade’, Daily Mirror, December 21, 1986.

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take up Youth Training Schemes (YTS).32 The way in which Smiley Culture negotiated the institutions of collective representations—education, broadcasting and Britain’s colonial past—illuminated the formal and informal structures of identity in multicultural Britain. Although, as Denselow noted, Smiley Culture was not going to be an easy figure to be incorporated into the traditional idea of ‘role model’. His relationship with one particular organisation, The Commonwealth Institute, shines a light on the faultlines around being heard and seen, faultlines that directly relate voice to social, political and cultural representation. The Commonwealth Institute was independent but received substantial government funding. From its launch in 1962 it continued to balance education about the wider Commonwealth and about the lives of black and ethnic minorities at home. The overall aims were ‘to increase knowledge of and understanding for the Commonwealth, its nations and peoples, and the principles upon which it is based; to further educational and cultural co-operation and understanding within the Commonwealth’.33 It was therefore simultaneously inward and outward looking and subject to the machinations of the politics of government, to changing media opportunities, to wider understandings of race in Britain and changing ideas as to the role and form of ‘education’. The Institute offers a way into the layers of historical memory of the Commonwealth within everyday experiences of black Britain. It also works as a useful lens to see the leaks between Britain’s past and its emergent global technological present. As the Commonwealth slipped into numerous discussions of national identity (be it post-colonial or decolonised repositioning), the spaces it created were re-evaluated. The Commonwealth Games, the Commonwealth Institute (with its once influential publication Roundtable) and Royal Commonwealth Society were ‘reduced in importance and became publicists’ for an organisation that seemed removed from the public.34 A Commonwealth Institute policy review in 1986 mapped the decline of Commonwealth values. Its attempt to bond local, regional and global identities was ‘a relic of the past with little or no contemporary value as 32 J. Blake, ‘Frankie Goes to Downing Street’, Daily Mirror, February 27, 1985. 33 Box 1a.1, Commonwealth Education Trust Annual Report 1987, Duplicate Reports

(The Commonwealth Institute). 34 Krishnan Srinivasan, The Rise, Decline and Future of the British Commonwealth (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2005), p. 127.

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a political association’.35 However, the Commonwealth structures could still be used to raise issues, provide an arena to be heard and recognised and, unlike Thatcher’s version of the Commonwealth perhaps, develop cultural spaces of resistance. The Commonwealth haunted Britain with the legacies of Empire. It served to ‘complicate and confuse debates around citizenship, national identity and shared values’.36 The Imperial Institute, founded in 1893, was reconstituted as the Commonwealth Institute by an act of Parliament in 1958.37 Ninety per cent of its funding came from the Foreign and Commonwealth Office. There were three stages in the Institute’s development which map the stages of the Commonwealth itself more broadly. They also mark shifts in cultural spaces through which local, national and global identities could be given voice. Up to the end of the 1970s, the Institute’s role was largely to represent the Commonwealth as it grew from 15 members in 1962 to 42 members by 1979. Each new member was ‘represented’ in exhibitions, cultural events and educational programmes. The major summer event in 1979, for example was an exhibition on India designed and built by the National Institute of Design Ahmedabad. Alongside the India exhibition was an exhibit on New Kenya contrasting ‘scenes of Masai Warriors in the bush with the skyline of modern Nairobi’.38 In the second phase, from the late 1970s to the late 1980s, the Institute saw its role more as ‘participation’ within, rather than ‘representation’ of, Commonwealth nations. In 1979, a Community Education Officer was appointed. It was important, the Secretary-General of the Commonwealth Shridath S. Ramphal told those assembled to celebrate the Institute’s twentieth anniversary, that the Institute was more than a ‘monument’ to the past. It had to be a ‘tangible, practical, wholly modern symbol of commitment to the Commonwealth’.39 This meant moving away from gallery and exhibitions to participatory workshops, conferences 35 Ibid., p. 128. 36 Philip Murphy, ‘Britain and the Commonwealth: Confronting the Past—Imagining

the Future’, The Round Table, 100: 414 (2011), 280. 37 Srinivasan, The Rise, Decline and Future of the British Commonwealth, p. 127. 38 Box 1. 11, Commonwealth Education Trust Annual Report 1979, Duplicate Reports

(The Commonwealth Institute). 39 Box 1a Appendix, Commonwealth Education Trust Annual Report 1982, Duplicate Reports (The Commonwealth Institute).

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and seminars. The Commonwealth was not something to be looked at; it was something to be experienced. It was, however, experienced under specific policy and economic contexts. In 1980 the Institute’s budget suffered its most severe financial cut. That year’s Annual Report admitted that many services had been ‘inevitably … curtailed’, but argued that those that remained were of an ‘enhanced … quality’.40 The budget cuts brought a focus on innovation, particularly in the area of education structured around arts and education both within the United Kingdom and across the Commonwealth. The Institute’s Arts Department was founded. The new Arts Department concentrated on experimental and innovative ways to engage both inward and outwardly.41 They began a tentative Curriculum for Commonwealth Studies linked with Ministries of Education in Commonwealth countries and successful engagement with UK-based schools. The 112,927 visitors who came to the School Reception Centre came from secondary, middle and primary schools. It seemed that formal educational provision was more successful than the more amorphous public engagement. Whilst for example, the new A-level seminars were over-subscribed, more general events, such as a debate between journalists on world media coverage, failed to attract an audience.42 In 1981 the Institute began working with Commonwealth governments in close co-operation and towards mutual benefit.43 The shift from representation to participation was marked structurally when the Exhibitions Department expanded its conference and seminar service in 1985.44 This led the following year to a focus on Caribbean engagement specifically around word, voice and music. Programming included Horace Ove’s film of a Caribbean Music Festival at Wembley in 1970, Reggae (1971)45 ; children’s film programming; a

40 Box 1. Commonwealth Education Trust Annual Report 1980, Duplicate Reports (The Commonwealth Institute). 41 Box 1a, Commonwealth Education Trust Annual Report 1981, Duplicate Reports (The Commonwealth Institute). 42 The Commonwealth Institute (1980), Annual Report, Duplicate Reports, Commonwealth Education Trust, Box 1. 43 The Commonwealth Institute, (1981) Annual Report, Duplicate Reports, Commonwealth Education Trust, Box 1a. 44 The Commonwealth Institute, (1985) Annual Report, Duplicate Reports, Commonwealth Education Trust, Box 1a. 45 The Commonwealth Institute, (1979) Annual Report, Duplicate Reports, Commonwealth Education Trust, Box 1.

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Caribbean Theatre Season and Caribbean-themed ‘Red and Green Christmas’46 ; numerous steel band and music concerts47 ; and various scholarly publications on Afro-Caribbean literature.48 The Institute’s ‘Caribbean Focus’ from 1986 merged the global, domestic and educational themes with the cultural. In the year that the Commonwealth was dividing over South Africa, the Institute drew together Caribbean histories and cultures. A collaboration with Commonwealth Caribbean governments and the Commission for Racial Equality in the United Kingdom included a performance from the Jamaica National Dance Theatre Company, intellectual history programmes, and a writers’ conference.49 It also marked the growing significance of the Commonwealth’s education centres and raised profile through the Commonwealth Games held in Edinburgh that year. When Smiley Culture became a public figurehead for the Commonwealth Institute in 1987 it was therefore at a moment where debates around the role of culture, poetry, voice, participation and new media opportunities intersected. The Daily Mirror announced that ‘Diana likes Dire Straits, Edward bops to Marillion, but the Queen is a secret Smiley Culture fan’. Apparently, staff at Buckingham Palace ‘no longer [raised] an eyebrow when they hear Smiley’s unmistakable rap music blaring from Her Majesty’s quarters’. The article explained that Smiley Culture was working in the interests of the Queen herself. He had been asked to record a special song to commemorate the Commonwealth Institute’s 25th anniversary. The song, ‘A Happen’ Place’, had been sent to the Queen and she had told Culture: ‘she’d really enjoyed my rap and said she was very impressed because I’d used my musical talent to help the Institute’.50

46 Box 2, Commonwealth Education Trust, A Red and Green Christmas: Christmas in the Caribbean (The Commonwealth Institute). 47 Box 1a, Commonwealth Education Trust Annual Report 1986, Duplicate Reports; Box 2a, Commonwealth Education Trust, Schools’ Steel Band Festival: Programme (1986) and Steel at Christmas: Programme (1980). 48 Box 2, Commonwealth Education Trust, Behind the Mask: Afro-Caribbean Poets and Playwrights in Words and Pictures (1979). 49 Box 1a, Commonwealth Education Trust Annual Report 1986, Duplicate Reports; R. Nettleford, ‘Caribbean Identity in the World of Ideas’, Educational Programmes (1986); Conference on Caribbean Writing (1986). 50 G. Pringles, ‘Rapper Royal’, Daily Mirror, November 13, 1987.

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The song was the result of a competition looking for a ‘Hapnin’ [sic] Song’ about the Commonwealth to be recorded and released by Culture. Entrants to the competition were limited to one entry per person, aged 8–16. The song could be submitted to the Commonwealth Institute’s Public Relations Office either in written form or recorded on to a cassette.51 The title came from a series of events, ‘A Happening Place: The Commonwealth Institute Past, Present and Future’, which had been overseen by Reg Carney, the Deputy Head of the Information Division, and visited by the Queen in November 1987.52 The first stage was a major corporate advertising campaign on behalf of Commonwealth Institute. The Institute then rolled out Smiley Culture as figurehead in a ‘conscious effort to target young people, hitherto addressed indirectly through parents or via the formal education system’.53 As well as participating in the song competition, visitors to the Institute could also go on a Treasure hunt around the exhibits with Smiley Culture. Previous PR and advertising had been used to recruit audiences and interest in specific events organised by the Institute; in 1987 there was a shift instead to think more broadly about what it meant, and felt like, to be part of the Commonwealth overall. Competitions and celebrity endorsement were not new to the Institute, nor were they unusual for charities more generally, but shifts in their style and presentation track similar changes in the sort of voices that were valued and heard. The Institute’s Poetry Prize was first initiated in 1972. Its original aim was to find the best volume of poetry that represented a Commonwealth country. It evolved, however, into a broader and more complex engagement with poetry. Poetry was presented as a career and as a conversation rather than as text-bound words on a page.54 In 1985 the prize received corporate sponsorship. In 1986 the prize gained significant television coverage. The reach of the prize was extended not only through anthology publications and television broadcasts; there was also touring

51 S. Nettell, ‘What’s Going On’, The Guardian, October 21, 1987. 52 Box 1a, Commonwealth Education Trust Annual Report 1987, Duplicate Reports

(The Commonwealth Institute). 53 Ibid. 54 Box 1a, Commonwealth Education Trust Annual Report 1986, Duplicate Reports (The Commonwealth Institute).

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regional poetry events across the country.55 In 1987, the Institute’s jubilee was marked with the publication of an anthology of all the winners up to that point.56 Australian poet Philip Salom was 1987’s winner of the then renamed ‘British Airways Commonwealth Poetry Prize’.57 The Institute publicised its connections with a number of celebrities, often framed as a competition. Rolf Harris opened the Young Artists of the Commonwealth competition in October 1979.58 In 1985 Jane Asher judged winners of an art competition around the theme ‘Environment Under Attack’.59 Actor Art Mailik opened the Christmas exhibition in 1988: ‘The Moghul Art of Miniature Painting’.60 The Institute also plugged into the possibilities of children’s broadcasting. The January exhibition in 1980 tied in with John Craven’s Newsround Africa for BBC2.61 In 1988 the Institute joined forces with ITV’s more anarchic programming for children: Timmy Mallett’s Wide Awake Club.62 Craven’s programme had successfully raised the profile of the Commonwealth when read through the existing image of ‘Africa’. The festival celebrating the creative innovation of the commonwealth communities and black and ethnic minorities within Britain was less successful. It seemed as though Commonwealth education was more popular when presented by a friendly but authoritative white man, as opposed to showcasing the artists representing themselves.63 Smiley Culture, however,

55 Box 1a, Commonwealth Education Trust Annual Report 1986, Duplicate Reports (The Commonwealth Institute). 56 Box 1a, Commonwealth Education Trust Annual Report 1987, Duplicate Reports (The Commonwealth Institute). 57 Ibid. 58 Box 1a, Commonwealth Education Trust Annual Report 1979, Duplicate Reports (The Commonwealth Institute). 59 Box 1a, Commonwealth Education Trust Annual Report 1986, Duplicate Reports (The Commonwealth Institute). 60 Box 1a, Commonwealth Education Trust Annual Report 1988, Duplicate Reports (The Commonwealth Institute). 61 Box 1a, Commonwealth Education Trust Annual Report 1980, Duplicate Reports (The Commonwealth Institute). 62 Box 1a, Commonwealth Education Trust Annual Report 1985, Duplicate Reports (The Commonwealth Institute). 63 Box 1a, Commonwealth Education Trust Annual Report 1980, Duplicate Reports (The Commonwealth Institute).

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lyrical, local and in good taste, was the perfect celebrity showman and tour guide, this time acting for the Commonwealth. Again he worked in the faultlines of the corporate branding of the commonwealth with its dual facing educational goals. Culture’s participation coincided with a significant year for the Institute: its Silver Jubilee. The highlight of the year was the Queen’s visit alongside the Jamaican Prime Minister Edward Seaga. New developments and restructuring also marked the jubilee year. New Officers were appointed in the Institute’s three pillars: Arts and Adults, the Education Centre and the Outreach Unit. Alongside soul singer Chyna’s performance at a late-night Jubilee dance party (which the Queen did not attend), architects shared their design for what a ‘Happening Place’ the Institute would become.64 Their headline events were the Year of the Rabbit, Trinidad Carnival, Eid-ul-fitr and Diwali Festival of Lights—the last of which coincided with the Queen’s visit. The Institute consolidated its role as the go-to resources provider by building up the Education Resource Centre and providing teachers’ guides to Caribbean Anansi stories, Geography packs on Ghanaian villages, conferences on specific A-Level topics65 and guides to national fancy dress.66 The Institute also produced guides to national costumes for adults and children from India,

64 Box 1a, Commonwealth Education Trust Annual Report 1987, Duplicate Reports (The Commonwealth Institute). 65 Box 2, Commonwealth Education Trust, Population and Settlement: ‘A’ Level Geography Conference (1989). 66 Box 2a, A. Kemoli, Caribbean Anansi Stories (Commonwealth Education Trust, undated); Commonwealth Institute, Costumes of the Commonwealth: Ghana—Woman, Publications (Commonwealth Education Trust, undated); idem, Two Savanna Villages in Northern Ghana (Commonwealth Education Trust, undated); idem, Caribbean in the Classroom: The Caribbean Today (Commonwealth Education Trust, undated); idem, Teaching About the Caribbean (Commonwealth Education Trust, undated); idem, Costumes of the Commonwealth: Ghana—Woman (Commonwealth Education Trust, undated); idem, Costumes of the Commonwealth: India—Child (Commonwealth Education Trust, undated); idem, Costumes of the Commonwealth: India—Punjabi (Commonwealth Education Trust, undated); idem, Costumes of the Commonwealth: India—Sari (Commonwealth Education Trust, undated); idem, Costumes of the Commonwealth: Jamaica—Full Costume (Commonwealth Education Trust, undated); idem, Costumes of the Commonwealth: Kenya—Butterfly Dress (Commonwealth Education Trust, undated); idem, Costumes of the Commonwealth: Nigeria—Woman (Commonwealth Education Trust, undated).

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Ghana, Jamaica, Kenya and Nigeria, and organised a series of pedagogical workshops and training.67 This was aided by computerisation of the collections’ catalogue and databases, organising the loans of Teachers Packs and mailing lists.68 The model of participation in a ‘volatile climate’ was aided by new media and technological opportunities.69 Despite the celebrations in 1987, 1988 was a ‘testing year’ for the Institute. It struggled with a still further reduced budget. The Institute was at risk of being a much less ‘Happening Place’. Reorganisation managed to maintain and increase visitor numbers for that year’s major event: a Pacific Way exhibition.70 As funding dwindled, engagement with formal education became more and more central to maintaining the Institute’s role and was marked by a new post of Director of Education and an increase of staff.71 The government’s Educational Reform Bill both opened and shut these strategic doors. Whilst on the one hand the new National Curriculum, Foundation Subjects and Key Stages allowed the Institute to position itself as a provider of Teacher Packs and learning resources, at the same time the Bill restricted schools charging for nonessential school trips and changed the rules on collective worship in schools that had been the bedrock of the Institute’s rotating festival celebrations.72 A series of teaching union strikes throughout the 1980s disrupted the Institute’s events.73 The Institute was attempting to ride the changing global and domestic cultural climate, as well as the ideological and economic shifts in funding possibilities. By 1991 the Chairman

67 The Commonwealth Institute, Caribbean in the Classroom: The Caribbean Today (Commonwealth Education Trust, undated). 68 Box 1a, Commonwealth Education Trust Annual Report 1987, Duplicate Reports

(Commonwealth Institute). 69 Box 1a, Commonwealth Education Trust Annual Report 1985, Duplicate Reports (Commonwealth Institute). 70 Box 1a, Commonwealth Education Trust Annual Report 1985, Duplicate Reports (Commonwealth Institute). 71 Box 1a, Commonwealth Education Trust Annual Report 1988, Duplicate Reports (Commonwealth Institute). 72 Education Reform Act (1988). 73 Box 1a, Commonwealth Education Trust Annual Report 1986, Duplicate Reports

(Commonwealth Institute).

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began his annual statement by announcing that the ‘barometer [was] set to changeable for the Institute’.74 The third stage in the Institute’s development followed. It was optimistically described as a period of ‘consolidation’ in the Director General’s Annual report of 1991 and eventually ended with the removal of permanent displays followed by a loss of government funding altogether in 1996.75 The tensions of its past were then reproduced in the tensions around its heritage. A survey of 15–24 year olds had found that 43% of them did not know what the Commonwealth meant. Selling the building would release funds to redirect its work into educational projects across the Commonwealth, but the building’s significance had been such that it was listed as a national heritage site. The Commonwealth Trust argued for its own redundancy; that like the building, its time had passed. The Institute was beyond repair and the job could be better done with funds released, but English Heritage strongly opposed them as did the Twentieth Century Society and Kensington and Chelsea council. The building was delisted and nearly demolished in 2006.76

So Which Communities Count? Whilst on the one hand Smiley Culture exemplified how the black British experience could be sold to white audiences and broadcasters, as set out by Gilroy’s work on the ‘marketing of hollow defiance’.77 But simultaneously he also demonstrates, in Gilroy’s terms, how the market, nationally and globally, ‘enabled black music to travel’ and allowed ‘connections between dispersed peoples through place and time’.78 Smiley Culture was well aware of this and analysed it for himself. He explained that he had ‘come across policemen who tell me that the whole station have bought it’, as if making music for police officers’ Xmas parties had been 74 Box 1a, Commonwealth Education Trust Annual Report 1991, Duplicate Reports (Commonwealth Institute). 75 Box 1a, Commonwealth Education Trust Annual Report 1985, Duplicate Reports (Commonwealth Institute). 76 Srinivasan, The Rise, Decline and Future of the British Commonwealth, p. 128. 77 Paul Gilroy, Between Camps: Nations, Cultures and the Allure of Race (London:

Routledge, 2013), p. 206. 78 Paul Gilroy (1987) quoted in Les Back, ‘Voices of Hate, Sounds of Hybridity: Black Music and the Complexities of Racism’, Black Music Research Journal 20: 2 (2000), 129.

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his intent.79 Smiley Culture’s career, like his music, showed the complex negotiations made by black British working-class communities: moving between hybrid, appropriated and re-appropriated cultures; everyday experiences versus formal organisation; opposition versus homogenisation.80 According to LKJ—the American state had beaten the Black Panther movement by giving ‘them all jobs in the CRE or something’. Resistance became ‘incorporated into the state’. Smiley Culture’s role in The Commonwealth raises similar issues. In order to find space to signify communities into being and demand that their heritage and legacies are acknowledged, what incorporation must the tour guide need to accept? Smiley Culture suggests that the interloping MC, the tour guide, changes the structures through which voices can be heard and recognise one another. In many ways Smiley Culture sums up a Britain that blended Thatcherite entrepreneurialism with grassroots DIY subculture. It is fitting, therefore, that he was the MC at Brixton Academy’s retrospective end of the decade party.81 By the end of the 1990s Smiley Culture was a reference point for a decade past. He was used as an example of a one-hit wonder in the ‘decade that taste forgot’ and as a warning to other musicians ‘about the perils of being pigeonholed as a local reggae novelty’.82 However, his death re-wrote his significance and suggests both the power and limits of cultural resistance. Whilst having a voice may build a community and challenge structures of representation, Culture’s death suggested a more rigidly divided society than can be encapsulated in a lyrics narrative structure or hook. On 15 March 2011 Smiley Culture died. His house was raided during an ongoing police investigation for a conspiracy drugs charge. Smiley Culture had been allowed to go into the kitchen to make himself a mug of tea during the interview following the raid. A Police officer who had had dealings with the musician previously had found him to be ‘courteous, respectful and compliant’ and therefore low risk. But once in the kitchen, Smiley Culture screamed ‘Do you 79 Robin Denselow, ‘Smiley Chats His Way to the Top’, The Guardian, January 25, 1985. 80 Hall, ‘What Is This “Black” in Black Popular Culture?’, 108. 81 J. Bussman and D. Quantick, ‘Forget About It’, The Guardian, May 30, 1998; J.

Aizlewood, ‘Do I Look Like a One-Hit Wonder?’, The Guardian, April 12, 2001. 82 P. Lester, ‘Who Is He Trying to Kid?’, The Guardian, September 1, 2000; Bussman and Quantick, ‘Forget About It’; Aizlewood, ‘Do I Look Like a One-Hit Wonder?’.

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fucking want some of this?’ as he stabbed himself in the heart using a knife.83 The IPCC ruled that police involved in the raid would not face charges, but it did raise concerns about several areas of the operation. Smiley Culture’s family released a statement demanding that the police explain how he died and challenged the idea that he had been suicidal. His death coincided with the thirtieth anniversary of Brixton Riots, the death of Grace Croce in 1985 and the police shooting of Mark Duggan in 2011.84 In echoes of the original response to the injuries that were inflicted on Dorothy Groce in Brixton thirty years before, Smiley Culture’s friends and family set up a Justice for Smiley Culture campaign. Experiences of racism past reiterated racism in the present. Marchers played ‘Police Officer’ as they marched from Wandsworth Road to New Scotland Yard under the slogan ‘No Justice, No Peace’. Memorials for Groce and for Culture remembered and reminded the present of the past.85 They also marked the cultural routes, local and global, through which race was experienced every day.

83 J. Hall, ‘Reggae Star Smiley Culture Plunged Knife into His Chest After Arrest,

Inquest Told’, The Independent, June 12, 2003. 84 ‘Dorothy “Cherry” Groce Inquest Finds Police Failures Contributed to Her Death’, The Guardian, June 10, 2014. 85 Evan Smith, ‘Once as History, Twice as Farce?: The Spectre of the Summer of 81 in Discourses on the August 2011 Riots’, Journal for Cultural Research, 17: 2 (2013), 124–43.

CHAPTER 7

The Story of Nzinga Soundz and the Women’s Voice in Sound System Culture Lynda Rosenior-Patten and June Reid

Nzinga Soundz is one of the UK’s longest running all-female sound systems. Set up by us, Lynda Rosenior-Patten (aka DJ Ade) and June Reid (aka Junie Rankin), the music is eclectic and wide-ranging, spanning reggae, soul, jazz, rare groove, soca, African and Latin. We play to diverse audiences and communities across the UK and internationally. The spaces we play in include roots or revival dances, club nights, blues parties, weddings, christenings, private parties, community dances, corporate events, large-scale festivals and concerts. Our journey has been multifaceted and multi-layered, beginning at a time of great socio-political change and challenge for the Black community in Britain and abroad. Much of our success is directly attributable to the generosity of many brothers and sisters along the way, amongst them Ken McCalla, Sista Culcha, Brother Musa, Wilf Walker, MBE, Hugh Francis, Lorna Rosenior, Brother Dougie Williams of Dougie Promotions, Robbie Samuda, SB and Admiral from SLR community radio and Dada Imarogbe.

L. Rosenior-Patten (B) · J. Reid London, UK © The Author(s) 2021 W. ‘L’. Henry and M. Worley (eds.), Narratives from Beyond the UK Reggae Bassline, Palgrave Studies in the History of Subcultures and Popular Music, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-55161-2_7

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Our sound system journey began when we played at family parties and ‘get togethers’. We then expanded our audiences by playing to a wider group of people. We were often booked by community organisations and professional groups, including the BBC Black Workers, the Nurses Association of Jamaica UK (London Branch) and the Camden Black Parents and Teachers’ Association. We had a stint on Sophisticated London Radio (SLR) 99.5 FM and contributed to an International Women’s Day radio project. At the time of writing, we are participating to an important film documenting women’s experiences in sound system culture. This chapter traces that journey, touching on our background, our knowledge of music, and the drivers and survival strategies we employed to ensure longevity in the music business. Of course, a number of Black women have contributed to DJing, sound systems and broadcasting in the UK. With a few exceptions, the majority remain unknown despite, in some instances, being active for over 30 years. Nzinga Soundz has had the opportunity and privilege of meeting and working with a large number of these women. For this reason, we shall interweave our story with theirs to provide an important insight into UK female sound system story, a story that has been largely absent in writings on the culture. This, then, is an ‘insider’ account of the UK’s female DJs/operators that includes those from back in ‘da’ day (the 1980s) and DJ sistren who began in the 2000s.

In the Beginning … It is true to say that as music-loving twenty-somethings in the early 1980s, we did not set out to pursue careers as professional DJs or to champion the women’s voice in sound system culture. In many ways, it was sound system culture that pursued and shaped us, due primarily to a unique set of social, historical and cultural circumstances. These would include the fact that we were both children of ‘immigrants’ (in fact British citizens) who came to England in the 1950s and experienced a multitude of issues, from poor housing and limited employment opportunities (which, in many cases, they were overqualified for) to the lack of a pre-existing social life. Overriding this was the ever-present spectre of racism which permeated every aspect of their new lives in England. What provided escape was their passion for music and retaining their cultural ways. This, in effect, explains how and why Nzinga Soundz was born and why our story is significant to the ‘hidden’ history of Black music in Britain.

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We met in 1969, aged 11, as first-year pupils at Norwood Girls’ School in southeast London. Our parents were of the Windrush generation. June’s mum Myrtle (a talented seamstress) and her dad Jackie (a Ford Motor Company operative) were Jamaican and the family lived in Nunhead, southeast London. Lynda’s parents, who met in London, came originally from Sierra Leone with her mother Gladys arriving first (on her own) aged 18 in 1950 to study nursing at Barnet Hospital. Her father Willie, an electrical engineer, arrived a few years later and they lived, firstly, in various rented accommodations in South London, with a significant number of years spent in Brixton. They subsequently bought their own property. Both our sets of parents were passionate about music and our dads especially loved jazz, so music was always present in our homes. The catalyst to us playing music, however, was Lynda’s family’s regular parties for which their home became known as the ‘party house’. More importantly, these gatherings addressed the critical lack of social and cultural interactions in the UK that many of that generation were used to ‘back home’, e.g. church and church outings, benevolent societies, old school associations (very prominent in Sierra Leonean culture) and family socials. Lynda notes that ‘I especially remember our house in Talma Road, in the very heart of Brixton, where the parties were Sierra Leonean affairs with aunties, uncles, cousins and friends’. Traditionally, children were not allowed to be in the ‘front room’ with the ‘big people’ unless on cleaning duty or to retrieve something from the ‘cabinet’; a shrine like glass-fronted display unit that dominated the room and, interestingly, was typically a central feature of West Indian households as well. Usually, when there was a social gathering, the children were banished to the appropriately named ‘back room’ away from all the action. Yet for Lynda: [These] were always exciting and wondrous occasions for me as I was an introverted, quiet and timid child. I believed that Sierra Leoneans (especially after a few drinks) were the loudest and most interesting people in the world and these parties did not disappoint! The loud music that hit you as you entered the inner sanctum of the ‘front room’ was courtesy of Dad’s purchases earlier that morning from Brixton Market. Alcoholic beverages flowed like water alongside my Mum’s array of Sierra Leonean dishes, an abundance only ever witnessed at Christmas time. All this against a cacophony of loud banter, laughter and ‘debate’, literally heady and intoxicating nectar to my younger self.

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Later, when Lynda’s family moved to Brixton Hill, the parties expanded to include neighbours from all backgrounds, including several English families (always first in the queue for the ‘exotic’ food), Caribbean friends and work colleagues. A tactic Lynda used to escape the soul destroying ‘back room’, where ‘unadventurous’ cousins and siblings gathered, was to volunteer to play the music, serve drinks and generally be useful. She recalls how ‘on reflection this was a genius move’. Not only did it have the ‘miraculous effect of rendering me “invisible”, [but] I was “drunk” with the power of being able to move with ease in my cloak of anonymity amongst the ‘big people’. Amidst the throng, Lynda would listen to the juiciest gossip and news from ‘back home’ unseen and unchallenged. ‘The trick was always not to appear to be listening or dwelling too long in one place, no matter how riveting the story. Otherwise, I would be met with a stern “com ot” (get out) in Sierra Leonean Creole (Krio) or given “the look” which was much, much worse’. Lynda’s experience is shared by many of the sistren recollecting their early musical influences, with a recurring theme being that of the role played by parents and other family members in the development of musical awareness. DJ Lady Xplosive noted that ‘my interest in music began at age 9 through the influence of my parents and listening to the radio’. Sista Culcha added that ‘one of my paternal uncles had a Jukebox [small sound system] and I would sit and listen to the activities in my grandfather’s front yard’. Music was an integral part of Sista Culcha’s early life and her uncle, George Halley, would lead the singing at a ‘wake’ or ‘Kwe Kwe’, a pre-wedding celebration in Guyana performed by the African descendants. It is worth noting that many of the sistren grew up in families where the fathers, brothers or uncles owned their own sound systems and, consequently, they continued the tradition. An excellent example is Legs Eleven, a ‘trinity of sisters’—Mili Red (MC), Princess (DJ) and Xuxu (Selecta/Operator)—who established their sound system in 2011. In describing themselves, they noted that ‘these sound women hail from a lineage of northwest London sound systems’. Daddy 90, their father and impresario, had established JOE 90 High Power in the early 1980s, followed closely by the next generation’s sound system, Vigilante, in the early 1990s. It was a revival of motivation and inspiration by his daughters that led to the all-female Legs Eleven Sound System. Similarly, Digital D who, during her teenage years, kept blues dances with her younger brother Tico and a few friends reflected: ‘we started a sound called Wild

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Life and I was the behind-the-scenes Selector for a good while, passing the reggae and bashment selections to the Selector whilst playing the effects machine sometimes. That is how my brother named me Digital; he said I get too Digital with the effects box’. Rasta Queen’s career started at a very young age, coming again from a music-loving family. ‘My father was into his music and took me to my first party as he was a true raver back in the early 80s’. Dubplate Pearl, too, was musically influenced by her parents, who listened to jazz, soul, calypso, pop and reggae. To hear her ‘play out’ is to be exposed to this entertaining, eclectic mix of musical genres. Additionally, Sista Culcha and Digital D recounted the times as children when they would change the records on the ‘gram’ [gramophone] whilst the grown-ups were dancing. Digital D observed that: [When] I was about 7 or 8 years old, I used to go to family and friends’ parties quite a lot with my mum and dad. We went in one room to sleep and the big people partied in another room. Whilst the music was playing they were dancing […] the gram needle would be going round and round and not stopping. So I would run in, hitch it up and play it again. So, I started to change records and put them on; my music world had just begun.

Sista Culcha recalled how she ‘became the kid who played the music at gatherings and parties. We had records from Tom Jones, Englebert [Humperdinck], Dusty Springfield, Lulu and imported from Jamaica like Milly Small [and those] on the Duke Reid, Dr Bird, Coxsone Dodd labels’. According to Lynda, her presence at parties and socials prepared her for sound system life: I learnt to simultaneously read situations and play music under pressure, lining up records neatly in the wire record rack that was stored inside the gram, cuing LP tracks (and trying desperately not to scratch them) or stacking singles in order of play to ‘drop’ them one by one from the central spool. It was a highly pressurised situation and I was often rudely interrupted by a loud and tipsy uncle’s request to replay a tune (not easy to execute with the stacking system!). But through this experience I began to learn when to drop the latest African High Life or Soukous tune; or to change to American pop or a Jamaican track from the latest Tighten Up or Trojan LPs.

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In their endeavour to become DJs, many of the women followed the major sounds of the time and immersed themselves in the genres of sound system culture. Sister Nkechi, known musically as Empress or Sister Nkechi the Warrior Queen, noted: ‘my influences in playing music have been many but notably the sound system culture: Jah Shaka, Aba Shanti-I, Jah Youth [and] Channel One rather than the radio stations’. In the early days, however, being a female DJ was daunting. Certainly, such a maledominated space engendered dread for us as Nzinga Soundz. The ‘haul and pull up’ moment was simultaneously terrifying and exhilarating; we both loved and feared it, particularly when the equipment—belonging to a club or other DJs—was unstable, the light on the deck faulty, the needle dodgy and often all of the above. We literally held our collective breaths as people banged on the DJ booth wanting to hear more tunes. This was a time not to falter, especially as females. Our routine was for one of us to operate the mic, do the shout outs and big up Nzinga Soundz whilst holding the torch on the deck as we set up the track; meanwhile the other would take her time and on cue—‘come down nice and neatly my selector’—drop the tune. This, of course, was all done under the burning, hypercritical gaze of the predominantly male Dancehall massive. And yet, unfazed in those early days, we held our own and we still deh yah ah play good music!!

School Days and Beyond A common theme amongst several of the women was their early interaction with music at school. According to Sista Culcha: ‘In my early teens I began to collect Motown records, but listened to a range of soul and reggae music. I began playing music by running my penny disco at school and took my records to the local youth club. When I joined the Culcha Posse sound system I called myself Mummah Cutty’. Not dissimilarly, Junie Rankin fondly remembers being allowed as a sixth-form pupil to bring in records to play during break times. ‘What a privilege! For some reason the track I recall playing during those times was Deniece Williams’ ‘That’s What Friends Are For’ from the 1976 yellow-and-black fronted LP This Is Niecy. I’ve still got that LP in our collection. The Emotions were another favourite selection I recall from the time’. As for Digital D: ‘I became Digital D the upfront selector across the country right through my school days, college; even whilst working as a young administrator’.

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As teenagers we were best friends with June Dennis, also a former Norwood Girls’ pupil. Due to strict parenting, we lived very sheltered lives, but June (Reid) would often help Lynda at family parties by handing her records or putting them back into their sleeves after playing. For us, schooldays were very challenging (to put it mildly), especially the fifth and sixth-form years. Norwood Girls’ School was easily one of the roughest and toughest schools in South London, and that’s including the boys’ schools. The majority of the students were of African-Caribbean heritage in low-income families and the school was nicknamed ‘Norwood Cowshed’ due its reputation. Some girls employed tactics to escape their demoralising school days and harsh home lives, looking to gain independence through securing their own council flat. One graphic illustration of the toughness of some of our fellow students was demonstrated at the regular and hotly contested fifth-form netball matches played against equally rough opposition. Lynda recalls that ‘some of the girls I played with were hard as nails. Typically, at half time, some girls replaced the traditional quarter of an orange and swig of water with a can of Special Brew, an exceptionally strong beer usually consumed by grown “hard back” men at blues parties – so not for the faint hearted!’ (Fig. 7.1). We experienced many instances of prejudice and racial stereotyping from a mainly white teaching staff who had no faith in the abilities of African-Caribbean children. Rather, it was our families, friendships and mutual support that enabled us to pursue ambitions in Higher education. In 1977 we both secured places on the Business Degree course at Middlesex Polytechnic (now University), with Lynda later switching to a Humanities degree in Law, Psychology and French Language which was better suited to her interests and passions. It was, moreover, during our university days that we really began to hone our DJ skills at the frequent student parties. With access to student flats and free from responsibilities, we enjoyed cheap wine and a permanent party crowd. Here was a core group of about eight Black female students, all of whom were involved in the Afro-Caribbean Society established by us at the All Saints campus off White Hart Lane in Tottenham. We occupied three flats in adjacent blocks and rotated parties each week, playing tunes all night using just one turntable.

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Fig. 7.1 DJ Ade and Junie Rankin - Private party at the Roseniors’ family home, London

Virgin: The Formative Years We left university in 1981 at the beginning of the ‘Thatcher years’; a time of high unemployment, entrenched austerity and debilitating race relations legislation. Police injustices, including deaths in custody, became all too common, whilst racially motivated outrages against the Black community (e.g. the New Cross fire and the employment of SUS) paved the way for social unrest in the form of the Brixton, Handsworth and Toxteth uprisings. It was against this backdrop that we set out to secure our first jobs. June had always been very personable, persuasive and relatable, skills she developed at school as Head Girl. She put these to work persuading a reluctant manager at Virgin Megastore on Oxford Street to employ

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her, despite being a newly qualified graduate in 1981. June convinced him that, given the opportunity, she would stay in a lowly paid deadend job. Thus she became the first Black person (who was not a cleaner or security guard) to work as a sales assistant in this iconic music store. Lynda soon joined her as the second Black employee, with Virgin proving to be an invaluable training ground in terms of our musical knowledge of artists, labels, distributors and venues. As the first female record buyer of African descent at Virgin, Lynda had the responsibility of developing the reggae & soca 12-inch sections. She also established the African and world music departments. This gave a platform to many artists and musicians who otherwise would not have been exposed to such a significant market, enabling Lynda to also expand her knowledge of different musical forms (which she then shared with June). Our time at Virgin was crucial to the development of Nzinga Soundz because it enabled us to forge great relationships with key Black music promoters and distributors. These included Mr. Palmer and Hugh Francis at Jet Star Records and Charlie Easmon and Robert Urbanus at Sterns African Music. We bought records from an array of outlets, including markets (Leather Lane, Brixton and Lewisham) and record shops (Red Records, Dub Vendor, Blacka Dread, Our Price, BAM Records and JG Records). But working at Virgin also afforded us great privileges regarding access to ordering records, allowing us to buy them at discounted prices, including signed copies from visiting artists. Whilst at Virgin we directly influenced the buying public by playing and promoting tracks we selected in store to ‘captive’ audiences of thousands, many of whom were tourists. We influenced sales by recommending artists to customers and, as a record buyer, Lynda had the scope to develop relationships with new suppliers and distributors. More broadly, Lynda engaged in Black struggles in other ways. For example, she supported and promoted South African artists and labels during the South African boycott, providing access to external audiences to promote anti-apartheid messages. When June left Virgin, she ‘repaid’ them a sizeable chunk of her final salary by purchasing a large quantity of records which became part of the Nzinga Soundz collection.

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Political Awakening, Community Activism and Black Identity Working at Virgin offered limited employment prospects. Whilst being the first Black employees in key positions was a watershed moment, we knew our careers there would never flourish. June left in 1983; Lynda stayed for two more years. During this period, we were playing out more regularly at paid gigs as opposed to unpaid family or friend’s events. On leaving Virgin, June secured a job with a publisher of trade newspapers and magazines, before then going on to work at CEDDO Film and Video Workshop, whose film on the Tottenham uprisings in 1986, The People’s Account, was banned by the Independent Broadcasting Authority. Lynda was under no illusions either. The success she experienced in her record buying job was due entirely to her passion and commitment to promoting music and supporting underrepresented artists. On leaving, she took a significant pay drop to work as an Event Programmer at the Organisation for Black Arts Advancement and Learning Activities (OBAALA); whilst there she was directly involved with establishing a range of pioneering cultural and creative projects. These included the Black Art Gallery and the OBAALA Poetry Theatre that showcased many great, pioneering artists, including Oku Onuora, Linton Kwesi Johnson, Jean ‘Binta’ Breeze, African Dawn, Jacob Ross and the Last Poets. At that time June was the Chair of Trustees at OBAALA, as well as sitting on the boards of other arts organisations.1 At various times during our careers, we either worked for or were members of organisations closely linked to Black culture and the struggle against oppression. This, in turn, informed how, where and what we played. We were fully aware of what was happening socially and politically, both in the UK and internationally. Our early political influences included Malcolm X, Angela Davis, Steve Biko, Franz Fanon, Nelson and Winnie Mandela, Nina Simone and Miriam Makeba. Their experiences helped to drive the message to resist; to protest and to remain resilient. They were also very interested in African history and read books by African scholars. June in particular read Dr. Yosef Ben-Jochannan (who she was privileged to meet in Egypt in 1981), Cheikh Anta Diop and Chancellor Williams. 1 For example, Apples and Snakes (performance poetry), Munirah Theatre Company (Black women’s theatre), and various arts funding bodies, including Greater London Arts.

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It was during our time at OBAALA that we decided on the name for our sound. Lynda remembers that ‘we wanted a name that not only reflected our ancestry, identity and gender, but also embodied key characteristics such as commitment, determination and strategic leadership. Queen Nzinga of Angola embodied all of these and more’. And so Nzinga Soundz was born. Lynda’s middle name is Adeyomi and she liked the sound of DJ Ade. Junie Rankin was a no brainer, after being given the name by DJ Robbie (aka Robbie Samuda). At the same time, we became involved in a range of political groups, organisations and campaigns, amongst which were Creation for Liberation, the Race Today Collective, New Beacon Books, Camden Black Sisters, the Black Parents Movement, the International Book Fair of Third World and Radical Books, African Liberation Day and the New Cross Fire Campaign (Fig. 7.2). Through working at OBAALA we were exposed to the work of radical Black visual artists such as Eddie Chambers, Donald Rodney, Keith Piper, Ken McCalla, Anum Iyapo, Jheni Arboine, Sonia Boyce and Lubaina Himid. Lynda also programmed events that featured cultural commentators and community activists, including leading academics such as Paul

Fig. 7.2 DJ Ade at a demonstration on the murder of Jamaican Dub Poet Mikey Smith outside the Jamaica High Commission, August 1983, London

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Gilroy. It was during this time that he published his classic books There Ain’t No Black in the Union Jack (1987) and The Black Atlantic (1993). During this time many events that Nzinga Soundz was invited to play at directly contributed to supporting the struggles of Black communities in the UK. We would often be seen playing conscious, uplifting music at community dances or events hosted by Black Action for the Liberation of Southern Africa (BALSA) and African Liberation Day (ALD), as well as at Kwaanza celebrations. We worked with campaigning groups such as ELBWO (East London Black Women’s Organisation), the Nurses Association of Jamaica UK (London Branch), the Committee for Ethiopian and Eritrean Relief, the Ausar Auset Society and the Dimbaleh Education Centre. We also engaged with investigations into deaths in police custody and public demonstrations, including the murder of Mikey Smith in Jamaica. Such activities fed into our expanding musical knowledge. We travelled to Africa (Egypt, The Gambia, Sierra Leone, Burkina Faso) and the Caribbean (Jamaica, Barbados and St. Lucia). We spent hours in record shops. In Jamaica, especially, we visited Derrick Harriott’s One Stop Record Shop in Kingston and the Studio One recording studio, located at 13 Brentford Road, Kingston 5, quietly leafing through endless boxes. June recalls: ‘we must have made an unusual sight, two young Black women with English accents totally immersed in our task of finding favourite [and] rare records’. As a result, Nzinga Soundz has often been experimental and innovative in the way we select tracks, regularly introducing different musical genres (e.g. African and Latin) into traditionally roots reggae or revival dance spaces. Our insider knowledge of audiences allowed us to read and respond to the vibe. By seeing various unique live performances too, we learnt how, what and where we would be able to play out and entertain in future years. In the process, our audiences learnt and came to love different musical forms and key artists. We know, on the reggae and soul front, that tracks such as ‘MPLA’ by Tapper Zukie, ‘Warrior Charge’ by Aswad, ‘I’ll Take You There’ by the Staple Singers and ‘This Will Be’ by Natalie Cole will ‘kill it’ every time.

Negotiating the Dancehall Space and Other Environments---Innovative Survival Strategies From the beginning of our careers as DJs we were aware that the sound system environment was a highly codified space. Despite our obvious

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expertise and knowledge, our female presence would often ‘disrupt’ the dynamic, knocking people off balance whether they were DJs, MCs, Engineers or audience members. One consequence of this was that we felt invisible; we got used to the inevitable question ‘Where’s the DJ?’ from patrons, despite all the clear indicators like wearing headphones, mixing the sound, selecting and cuing up tunes, etc. This became a standing joke for us, which could only be successfully challenged by playing killer sets and, in the process, winning over the doubters who invariably, by the end of the dance, were high-fiving and ‘bigging’ us up as though they were lifelong fans (Fig. 7.3). From very early on, we understood the importance of responding to the range of audiences we played to. Some fellow Sounds/DJs would play only for their followers or, worse, themselves. We learned to operate seamlessly, supporting each other in the range of roles from setting up, selecting and cuing the records. We knew never to speak on the mic

Fig. 7.3 Permission given - DJ Ade and Junie Rankin - Wedding Reception London 1990

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during the vocals and spoil the tunes. Our approach has always been pragmatic, using whatever means are necessary to resolve issues by accepting we are good at different things. For example, Lynda is often more diplomatic and better at negotiating the best fee or diffusing potential conflict situations (some of which were due to us being females in a male-centric culture). But when it comes to making sure we get paid, then June is best effective, especially at big events where many people are owed. On those occasions our strategy is simple. Twenty minutes before the end of the event Lynda deals with playing the last tracks, packing up our records, etc., whilst June locates the promoter to ensure we receive our payment. On one occasion at a big London concert, June basically held the promoter hostage in the cash office until he paid us in full, ignoring his pleas that he ‘hadn’t made as much profit as expected’. Outside, a growing queue of fellow artists waited behind the locked door. Additionally, June’s strong networking skills have resulted in securing a number of the Sound’s bookings and speaking engagements. Another aspect of DJing which could be challenging was the buying of records/CDs. ‘Initially’, June notes, ‘the men behind the counter would not take me seriously as I jostled with the predominately “proper” male customers at the counter’. As she became known, however, as someone who spends serious amounts of money, they would pre-select tracks for her to listen to prior to arrival, just as they do for men. Crucially, they knew that the music policy of Nzinga Soundz did not permit playing any ‘slack tunes’, lyrics that debased women, or music that promoted violence. Only the best, the most conscious and uplifting tunes, were reserved.

Sound Women Breaks and Impact In 1989, whilst playing at a dance in the Black Women’s Centre in Tottenham, we were approached by Robbie Samuda and SB of Sophisticated London Radio (SLR), a community radio station in North London. Their offer was for us to cover DJ Ebony, a resident DJ on maternity leave. This opportunity provided our first radio break and launched our career as radio presenters, hosting a popular Sunday afternoon ‘magazine’ show for almost 5 years. During our time on SLR we were able to develop radio packages that included interviews with leading artists, community activists and industry professionals. Legendary soul singer Betty Wright, after being interviewed in 1989, hugged us and commented ‘that was the best interview I have ever done’. This was due to the detailed research

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Lynda had done and the quality of the questions we both prepared. We also introduced jazz, African music and Caribbean spoken-word performers such as the legendary Miss Lou and Paul Keens Douglas to SLR. Talk-based items dealing with issues that directly affected the Black community also featured, such as the role of Saturday Schools and other immediate concerns. It was during this time that Hugh Francis, the AR representative at Jetstar Records, booked us to play a concert headlined by the legendary reggae artists The Heptones. The respected promoter Wilf Walker also gave us a break, inviting us to play at the Forum Kentish Town (formerly the Town & Country Club) in support of another reggae legend, Burning Spear. In fact, throughout our careers, we have been honoured to play at several famous mainstream and Black venues, including the Astoria (supporting the legendary Mighty Diamonds), Hammersmith Palais, the Shady Grove Club (Tottenham), the Four Aces Night Club (Hackney), the Seventy-Seven Social Club (Hackney), the Africa Centre (Covent Garden), the Mambo Inn (Brixton) and The Rocket (Islington). In sharing our DJ/sound system experiences we have, along with fellow women DJs and sound operators, often acknowledged the people who supported us on our journeys. DJ Elayne is an example of someone who in the 1980s got her break after receiving career-changing support from the pioneering DJ and presenter Daddy Ernie. Formerly of LWR pirate radio, then Choice FM and now Vibes FM 93.8, Daddy Ernie recommended Elayne to LWR. After submitting a demo-tape, her career was launched as LWR’s first female daytime presenter. Similarly, other women DJs and Sound System Operators have shared how they benefitted massively from the support and generosity of promoters and other sound men. Digital D explained that ‘every Carnival I would play music for “Dad” (Daddy Vego2 ) in the shop ‘till we started playing People’s Sound on the Front Line for Carnival about three years ago. In 1998, [I] was approached by “Dad’s eldest son Tyrone [aka VEGO Wells], the late great manager of Beat FM 101.9, to cover a show for someone (which I was happy to do […] so long as I didn’t have to talk and just play music)’. Subsequently, she remains a female presenter on Beat FM until today.

2 The late Daddy Vego (aka Von Barrington Adams) was a well-regarded Jamaican reggae music and culture promoter who owned The People’s Sounds reggae shop in north Kensington and founded the original People’s Sounds sound system.

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In terms of career, a newcomer to DJing, Rasta Queen, entered the coveted Reggae Revival and Lover’s Rock Cup Clash in Catford in 2018. Always a predominantly male affair, she was surprised to win her first heat before going on to be crowned the winner. ‘This experience meant a lot’, she recalls. ‘[It] goes to show that us females know how to select and play great music and I only play strictly vinyl as this is what I know best. Giving thanks to the Most High for guiding me through this journey’. Similarly, Legs Eleven have, since their inception, featured in many events, including the Dubwise Festival and the Notting Hill Carnival Weekender.3 In 2019, they were invited to participate in Global Music Connections in Paris. For Queen Ranking Merva, another pioneering DJ sister, she has ‘achieved what many male DJs/Presenters have been unable to do, having worked with several high-profile DJs including David Rodigan MBE, Tony Williams and Greg Edwards’. Merva has won various awards, becoming a two-time winner of the Revival Queen and the Best Female DJ/Presenter at the Skills Promotion Awards sponsored by the Jamaican National Building Society. The point, of course, is that the female contribution to the culture is often overlooked. In her personal statement as part of the ‘Sisters in Sound: A Hidden Story’ exhibition,4 Dubplate Pearl shared that she has a monthly radio show on Balamii Radio with Mr. Swing Easy. She delivered a short talk at the Bass Culture 70/50 Conference at the University of Westminster in May 2018. She also acted as guest selector at a range of venues across London.5 Indeed, such exposure has meant a female contribution is highly regarded in conscious reggae circles. Nkechi the Warrior Queen, for example describes her selections as providing a ‘distinctly roots and culture spiritual vibration’. She regularly plays with large sounds such as Josiah Sound System and ICreation Sound System, as well as dropping sessions at Drumbeat in Leyton, Orleans in Finsbury Park, the Fox and Firkin in Lewisham and the Magic Gardens in Battersea. She has ‘warmed up’ for shows with great 3 Not to mention the ‘Jah 9’ concert, the Sound System Outernational conferences, the

Bounce Culture: Girls Allowed Legacy Project, and International Women’s Day, Dublin. 4 Sisters in Sound: A Hidden Story (October 2018), curated by Lynda Rosenior-Patten and June Reid from photographs by Sharon Douglas, Inky Grey Photography. 5 For example: Vinyl Meltdown at Albertines (New Cross), Spin That Tune at the Honor Oak, Ska Lavin at the Troy Bar (Hackney), the Reggae Shack at Islington Metal Works and Dub Me Always, Brixton Ritzy.

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Fig. 7.4 Permission requested - Carnival in the Time of the Sound system Panel discussion BFI, London August 2019

roots and dub artists such as the Twinkle Brothers, Johnny Clarke, Mad Professor and Mungo Hi Fi (Fig. 7.4). As Nzinga Soundz we have also contributed to many panel discussions, presentations and lectures.6 We have been regularly interviewed on radio to discuss the gender politics of sound system culture and, recently, contributed to the Museum of London’s Dub London exhibition. As DJs on the club and live music circuit, we have played across London7 and at a range of commemorative events and festivals.8 6 These include: ‘From Vinyl to Digital: The [Forgotten] Women DJ Pioneers’ (a Words of Colour production, December 2019); ‘African Odysseys: Carnival in the Time of the Sound System’, hosted by the well-known reggae writer Lloyd Bradley (August 2019); ‘Paris–Londres Music Migrations’, at La Musee D’Immigres/National Museum of History of Immigration, Paris (June 2019); the Sound Arts, Visiting Practitioners Lecture series, London College of Communication/University of the Arts London (October 2019). 7 For example: Sisters of Reggae Relay (The Ritzy and Pop Brixton); David Katz’s Dub Me Always (The Ritzy); The Deptford Dub Club (Fox & Firkin, Lewisham); Stokey Friday Club (Vortex, Hackney) and The Brothas meets the Sistas (Bojangles, Chingford). 8 For example: The blue plaque unveiling ‘After Party’ for The Wailers at the Mau Mau

Club on Portobello Road (October 2019); Radiate Windrush Festival, Crystal Palace Park (June 2019); the Notting Hill Carnival Pioneers Festival at the Horniman’s Pleasance Park, Ladbroke Grove alongside Sir Lloyd Coxsone and Dennis Bovell (August 2018); and ‘Arrival’, the London Mayor’s first Windrush Celebration, City Hall, London (June 2018), hosted by Daddy Ernie.

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Legacy Initially, it was our passion and knowledge of music on a personal level that created opportunities for us to be involved in sound system culture. Subsequently, our careers have been shaped by a unique set of employment, political and cultural circumstances that took us on a journey lasting over 40 years. The golden thread that has run throughout Nzinga Soundz is our shared passion for and love of music, alongside our pride in our African identity and a belief in the power of music to uplift audiences. Reaching the landmark age of 60 has been the catalyst to document our story and the stories of other women, ensuring our place in sound system history. This documentation of our contributions will prevent our erasure and inform the next generation of Sound System Operators and DJs, both female and male. We have started this process by co-curating a landmark visual art exhibition by London photographer Sharon Douglas. Entitled ‘Sisters in Sound – A Hidden Story’, the exhibition reflects on the many sisters who have contributed to DJ and sound system culture, few of whom have been previously documented historically. The exhibition is a ‘work in progress’ and features portraits and personal statements of several women, including the pioneering work of the legendary Rankin Miss P (Margaret Anderson). During our careers we have ourselves influenced many women, both young and old, by ‘living the dream’ as active DJs. Many sisters have been inspired to explore becoming DJs or having their own sound systems. Others have sought our advice and guidance on issues ranging from the technical skills required to run and play on a sound to how best dress as a female DJ to maintain an identity and the respect of audiences and fellow Sound o Operators. Whilst we have not conducted empirical surveys, anecdotally we believe that during the time we have been operating we have positively influenced the opinions of thousands of people. Consequently, following an approach from the Swiss film producer and director Judith Lichtneckert, we will be participating in Women in Jamaican Music, a film that looks at female millennials in Kingston and the reggae scene from a Black female perspective in Toronto, London and Zurich. For us, this is an important addition to sound system culture, ensuring that the important contribution—and ongoing legacy—of sound women lives on.

CHAPTER 8

Sound-Tapes and Soundscapes: Lo-Fi Cassette Recordings as Vectors of Cultural Transmission Kenny Monrose

These accounts of the British Reggae-dancehall scene are incomplete due to a failure to consider the central role of the Yard/Session-tapes, which were the main conduits for ‘interior knowledges’ contained in the Deejay message.1 William ‘Lez’ Henry

Cassette culture, that is the collection of audio tapes, occupies an important place within the historical movement of Reggae music. Yard or

1 William ‘Lez’ Henry, What the Deejay Said: A Critique from the Street (Blackheath: Nu Beyond, 2006), p. 101.

K. Monrose (B) Department of Sociology, University of Cambridge, Cambridge, UK e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s) 2021 W. ‘L’. Henry and M. Worley (eds.), Narratives from Beyond the UK Reggae Bassline, Palgrave Studies in the History of Subcultures and Popular Music, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-55161-2_8

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Sound-tapes2 were typically low fidelity recordings that seized the experience of a sound system session in full swing. These cassette recordings aurally showcased the creative improvisations, linguistic codes, musical compositions and dynamics of patron/purveyor engagement within the sound system arena, as well as providing an uncompromised account of socio-political and economic happenings; local gossip and even regional scandal mongering. As such they acted as a proficient and authentic vector of cultural transmission throughout black British culture from the 1970s onwards. Moreover, the situational performances captured were not only noteworthy within the development of Reggae, but also went on to be appropriated by other musical forms such as Hip Hop, Jungle and more recently Grime. This chapter offers a detailed exploration of cassette culture within the genre of Reggae music and specifically deals with the processes and relationship between Yard and Sound-tapes, cultural practice and social space. Being reflective it will highlight the importance of the subculture and the manner in which our past can be existent within our present and can potentially shape our future. The chapter is structured along three sections. The starting point will focus on the emergence of the audio cassette and outlines its importance in the development of the phonographic voice. I will then present an appreciative mode of enquiry into the development of Reggae and sound system culture both in Jamaica and Britain, which will provide a usable context from which we can better understand the significance of Sound-tapes. The third section will observe the manner in which the sonic performances captured on these cassettes were capitalized upon by radio broadcasters and record producers, which will also showcase the vital role that women play in sound system culture. The data collated to achieve this is reliant on a number of sources. The first is my own personal experience as an avid collector of Sound-tapes which began in the early 1980s during my teens. The second involves my role as a deejay and selector for various sound systems in East London and Essex, and thirdly are the numerous personal exchanges undertaken with various patrons, purveyors and practitioners of sound system culture in Britain. Doing so will enable me to unravel the narratives intertwined within these recordings to establish a robust context by which these treasured units of data can be better understood. 2 An audio cassette recording of a live sound system session. Yard-tape is Jamaican and Sound-tape is generally a UK or USA recording.

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Cassette Culture Cassette and tape a carry di swing swing swing, If you na have a tape then you na say a ting …3 Ranking Toyan (1982)

For some the audio cassette is still celebrated for its distinct atmospheric sound which invokes nostalgic memories of a bygone era, in very much the same way that music recorded to vinyl is recounted. The high frequencies that are captured via the use of chrome oxide or metal tapes, or the warmth of bass that accompanies recordings to ferric cassettes, arguably represent a form of reproduction that current modes of digital recording struggle to emulate. The compact audio cassette was designed and distributed by Phillips in 1963 and proved to be somewhat of a revolution in the way that music was played. By virtue of its size, the cassette was more portable than the 8 track cartridges that preceded it and had a range of suitable devices available to be played on. This is clearly illustrated by the sheer number of manufactures such as TDK, Maxell, Memorex and BASF etc. who became household names in the 70s and 80s, by producing a range of cassettes for music enthusiasts and audiophiles alike. The audio cassette had a range of running times; 60, 90 or 120 minutes and frequency responses, with four distinct types available with the entry level ‘ferro oxide’, ‘chrome’, the elusive and rare ‘ferro chrome hybrid’, and lastly the ‘metal’ cassette tape, which although costly, was the most durable. Consequently, advanced cassette technology also prompted a new level of expertise and knowledge of audio equipment to emerge, not just in the realms of professional studio work, but in the course of everyday life, where one was introduced to terms such as Dolby, wow & flutter, capstan motors and pinch rollers. With the increase in cassette usage and popularity, we notice the appearance of new ways for amateur musicians and independent bands to self-publish and disseminate their work, which escaped the costs associated with studio time and the use of professional recording equipment. Musicians were now able to record freely, albeit in low fidelity quality, but this provided artists with control over their material, and added an

3 Ranking Toyan, Cassette and tape (Black Roots Records, 1982).

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additional creative dimension to their merchandizing, through the development of bespoke cassette art in the form of labels, inlays and package design. Of equal importance, cassette culture manifested within various genres of music from the inception of the audio cassette. For example, The Grateful Dead, a popular band from California, who revolutionized rock music with their introduction of Psychedelic rock, was one of the first cultural producers to capitalize on cassette culture by employing ‘tapers’ to be an integral part of their live events. Tapers, with the consent of the band, recorded the live sessions, and then distributed them via various means such as mail order outlets, giveaway samples and tape tradingwhich I will consider in more depth below. We witness similar practices during the post-punk wave of electronic music in Britain during the 80s. This practice was extremely efficient for bringing music from outside of the mainstream into focus, and in many ways was a precursor to what now has become known as file sharing, and pod casting. With this said the following chronicles the development Reggae music and sound system culture, underscoring the significance of cassette culture within the genre.

Freddie Laker Fly Now Pay Later: The Trans-Atlantic Diffusion/Dissemination of Sound-Tape Knowledge The late 1970s saw the emergence of affordable and accessible transatlantic travel to the West Indies, Sir Frederick Lakers Sky Train4 became a popular choice for West Indians in Britain at the time, and was a welcome alternative to the costly British Overseas Airways Corporation (BOAC) scheduled flights: Give thanks for Freddie Laker-fly now and pay later. My dad used to love it. You had to stop all over the place, but it was a lot cheaper than the BOAC plane. (Wayne, Personal Communication, 2019)

As Wayne suggests, the reduced price of competitive travel prompted an increase in the transference of goods and commodities and in domestic terms this meant items not easily accessed in Britain, such as household 4 Sir Frederick Alfred Laker English airline entrepreneur, and founder of low-cost nofrills Laker Sky Train, which operated from London between 1966 and 1982.

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goods and foodstuffs that reminded West Indians of ‘home’ now became available. This was also true of music and corresponded with an explosion in the availability of Yard-tapes, which enabled the live and direct experience of dances, 5000 miles away in Jamaica, to be heard by black communities throughout the UK. This is a crucial point in understanding this pathway in the development of sound system culture in Britain as explained I the following: When me leave off a di the rock (Jamaica) fi come back to London, me haffie make sure me carry back a small portion a herb, and couple cassette, fi show di man dem what a gwan a yard right ya now. (Peter Dread, Personal Communication, 2019) During the late 70’s and early 80’s, a cousin of mine would supply me with the latest sound system tapes coming from Jamaica. Sound systems such as Gemini, Kilimanjaro, with DJ,s such as Johnny Ringo, Michigan and Smiley, Jah Thomas, to name a few. They really had an influence on my life in terms of me becoming MC. At first, I was influenced by Jah Thomas, but soon found my own voice and style. (Culture Mark, Personal Communication, 2019)

The above speaks to my own passion for the culture and explains why I like many youth in the UK, embraced all aspects of sound system culture, as it was something that totally consumed our lives, particularly during the years of secondary education in the 80s. Woodwork and technical drawing classes were opted for in order to hone the skills necessary to perfect the production of speaker cabinets. Art classes led to the drawing, painting or screen-printing of aesthetics in line with Reggae or Rastafari iconography. My schoolbooks were covered in jottings of pre amplifier designs, names of prominent artists, and record labels of the time such as Hit bound, Wackies, Greensleeves and Volcano, which led to forays into building a sound system with my peers. This was an enterprise that was labour intensive, demanded an entrepreneurial spirit and steely determination, as constructing a sound stretched far beyond speaker cabinet and electronic equipment design. Transportation, storage and security, were all essential parts of building a team that pooled, often limited finances, together to purchase the necessary equipment, and of course music. The sound also acted as an informal mentoring system, with an established structure of hierarchy in place, often dictated by labour role and level of expertise. Being a boxboy for example, although considered demeaning

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within sound system circles, was a hugely important role, as these individuals were responsible for ferrying the heavy and bulky speaker boxes from storage to the venues-and back again. If performed proficiently, this could potentially lead to a promotion of up-keeping the record box, which could result in becoming a ‘prento’—an apprentice selector or deejay on the sound. However, being a box boy was not without its advantages: My brother was a box boy and responsible for looking after the sound boxes. He had a transit van and would keep them in the back. He worked out a way to wire the boxes up to his car stereo, and then hooked up a mike to that. If you saw him sitting at the traffic lights, you would laugh… “Here comes the man like Freddie McGregor selection seen!” And then drop a wicked piece of baseline when he drove off. (Slim, Personal Communication, 2019)

What is interesting about Slim’s account is that his brother would be playing cassettes in his car and if it was a Sound-tape it no doubt captured the running order of the session, and the distinct but important segments where specific functions took place. The first of these was known as the ‘warm up’ segment where a record (normally an instrumental track) was played simply to test out the sound, usually before the patrons entered the arena and was not worthy of being committed to tape. This section was often a protracted and timely process carried out in order to ensure the high powered (traditionally a KT88-kinkless tetrode-valve/tube amplifier), worked efficiently, and the speaker boxes were outputting the necessary tripartite frequencies of tops, mids and bottom (treble, midrange, bass). Balancing and tuning the sound was a form of artistry and called for expertise and a measure of aural dexterity, as the acoustics of the space had to be considered in respect of the size of the venue, ceiling height and anticipated number of people in attendance. Towards the end of this segment the sound operator or engineer would make sure that the microphone was attuned correctly and worked in tandem with overall sonics of the sound system. Echo, reverb or delay was an important aspect of the manner in which the microphone sounded, for two reasons. Firstly, it added a level of space and headroom to the deejays voice, and secondly it was a tool to enhance specific expressions and phrases that were used to ‘bubble’ over the records that were being played.

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As the speaker coils warmed up, and the sound increasingly became heavier and weighty, the prento deejay called for dance goers on the periphery of the amphitheatre, or outside the dance gate to enter-playing a popular or well-known recording often achieved this. The prento would continue on the microphone, until the dance was tentatively beginning to swing, before a tenured deejay took over, and offered an customary Rastafari greeting to the crowd in order to bless and sanctify the dance space: Well greetings in the name of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ Emperor Selassie the first. Also greet you in wisdom and truth that the man who loses confidence in himself loses 90% the race in life -Jah-Rastafari! (Charlie Chaplin King Stur-Gav sound, Hagley Park Road Kingston, Jamaica, n.d.)

Rastafari linguistic codes were heavily grounded in sound system culture, and the language of the dancehall was often spoken in positive affirmation. For example, the term ‘forward’ when used by the audience, meant that the music was to be stopped, restarted and replayed. This collaborative interaction between purveyor of the music and the patrons captures the unbridled and excited voices of the patrons and are what give life to the Sound-tape: Certain music would play and man and man would lose their mind. Whistles were blowing, girls were screaming and shouting, and the deejay was calling for people to “lick wood” which literally meant to hammer on anything around you - it was just so exciting. (Slim, Personal Communication, 2019)

The most extreme firsthand experience I had of this was in 1986 when the legendary Kilimanjaro sound system from Jamaica played in London alongside Saxon Sound and Unity Hi-Fi. This took place at the Uppercut Club in Forest Gate, where myself and about eight of my peers managed to screechy (sneak) into the venue. When the erudite deejay Early-B began to chat on the mike, the venue erupted, and resulted in a number of gunshots being discharged in the air as a salute to his lyrics. This prompted even more excitement and exhilaration and remains one of the best dances I have ever recorded and has pride of place within my personal collection. Showcasing of new, exclusive and pre-released recordings, was also an integral part of the sound system session that was experienced

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through cassette culture and many a sound system built lasting reputations on being adept in obtaining test pressings.5 This is something that is rooted in Jamaican sound system culture from its inception during the 1950s, where sound men not only possessed a sound system, but owned recording studios equipped with house bands and distribution outlets. This was mirrored by sound men in Britain and performed most successfully by Sir Coxsone, Jah Shaka and Dennis Bovell’s Jah Sufferer sound. These exclusive records known as ‘Slates’‘Wax’,or ‘Dub plates’ included sampling recordings to transcription discs of well-known or otherwise obscure artists, who sung over un-mastered rhythm tracts. These recordings were reserved to be played sparingly, as they were known to wear out and diminish over time. Dub plates fueled the serially competitive nature that was, and is still, imbedded within sound system culture and is a very distinct feature of the Sound-tape. For instance, Chabba of Stereograph and Sofrano-B sounds, speaks about his clash with Berris Bassa from Battersea’s Moa Anbessa sound: I lined up the first Dub plate. It was the first time this Dennis Brown track was going to be heard in England and the track was also to become one of his classic hits. I put on the disc and lined up the needle … ‘Fresh out of Joe Gibbs’ studio’, and the crowd heard ‘Money in my pocket but I just can’t get no love …’ They erupted in pure jubilation! The next upper cut I gave Berris was another big tune called by the look in your eyes by Enos McLeod. By this time Berris was wishing he could just disappear, along with his crew and sound.6

Be it deejay versus deejay or sound versus sound, one easily gravitated to the excitement of any head-to-head encounter within the genre and if you couldn’t attend the dance, the cassette was the next best thing for us, because producers and sound engineers succumbed to the temptation of competition so you would always hear the latest tunes. In terms of Yardtapes, one of the most popular clashes involved the then Papa Roots (King Attorney) deejay Nicodemus, versus Brigadier Jerry the General from Jah Love sound, which took place on Jack Ruby’s sound in 1981 and ended

5 A vinyl record to test the finished product before release for tonality and trackabilty. 6 Michael Gordon, From One Extreme to Another: From 1960s Brixton Life & Sound

System Business to 1980s Jamaican Underworld & Life Transformation (London: TamaRe House, 2013), p. 59.

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in controversial circumstances.7 In Britain there are numerous sound and deejay clashes of note such as Saxon versus Sir Coxsone at Peoples club in 1983, Sir Coxsone versus Jah Shaka at Cubies in 1980, Unity Hi-Fi versus Fatman in Arcola Street Hackney, in 1986, and the deejay clash in 1983 between Papa Levi and Lesley Lyrics at Lewisham boys club. Consequently, the Sound-tape captured what is an integral part of the sound system experience in Britain, highlighting a key aspect regarding the art and skill of deejaying and how strong the Jamaican influence was on UK based performers: The sound system cassette tapes were an integral part of my development as a deejay (MC/Toaster) and soundman. Being able to hear the latest freshest sound system dances out of Jamaica without physically being there were a joyous and a great thing. Those cassettes were precious, invaluable. Listening to the sounds and the deejays at the time was very inspiring to me personally and it helped me and other UK deejays to develop our own style which reflected our upbringing, environment and culture. (Macka B, Personal Communication, 2019)

Macka B notes how the deejay performances on the Yard-tapes carried with them a strong sentiment related to Jamaica, which also doubled as a teaching tool/template for UK based performers who wished to emulate heir Jamaican peers. Also, the teaching was equally as important as listening to the music and tales contained in the cassettes, for those like myself who were children of Eastern Caribbean parents and knew very little of Jamaican life. Themes and commentary on significant events such as The Green bay killing,8 Eventide fire9 and Operation (E)radication10 that dominated the choruses of live dancehall compositions, were matters alien to me. So too were cultural practices like items of cuisine such as, Cho-Cho (Chayote), Bully beef (Corned beef), Bag juice (a beverage presented in a plastic bag), Bammy (a cassava pancake) and Blue draws (a sweet potato and green banana dessert); add this the names for popular items of apparel such as Roach killers (a form of footwear for 7 See Henry, What the Deejay Said, pp. 125–6 for a fuller explanation of this clash. 8 A political assassination in Port Henderson Jamaica in 1978. 9 A fire at the Eventide home for the aged in Kingston where 144 elderly women were killed in 1980. 10 A special police task force formed in 1981.

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women), Knits-Ganzie (a knitted cardigan), and Mesh-Marina (a stringed vest). This is a view shared byWayne Shadid Wonder who states: I have met so many people that have never been to Jamaica but can speak with clarity (and almost an air of authority) about various places there, and the source of their knowledge is sound system cassettes. (Wayne Shadid Wonder, Personal Communication, 2019)

In addition, it was by virtue of UK deejay lyricism on Sound-tapes that I was introduced to aspects of Caribbean history I was previously unaware of. For example: I learned about the Maroons, William Penn and Robert Venables, and the counter narrative that recalibrates the master narrative of Christopher Columbus’ exploits in the Caribbean, as well as the legacies of individuals such as Alexander Bustamante, Sam Sharpe, Norman Manley and Marcus Garvey. For example: It na go so-it don’t go so, Me say… It na go so-it don’t go so. Them say that we a mugger – but it na go so, and we a teef fi dem job – but it na go so, and them have we as slave – but it na go so. Them tell you Jesus was white – but it na go so. True them see we just a humble in the ghetto, Them a treat we like minority true we a negro. Them a bus’ Champagne we a drink cocoa. Them a rave in club we go a stage-show, and when we go a dance them gone a disco Watch the bugger them try fi dance calypso, Don’t have no riddim inna fi dem bombo, and them face holy holy like fi Polo. Them say a white run South Africa-but it na go so. Them a kill black yout and leave them inna sorrow, The other day them have uprising in Soweto, and them kill a black woman outside a Tesco. Them love to rob our sugar cane, rum and tobacco. Them take we from Gambia also Congo, is dem deh kind of ting mek the yout get paro. Inna high school dem call you black sambo Prophecy fe come a Marcus Garvey say so. Remember Paul Bogle, Sam Sharpe and Cudjoe,

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Martin Luther, Mandela and Steve Biko. Babylon a drive up and down like yo-yo, in SPG van like them a Rambo. Rambo mi Rambo and turbo mi turbo. (General T, Jamdown Rockers, 1987)

Lyrics such as these provided black youth with an informed grasp of UK, African and Caribbean history in clearer detail than the types of history I was being taught in Britain where I was born, which according to Lez Henry is important: Their usage makes known how black youth articulated their thoughts on various issues in a ‘conscious’, articulate and highly inventive fashion. My greatest claim then is that an exposure to the lyricism contained in Yardtapes provided many British-born blacks with alternative sets of knowledge, which assisted our struggles in racist Britain as outernational Afrikans.11

On reflection I feel vindicated in paying homage to the sound systems absent mindedly scribbled on my schoolbooks, because they taught me more of black cultural identity than my secondary school curriculum or religious instruction lessons ever did, and this extended beyond the walls of the classroom. Musician Tony Henry expands on this: For me as a young musician, Sound-tapes were fundamental not just for music but for life perspective. They were one of the sources of my own song writing as they taught me oppression is universal, and to write is to understand things from a global perspective. Yes, there were also funny even crude and crass lyrics spoken for perceived entertainment purposes, but wasn’t this another reflection of people and the relief from day to day pressure we all sought then? The sound system was so important to me, it cannot be underestimated. So much of my thinking now and never-ending love for music came from this, and my sadness is the current generation will never have the chance to appreciate the unity it gave me and my generation. (Tony Henry, Personal Communication 2019)

Tony Henry’s inspiration as a songwriter in many ways speaks to how the early 1980s saw British sounds such as Stereograph, Quaker 11 Henry, What the Deejay Said, p. 15.

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City, Sir Coxsone, Sufferer, Sir Jesus, V Rocket and Jah Shaka cement a loyal following, before relatively newer sounds began to emerge, and appeal to younger followers by their deejays mimicking the style of Jamaican deejays. Their melodies and delivery were parroted from Yardtapes of Jamaican artists such as Johnny Ringo, Brigadier Jerry, Welton Irie, Lone Ranger, Nicodemus and General Echo et al., but their lyrical content was directed towards an English audience with original and novel styles of toasting such as the ‘fast style’ by Peter King12 from Saxon Sound for example. Therefore, the librettos of Crucial Robbie, Champion, I.P, Phillip’ Papa’ Levi, Ricky Ranking, Macka B, Leslie Lyrics, Jack Rueben, Mumma Ali, Bikey Dread, Pato Banton, Lorna G, Youtie General, Marshall Lee, Deman Rockers, Sister Candy, Tipper Ire, Smiley Culture and a raft of others, were hugely influential in matters of social consciousness. This also raises an awareness of the transatlantic knowledge exchanges that were almost instantaneous, decades before current the forms of social media that dominate our physical and virtual landscapes, which reveal how crucial cassettes were on a global level: Regarding sound system cassettes influence on my life. I grew up in Jamaica and sound system cassettes were the reason I fell in love with Dancehall and Reggae music. Because that was my way of knowing what was happening in the Dances before I was old enough to go myself. Interestingly, these cassettes were our equivalent to You Tube or Spotify now because me and most of my friends didn’t have money to buy vinyl records, but we could copy a sound system cassette. For me personally, these cassettes enabled a cultural exchange because that is how I discovered that England had vibrant Reggae/Dancehall scene that was indigenous to the UK. I discovered Smiley Culture with the Cockney Translation but the song that impacted me the most was Mi God Mi King by Papa Levi. (Wayne Shadid Wonder, Personal Communication, 2019)

This impelled us to be reflective and assess our socio-economic status more than we had ever been taught in previously, because these artists packaged their messages within a reality that we could relate to; often encased within a powerful and potent political context. For example, here we find Levi speaking on the events leading up to the Brixton riots in April 1981: 12 Who actually originated this style is regularly contested but sees Henry, What the Deejay Said, p. 154, for an insight into this debate.

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Mi deh inna mi yard and a drink cerasee, and eat the one day old rice and peas, mi plate pon mi lap,mi batty cotch pon settee, di time dida just pass four twenty, when a newsflash come pon mi Phillips TV, concerning Brixton and the community. It seem the council a take pure liberty, and call in nuff man with machinery, to tear down the frontline vicinity. So night time come and youths get angry, and start throw firebomb inna old property, the IRU not di SPG, dem train fi handle riot inna different stylee, ca when mi a chat it a no dam fuckry, mi lyrics coulda tun mek a documentary, fi ITV or BBC, you never find reporter man fast like me, Mi could chat show like Russell Harty, so tell me if mi dunce or if mi brainy? Ca Levi na check fi political party, mi woulda fool to think say England a fi mi country.13 (Papa Levi, 1984)

As a result, cultural confluence driven by Thatcherism took place in the part of Newham in East London where I grew up, which at the time was regarded as the most deprived location in the UK.14 A significant number of black, white and Asian youth gravitated towards the themes transmitted on Sound-tapes, as we became aware that despite of our personal backgrounds, we all sailed in the same boat that straddled the poverty line, which rendered us voiceless in Thatcherite Britain, and it was only reggae music that spoke to our condition: How these tapes influenced me – I think the lyrics from the DJs helped to toughen my character and not to let anyone take the piss with me. They also taught me about everyday struggle in society with Police and government and racism. These Sound-tapes made me very streetwise. (Steve Henry, Personal Communication, 2019) 13 Papa Levi, ‘Inna mi yard’ (Caution Records, 1984). 14 Kenny Monrose, ‘Struggling, Juggling and Street Corner Hustling: The Street

Economy of Newham’s Black Community’, in G. Antonopoulos, Illegal Entrepreneurship, Organized Crime and Social Control, Essays in Honor of Professor Dick Hobbs (Geneva: Springer, 2016), pp. 73–84; idem, Black Men in Britain: An Ethnographic Portrait of the Post-Windrush Generation (Oxford: Routledge, 2019).

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‘Leggo Mi Hand Gate Man Let me Come in’15 : Sacrosanct Reggae Spaces I do not personally know anyone my age who can say they went to the popular roaring twenties night club on Carnaby street in London’s West End at the age of 11 years old. The Roaring twenties was run by Count Suckle, a popular deejay who had settled in the UK in the early 1950s. I went there one night with Sofrano-B who was playing that night as a stand in for Sir Coxsone, who was playing at Rochester Hall in Kent at one of the then popular coach outing dances.16 Michael Gordon (2013)

Unlike Chabba of Stereograph sound quoted above, I was unable to attend sound system sessions when sound system culture first piqued my interest in the early 80s aged 12. Firstly, because I was too young and secondly, but more importantly, the domestic curfew restrictions imposed by my father were not subject to negotiation. Added to which, as we lived in council block, making an unauthorized exit from an open bedroom window would require the advanced parkour skills of Peter Parker’s alterego, and even if an escape was made, the risk to my limbs, could not compare to the difficulties associated with being caught trying to get back into the home once the dance had finished. Therefore, after a less than exhaustive evaluation, I concluded that procuring a Sound-tape from someone who had recorded the dance was my safest option. At the time there were two methods of obtaining a recording of a session. The first option was the gold standard and involved being closely associated with the sound owner/members so that one could obtain a cassette directly recorded from the sound equipment. The second was the most widely used method I later adopted and that involved recording the session myself by an external audio device; by being a taper.17

15 ‘Leggo Mi Hand Gateman’ is the title of a track by the Jamaican deejay Josey Wales and is a Reggae Dancehall classic released in 1983 on Volcano and produced by Henry ‘Junjo’ Lawes, Kingston, Jamaica. 16 Gordon, From One Extreme to Another, p. 28. 17 An individual who audio records live performances.

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A Sony Walkman18 with a recording facility or the Sharp GF8989 ‘Ghetto blaster’ (for those who could afford the batteries), were the most proficient tools for taping. To accomplish this one would inconspicuously occupy a space as near to the speaker boxes as possible in order to record the session. The main challenge facing the taper was distance; too far from the speaker cabinet resulted in a poor inaudible (in terms of lyrics) recording, and too close meant distortion. However, when exacted correctly these recordings could be better than those from the set, as they captured the music, performance and the response from the audience and the other sound during clashes. In this respect sound-tapes acted as an alternative form of currency that possessed a level of kudos attached to their attainment. Consequently, as a teen and not having much money, but having a collection of cassettes meant that one held ownership of a tangible asset of value, that could be bartered, sold or traded. One would call on friends and extended family members from all over the UK to enquire which tapes they had, so you could make additions to your collection: When I was about 13 years old I received my first yard Sound-tape from my uncle Victor. He said check me at my yard tomorrow and I’ll give you the best Sound-tape right now. The next day I walked from Deptford to Brockley and picked up a Gemini tape with Johnny Ringo, Burru Banton, Peter Metro, Welton Irie, Louie Lepkie and Squidley……The tape was Baaaaaad! The next day I went to school and started to hustle and swap and trade Sound-tapes with friends at school, and Tony Francis from Saxon and youths on my estate. (Steve Henry, Personal Communication, 2019)

Living in East London and having family in West London, I was able to obtain tapes of West and North-West London sounds that I was not yet introduced to such as Java, Volcano and Vigilante. Overtime I was able to obtain cassettes from Luton, Nottingham, Birmingham, Leeds and Southend; in fact all over the U.K and including places that I didn’t know had sounds in residence, such as Ranking Oxerix from Bournemouth and Papa Shanty of Swindon. Also, advances in domestic audio devices during the 1970s and 80s had a strong impact on the setting of the West Indian front room, where the Bluespot radiogram was now considered to be a 18 A personal portable compact cassette player/recorder.

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relic of a bygone era. This was because it was unable to cater for cassette usage and with the upsurge in this market, we witnessed the introduction of the ‘music centre’, made popular by the Amstrad HI-FI Tower, and possessed a turntable, radio and cassette player all in one: My old man got one of those Amstrad music centre jobs. They were the bollocks at the time and I loved it cos it looked like a sound system control tower with the VU meter’s and lights on it. You didn’t have to rack the records up and push in the draw to play them. You just put the needle on the record, but you had to have a two-bob coin (two shilling coin) handy to stop the needle from jumping all over the gaff. We still had the Gram, but it was more of a sideboard and drinks cabinet. (Fire, Personal Communication, 2019)

Another important shift in cassette culture, during this moment, was Sunday afternoon radio broadcasts such as those hosted by Steve Barnard and Tony Williams, which now took centre stage. These broadcasts were unlike the speech radio offerings by black presenters Syd Burke, and Alex Pascal, for now we had for the first-time fullyfledged Reggae shows available for the enjoyment of West Indians in Britain, which quickly secured a loyal base of listeners. These broadcasts along with those of David Rodigan on a Saturday night saw an increased interest from tapers: It was a weekend ritual for me to record Rodigan on a Saturday night and Tony Williams on a Sunday afternoon. I‘d sit on the edge of the sofa and had one finger on the pause button of the cassette deck. The trick was to try not to get the voice of the radio man or the adverts on the recording. (Tina, Personal Communication, 2019) I’ve still got Rodigan shows on tape. The interviews with artists were really good. I liked when they performed live on the radio. I’ve got the one with Papa Levi and Trevor Notch-that was good man. The best one though was the one with General Trees, and the one he did with Billy Boyo from way back. (Colour Blue, Personal Communication, 2019)

However, although the cassettes recorded from licenced radio were popular, it was so called pirate radio cassette recordings, that retained, replicated and were reminiscent of a Sound-tape. This was typified by the innovative and inventive Reggae radio platform—DBC (Dread

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Broadcasting Corporation), who were pioneers in transmitting raw and uncompromised Reggae on British radio from 1980 until 1984. Based in West London, DBC (originally known as Rebel Radio) brought the authentic aesthetic of a sound system sessions to the airways. This was achieved by the inflection and linguistic codes of the presenters Lepke, Mecka and Chucky, who also utilized sound effects echo and reverb, which were central features of the sound system. Cassette recordings of DBC at the time were both rare and sought after, which was partly due to their early broadcasts being platformed on the AM bandwidth, which meant tapers outside of West/North West London had difficulties in obtaining a signal usable for recording (thankfully a number of DBC recordings have now been archived, and can be obtained on-line).The importance of the DBC presenters cannot be understated. For instance, author and journalist Lloyd Bradley, in the guise of Black Star, and Grammy nominated and Brit award winner Neneh Cherry, were both fixtures on the station. Arguably it was also DBC who first granted black women a space to showcase themselves as purveyors of Reggae. Miss P, commonly known as ‘The Ranking Miss P’, and is regarded by many as the forerunner of female DJs in British Reggae, notwithstanding the huge contribution of Valerie Robinson of V rocket sound system, solidified her reputation on DBC: ‘Her hosting is impeccable, not to mention how killer her selection was’.19 Miss P paved the way for both black female radio broadcasters, but more importantly sound system women, such as Dub Plate Pearl, DJ Ade, Junie Ranks, Marilyn Dennis, and DJ Night Nurse, to stake their claim in the historical legacy of Reggae in Britain. In fact, such was the popularity of the Sound-tape during the early 80s, that one soon notices the release of live sound system recordings to vinyl records from Jamaica to the UK. Of course, live Reggae LPs existed previously, but this had been in the guise of concerts and festivals such as the annual Reggae Sunsplash, Niney’s 1975 Live at the Turntable Club, or the Trojan Reggae party series recorded in 1971 at the Antler Lounge in Neasden. However, what followed during the 80s were albums featuring live sessions involving Jamaican sounds such as Aces International, Lees Unlimited, People’s Choice and King Stur-Gav. These albums showcased 19 Emma Finamore, ‘How Women Like DJ Camilla and Ranking Miss Pioneered UK Pirate Radio’ (2018), https://www.factmag.com/2018/07/12/pirate-radio-uk-djcamilla-ranking-miss-p/.

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a number of Jamaican artistes such as Eek-a-Mouse, Johnny Ringo, Josey Wales, Peter Metro and Burro Banton who were well known in the cassette world, but now were gaining exposure to an international audience. This further enhanced the appeal of some of the more popular artists of the time such as Yellowman and Fathead who extensively toured the USA and the UK at the time, as demonstrated here: Ichi, ni, san is how them count in Japan, fling weh the vocal make me ride the version, people gather round me have the mic in ah me hand, and listen Lezlee Lyrix in origination, the other day me take a trip, go over Edmonton, me, Lorna, Muscle, Cookie was the car man, we reach ah Pickets Lock fi a dancehall session featuring Aswad and the great Yellowman, organised by Capital and David Rodigan, when we reach on deh, say outside ram, an man ah snatch ticket out ah next man hand, ah sell them fi forty pound to the whiteman, me see security with dawg an nuff Babylon, but them couldn’t stop the raiders from Brixton, them rush the gate kick down gateman, an get a free entry to the session, when we reach inside we hear the Aswad Band, ah dash down music like the Promise Land, well you know Aswad them well dangerous, and after them came the band Sagittarius, then up on the stage jump David Rodigan, and ask if we ready to take in Yellowman, when Yellowman appear it was an eruption, him dress-up in ah white fi match him complexion, him chat slackness, him sing church song, him bring entertainment to each an everyone, him say them free Gregory and shame Babylon, him ah the first MC fi come ah England, and really live up to him reputation, Yellowman him ah the one in ah one million, Puppah Lezlee ah him number one fan, Jahdahman, Jahdahman, Jahdahman, me at the microphone stand, if you happy and you love it just push up you hand! (Lesley Lyrics, 1983, Ghettotone Sound System)

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Above is an example of how the cassettes are not merely vectors for cultural transmission but, as in all of the above examples, are representative of a historical archive that ‘lives’ in the present moment by virtue of being recorded on Lo-Fi cassettes. Yet in Britain there was a shift in how the performances would be captured and disseminated, as suggested above, which ushered in for a brief period live sound system recording to vinyl. The first was Rusty International’s Sister Myrtle by Captain Sinbad on Saxon Sound in 1982, which followed in 1983 by Raiders music first in a tripartite series of sessions. These sessions featured Sir Lloyd Sound, that took place at the Dick Shepherd Youth Centre in Tulse Hill, London and then, respectively at Norwood Hall, London and Lecturer Hall in Tottenham, North London. These LPs were popular in that they brought together a raft of British sound systems and deejays and featured sounds like Frontline International, Highteous, Jamdown Rockers, King Tubby, Sir Coxsone and Saxon and showcased artists that were only previously heard on Sound-tapes. The date a Friday 28 the month a January, we in the new year of 83, We come a Tulse Hill for the DJ jamboree, in case me never mention fi me name a Levi, I man a represent the Saxon posse, a bubble me a bubble like a tin a Pepsi. Clean the boogu out your nose so you can breathe freely, wipe the matter out your eyes so you can see me clearly, dig the wax outta your ears pay attention to me, ca now me a go flash connection of the MC. Champion connected to Sugar dread, at the age of twenty them still a wet them bedspread, Styler connected to colonel flux, a boy come chuck it me tell him bollocks, Say Keaty connected to Little Andy, dem a two MC dem respect me, Say Deego connected to partner, say my lyrics sharp like your pupa razor, Ricky connected to Johnny Dollar, I think faster than a computer. Pebbles connected to Duffus, the girls say I’m sweet like a candy floss, Welton connected to Fluxy, me tek a boy beaver hat and me will shit inna ee. You love ah dem deh style say forward. (Papa Levi, Raiders Music presents live at DSYC, 1983)

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Final Thoughts Every culture has a world view, an orientation, which defines and orders reality, and the ethnographer seeks to present a description of human behavior which reflects the universe of the ‘native’. He seeks to describe and explicate the value system of the group under study.20 Soloway & Walters (1977)

The usage of low fidelity recordings such as Sound-tapes, as demonstrated above, provides the reader with an empirical and historical insight into the world of the sound system cassette. However, to obtain the ‘real’ experience one has to cultivate the art of listening, which allows one to translate the sophisticated performances of the deejay and equips the listener with a privileged insight into slice of undocumented British history. These storage units of data have assisted an understanding of black British cultural practice, providing a direct route for the researcher to obtain an insight into the inner workings of this black subculture.21 Soundtapes were also crucial in bridging ethnic and cultural divides between blacks in the West Indies and those here in Britain, while fostering a union of cultures between both black and non-black communities to exist, within a politically charged period of British history. This, in many ways encouraged new understandings of chaotic and complex issues, such as racism, police brutality, self-identity and otherness etc. to be debated and discussed on the ‘amplified public platforms’ that were the Reggae sound systems. More importantly, as suggested here, by virtue of being recorded, reproduced and disseminated through an outernational cassette culture, a legacy was put in place that has birthed new artistic pathways and trajectories for ensuing generations and will perhaps continue to do so.

20 I. Soloway and J. Walters, ‘Workin’ the Corner: The Ethics and Legality of Ethnographic Fieldwork Among Active Heroin Addicts’, in R.S. Weppner (ed), Street Ethnography: Selected Studies of Crime and Drug Use in Natural Settings (Beverly Hills/London: Sage, Soloway & Walters, 1977), p. 160. 21 Les Back, ‘Coughing up Fire: Sound Systems in South—East London’, New Formations, 5: (1988), 141–52.

CHAPTER 9

‘Dem a Call Us Pirates, Dem a Call Us Illegal Broadcasters!’: ‘Pirates’ Anthem’, PCRL and the Struggle for Black Free Radio in Birmingham Lisa Amanda Palmer

All other radio stations are scared to death of P.C.R.L. becoming too upfront for them, and so through D.T.I. they are trying to kill us off before we can grow and give you listeners what you want on your radio, Black music reggae, soul, Black culture, gospel and other programmes, education discussions, business, welfare for the young and old, just to mention a few, promotions of local Black talents, Arts, Fashion, Drama and beauty care. (Peoples Community Radio Link press release, 1985)1

1 ‘PCRL Press Release’ (The Pirate Archive), https://www.thepiratearchive.net/wes tmids/pcrl/PCRL-PressRelease-July85.jpg (accessed August 15, 2019).

L. A. Palmer (B) The Stephen Lawrence Research Centre, De Montfort University, Leicester, UK e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s) 2021 W. ‘L’. Henry and M. Worley (eds.), Narratives from Beyond the UK Reggae Bassline, Palgrave Studies in the History of Subcultures and Popular Music, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-55161-2_9

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The histories of black-led pirate radio stations and their intertwined relationship to sound system culture should be understood in terms of how they have operated as two sides of the same coin. Sound systems and pirate radio stations in black urban centres functioned as interwoven and interdependent public forums that were integral to the creation, production, formation and circulation of black popular music in the UK. Here, England became an important juncture and space for modes of black cultural production that circulated the raw materials of ‘Black Atlantic’ political culture.2 Black-led pirate radio stations and sound-systems played a central role in these circuits through their production, distribution and circulation of black popular music. However, they were routinely criminalised, racialised and classed as outlaw cultures by British state authorities. The framing of their operations as illegitimate, troublesome and unruly meant that pirate radio stations and sound systems were routinely monitored, criminalised and aggressively policed by the state and castigated as a menace to mainstream music and radio broadcasting in Britain. Importantly, pirate radio stations would signal how Britain’s postwar black diaspora communities were making claims about who they were in relation to the hostile state in ways that were being worked through the field of black popular music. These vernacular cultures were redefining and reconfiguring the landscape of popular music in Britain in ways that would produce longstanding cultural change and social transformation. This chapter will examine the political development of pirate radio stations—or what its Birmingham-based aficionados had called ‘free’ community radio in England. In particular, I will discuss how a popular dancehall protest song, ‘Pirates’ Anthem’ (1989), captured the cultural and political significance of free community radio stations in terms of the politics of curtailing the music, speech and voices of black vernacular cultures in the UK’s urban cities. The chapter will focus on the way the track deploys a dramatic ‘dem’ and ‘us’ dichotomy between pirate radio deejays who positioned themselves as advocates of ‘freedom’ for black music and the former Department for Trade and Industry (DTI), which was viewed as the enemies of black music and black freedom of expression. ‘Pirates’ Anthem’ amplified the defiant strategies of pirate radio operations to outsmart the DTI in the spirit of diasporic modes of political 2 Paul Gilroy, The Black Atlantic: Modernity and Double Consciousness (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1993).

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solidarity routed through a number of commonalities and assumptions between the Jamaican music scene in the Caribbean and the black music scene in England’s metropolitan centres. The chapter will focus on one particular shared commonality between the ways in which Jamaican dancehall artists and their pirate radio counterparts in the UK were frequently embroiled in the politics of the freedom of expression and the complicated, problematic and varied ways in which such freedoms encountered censure. The chapter will then use a case study with specific references to the Birmingham-based free radio station, the Peoples Community Radio Link (PCRL), in order to draw attention to one example of the regional development of pirate radio stations outside of London. The case study draws upon two online community digital archives and blogs that are documenting the histories of pirate stations in the UK. The Pirates Archive preserves stories and old recordings, including newspaper articles and artwork along with audio and video recordings of pirate stations across the country. The PCRL blog spot specifically focuses on the history of one of Birmingham’s and the UKs early pirate radio stations operating from the Edgbaston area of the city. This online resource was developed by PCRL deejay Mickey Nold, who has gathered together interviews, newscuttings, images, audio and video recordings to curate the often obscured and hidden histories of radio broadcasting in the UK. I will be focusing on PCRL to deliberately move the focus away from the London-centric historical narratives of the UK’s pirate radio scene which too often and erroneously sidesteps those regional pirate stations that were pivotal— rather than peripheral—to the development, production and circulation of black popular music in Britain. The chapter aims to understand the varying ways in which the black music scene in another city and location had developed a distinct character and profile even when there were clear overlapping circumstances and events that were shared by the development of pirate radio at the national level. What made Birmingham distinctive is the dominance of reggae and dancehall music at the heart of the pirate radio scene, to the point that it is possible to make the argument that Birmingham was and perhaps still remains the capital of reggae-oriented pirate radio in the UK. The chapter then returns to the dichotomous ‘dem’ and ‘us’ narrative of ‘Pirates’ Anthem’ to argue that while these binary relations between the DTI and pirate stations were broadly representative of the struggle for free radio stations and their survival, the narrative also conceals the

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nuanced spaces in between. Here, pirate radio stations provided talk shows and Saturday morning children’s programmes that served their own self-defined public service role that members of the local community often came to rely on in times of crisis and community unrest. Here, not only was black popular music the target of censure, it was the political content of the conversations that pirate radios could facilitate that became a location for the repression of freedom of expression.

‘One Station Couldn’t Run England’ Since the early 1980s, pirate radio stations had functioned as the backbone to the circuit of ‘outernational’ sonic dependencies within the UK black popular music scene. These circuits included the fundamental role of the independent record shops that supplied the latest vinyl releases produced and imported to the UK; local public venues including leisure/community centres or privately owned clubs and homes that hosted sound-clashes, dances, club nights, house parties, ‘all-dayers’ and weekender raves; and the predominantly black, and in part, multicultural working-class audiences and publics that were vital to the circuits of black cultural consumption, expression and performance. Within these self-generated cultural and economic circuits of black popular music, pirate radio stations became the pulsing heart of contemporary black music and culture in Britain. Their entrepreneurial selfsufficiency, technical innovations and business acumen chimed well with the spirit of the free market capitalist economy of the 1980s that saw the consolidation of a globalising neoliberal order. Within this broader political and economic social context, pirate radio stations operated and created their own economies and networks. These stations produced and played advertisements for local black business such as Caribbean bakeries, food grocers, hairdressers, barbers, travel agents, shipping services, music shops and promoters in ways that supported and developed a micro black-regional economy with trading streams through the transnational networks of the Caribbean and African diasporas.

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The marketised neoliberal political economy of the 1980s under Thatcherism, along with the demise of Norman Manley socialist experiment in Jamaica, had coincided with the convergence of a set of complicated and often contradictory shifts in transnational reggae music.3 Here the performative politics of explicit narratives concerning sex, violence and pleasure had entered into a discursive relation with the oppositional roots and culture politics that had come to dominate and characterise reggae music in the previous decade.4 In tandem with their economic prowess, pirate radio stations had also adopted oppositional political tactics to play the black music that ‘the people’ wanted while utilising the tools and mechanisms of the ‘system’ in their efforts to be legalised and incorporated into the national radio network. The global significance of UK black pirate radio stations did not go unnoticed by Jamaican reggae and dancehall artists. In 1989, ‘Pirates’ Anthem’, performed by Home T, Cocoa T and Shabba Ranks on the ‘Champion Lover’ riddim, had paid homage to the UK black pirate radio scene. This protest song marked an important moment in the transnational circuits of black popular culture that addressed the medium of radio broadcasting in the UK and the ways in which the industry was excluding black music and criminalising radio stations that played black music. The track amplified the oppositional politics and tactics of resistance adopted by black pirate radio DJ’s who had entered into a protracted struggle with the DTI. ‘Pirates’ Anthem’ spoke directly to the conditions within which circuits of outernational black music cultures were being censured, policed, monitored, regulated and criminalised by the UK government’s radio authorities. In the opening line to ‘Pirates’ Anthem’, dancehall deejay Shabba Ranks makes a rallying call to ‘the people’ in the transnational reggae fraternity against the power of the ‘system’ for outlawing the operation of pirate radio stations in Britain. Shabba Ranks names a specific enemy in the system, namely the DTI, instructing this regulatory arm of the British state to ‘low dem because we love dem!’ In other words, leave the pirates alone and allow them a platform to entertain their listeners without risk 3 Carolyn Cooper, Sound Clash: Jamaican Dancehall Culture at Large (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2004). 4 As well as Gilroy and Cooper cited above, see Lisa Palmer, ‘“Ladies A Your Time Now!” Erotic Politics, Lovers’ Rock and Resistance in the UK’, African and Black Diaspora: An International Journal, 4: 2 (2011), 177–92.

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of being criminalised. Released in the UK in 1989 on the Greensleeves Records label, ‘Pirates’ Anthem’ marked an important moment in the transnational circuit of reggae music culture and its related histories of navigating the ways in which the genre itself has been routinely censured by the powers of the state in Jamaica. In the opening chorus, ‘Pirates’ Anthem’ tells a heroic story about pirate radio stations in England and their battles to stay on air against the incursion of the DTI and their remit to shut down and remove stations from the UK’s FM radio frequency: Dem a call us pirates Dem a call us illegal broadcasters (a nuh lie) Just because we play what the people Dem a call us pirates, dem a call us illegal Broadcasters DTI try sop us but they can’t …

The track spoke directly to official UK government legislation, where the issuing of radio licences was controlled by the DTI along with the UK Home Office who were responsible for enforcement actions against pirate radio stations.5 Any station found broadcasting without a licence was in breach of the Wireless and Telegraphy Acts of 1959 and 1967. The official government line for the moral and legislative criminalisation of pirate radio stations was that the airwaves were needed for important emergency services and military operations and that these illegitimate radio broadcasters interfered with places allocated to legal stations who paid royalties to companies for playing their music.6 Of course, it was impossible for pirate radio operators to pay loyalties if they were not granted a broadcasting licence. This relationship between pirate stations and the state authorities can be understood through the state’s use of regulatory and legislative powers to censure and control who had the power to operate on the radio airways, who was permitted to speak and, more acutely, what was permitted to be heard on air. My focus on ‘Pirates’ Anthem’ is not, at this stage, concerned with tracing the genealogy of the track, although it is essential to note that the late British lover’s rock artist, Deborahe Glasgow, is arguably the central 5 Grant Goddard, Kiss FM: From Radical Radio to Big Business (London: Radio Books, 2011). 6 Ibid.; Steven Morris, ‘Pirate Flagship Plays on in Face of Ofcom Salvo’, The Guardian, January 31, 2004, https://www.theguardian.com/media/2004/jan/31/radio. ofcom (accessed September 30, 2019).

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figure behind the track’s riddim. Her song, ‘Champion Lover’ (1989), produced by Gussy Clarke, was first cut on the ‘Champion Lover’ riddim that is shared with ‘Pirates’ Anthem’. Glasgow re-recorded ‘Mr Loverman’ with Shabba Ranks for his album Holding On (1989). Shortly before Glasgow’s untimely death in 1994, ‘Champion Lover’ (1993) was re-recorded and re-released to produce Shabba Ranks’ signature hit single, ‘Mr Lover Man’, this time with Chevelle Franklyn on lead vocals. Holding On also featured ‘Pirates’ Anthem’, which was a huge hit in the dancehall scene. While the lyrical content of ‘Pirates’ Anthem’ is central to its politics of black diasporic solidarity through the medium of dancehall popular song, I want to focus on locating the track within the context of reggae music as an object of censure. Here, ‘Pirates’ Anthem’ takes on particular significance for being part of a longer tradition of censured protest songs that have emerged from the histories of Jamaican popular music. With the release of ‘Pirates’ Anthem’, Home T, Cocoa Tea and Shabba Ranks had demonstrated a clear sense of solidarity with the UK black pirate radio scene on behalf of Jamaican dancehall artists and culture. ‘Pirates’ Anthem’ informed its reggae audiences on the island and in the diaspora about the obstacles faced by UK pirate radio deejays who were playing a spectrum of black music—‘reggae, calypso, hip-hop or disco’— on their stations ‘to give the people what they want’. The pirate radio scene itself was instrumental to dancehall artists and a key component in creating and sustaining reggae dancehall culture in Britain. The function of pirate radio was not only to play a range of black music styles but to also promote local and international artists, including Jamaican performers emerging from the transnational dancehall scene. Richard Iton argues that reggae’s popularity was in part due to the ‘intersecting patterns of Caribbean outmigration, [where] a deliberative forum of exchange had developed by the beginning of the 1980s that engaged blacks in the United States, the United Kingdom, Canada and the Caribbean and to varying degrees those located elsewhere’.7 Iton’s configuration of ‘a deliberative forum of exchange’ is helpful in terms of thinking through the dependencies between pirate radio stations, sound system cultures, musicians, performers and their audiences and the ways in which they were constructing a diaspora of outernational black publics 7 Richard Iton, In Search of the Black Fantastic: Politics & Popular Culture in the Post-Civil Rights Era (New York: Oxford, 2008), p. 247.

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in regional settings. Carolyn Cooper observes that for Jamaican singers and deejays, foreign (‘farin’) outernational territories were represented and functioned as spaces of economic opportunity. As she argues, ‘farin’ ‘massives/posses’ were found in major global cities, including London, Birmingham, New York, Toronto, Tokyo, Lagos, Sydney and Auckland. ‘Performers credit these collectives as constituting a global market that enables the artists to “break” or “bus” [burst] across national borders, or, as Shabba Ranks put it, to “fly offa Jamaica map”’.8 Jamaican reggae and dancehall artists understood that UK pirate radio stations created the spaces and platforms for audiences to have a direct and potentially lucrative connection to their music outside of the physical space of the dancehall. Pirate radio stations provided essential and bespoke advertising and promotional services with creative reggaefied radio jingles and flyers that ‘hyped up’ the dance for touring dancehall performers. It would then make sense that a track such as ‘Pirates’ Anthem’ would stand in solidarity with key exponents of the culture who were pivotal components to the global market that contributed to the success and popularity of dancehall artists in the diaspora. While we can infer an economic reasoning for ‘Pirates’ Anthem’s’ declaration of solidarity, it is further possible to argue that economic solidarity had dovetailed with a broader and perhaps more urgent question concerning the formations of political and cultural unity and freedoms that came as consequence of the ways in which reggae dancehall music historically has needed to confront varying forms of censorship and state repression. It is therefore important to understand ‘Pirates’ Anthem’s themes of solidarity and unity between Jamaican artists and the UK reggae scene within the context of an unruly working-class expression of black resistance. As Cooper has argued: As is well known, in the early 1980s it became mortally dangerous in Jamaica to resist/oppose the system and to chant ‘truths and rights’. The popular was pushed in another direction, giving rise to dancehall. For almost a decade, this new genre mainly expressed, reflected, even celebrated the carnal, the violent and the slack. Mainly, but not wholly. And even within the culture of slackness could be seen the signs of bare-faced, bare-bottomed subversion of the dominant social order. The

8 Cooper, Sound Clash, p. 47.

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ever-increasing economic hardships and socio-political oppression drove the popular toward a head-on confrontation with the forces of repression.9

Within these forms of confrontation that had taken place in reggae dancehall culture, the borders and fissures of censure within discourses on black popular resistance, specifically as they relate to questions of race, social-class, gender and sexuality, were often bought to the fore. For instance, in the early 1990s, Shabba Ranks, the lead deejay on ‘Pirates’ Anthem’, had infamously defended the homophobic lyrical content of Buju Banton’s recording of ‘Boom Bye Bye’. Banton’s track, along with Ranks’ own ‘Dem Bow’, had led to a well-documented public backlash against both artists in the US and the UK mainstream media markets for the pervasive forms of homophobia found in dancehall lyrics.10 In the US, ‘Boom Bye Bye’ was removed from the playlists of radio stations, while in the UK Shabba’s now infamous appearance on the 1990s British Channel 4 youth show The Word was widely condemned for his use of the Holy Bible to legitimise the death of gay men. ‘Dem Bow’ created a moral equivalence between those oppressors who would deny freedom to black people and any person caught engaging in acts of oral sex whether through cis-normative straight or gay sexual partnering. The censuring of these tracks by Anglo-American mainstream radio can be described as a prime example of the cross-cultural conflicts and contradictions that were often generated by the cultural industry’s increasingly globalised market. Here, it was noted by Chin that a dominate and problematic form of ethnocentrism had positioned ‘advanced’ North American and European societies as less homophobic than their Caribbean counterparts. In doing so, they were failing to acknowledge that their condemnation of the Caribbean as a comparative space deemed as having excessive and exceptional forms of homophobia avoided the extent to which homophobia still exists as a deeply rooted problem in North American and European societies. However, at the same time, Chin observes that Caribbean cultural critics who had acknowledged the complex operation of western cultural imperialism, did not go far enough 9 Ibid., p. 57. 10 Ibid.; Timothy S. Chin, ‘Jamaica “Bullers” and “Batty men”: Contesting Homo-

phobia in Black Popular Culture and Contemporary Caribbean Literature’, in Thomas Glave (ed.), Our Caribbean: A Gathering of Lesbian and Gay Writing from the Antilles (Durham: Duke University Press, 2008), pp. 78–96.

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to challenge the explicit homophobia in Banton’s lyrics, nor the pervasiveness of homophobia in Caribbean societies alongside the operation of homophobia in most ‘first’ and ‘third’ world countries.11 Dancehall music thus operated as both an object for dominant imperialist modes of censure while producing its own forms of censure around the policing of differentiated black masculinities, sexualities and practices in order to deny their access to emancipatory political projects of black liberation and freedom.12 Here, the politics of censure was operating within dancehall to police the borders of sexuality and diverse sexual practice. The US-led military operation ‘Desert Shield’ during the Gulf War of 1990–91 became the backdrop to a different politics of censure for Cocoa Tea, the lead singer on the ‘Pirates’ Anthem’ single. Not long after the release of ‘Pirates Anthem’, the conscious roots artists released two singles protesting the conflict in the Gulf between Iraq and coalition forces. ‘Oil Ting’ (1990) released on the Greensleeves label produced one of very few reggae songs protesting the Gulf War. On the track Cocoa Tea sang about the escalating geopolitical crisis between Saddam Hussein and George W Bush Snr., declaring that ‘dis fighting over this oil ting is a dangerous someting’, observing ‘politicians talking about sanctions and military actions’ while questioning why these economic and military interventions were not deployed by the west in relation to apartheid in South Africa. On his second track on the same subject, ‘No Blood for Oil’ (1991) released on the Two Friends Label, Tea opens with a direct challenge to the concept of freedom of speech, often seen as a protected tenant of liberal democracies, with the chant that ‘freedom of speech means nothing if you just can’t speak the truth’. It is without irony that both singles were banned from air play in Jamaica and received no airplay on legal radio in the UK.13

11 Chin, ‘Jamaica “Bullers” and “Batty men”’, pp. 78–96. 12 Denise Noble, ‘Ragga Music: Dis/Respecting Black Women and Dis/Reputable

Sexualities’, in Barnor Hesse (ed.), Un/Settled Multiculturalisms: Diasporas, Entanglements, Transruptions (London: Zed Books, 2007), pp. 148–69; Agostinho M. N. Pinnock, ‘“A Ghetto Education Is Basic”: (Jamaican) Dancehall Masculinities As CounterCulture’, Journal of Pan African Studies, 1: 9 (2007), 47–84; Donna Hope, Man Vibes: Masculinities in the Jamaican Dancehall (Kingston: Ian Randle, 2010). 13 Reggie Mint, ‘Rebel Music: 11 of the Best Reggae Protest Songs’, Discovermusic.com, July 6, 2019, https://www.udiscovermusic.com/stories/best-reggae-protestsongs/ (accessed September 8, 2019).

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Cocoa Tea is from a long tradition of Jamaican conscious cultural Rastafari singers who saw themselves as important spokespersons particularly for poor people to speak up for what they saw as truth, righteousness and justice. Cooper notes that during the early 1990s, roots ‘n’ culture/reality/conscious singers and deejays who were overwhelmingly young and masculine constituted a re-emerging radical Jamaican social movement. She examines the track ‘Fire Pon Rome’ performed by the Rastafari Bobo Asanti Anthony B, where the artist develops a blazing and explicit critique of the imperialist, capitalist and political classes in Jamaica who he saw as ‘constituting a collective threat to the interests of poor people’.14 The track was widely criticised and censured by the Jamaican mainstream media for being ‘disrespectful’ to certain leaders. Cooper locates ‘Fire Pon Rome’ in the long Jamaican tradition of ‘warning’, where the itinerant ‘warner’, a terrifying street preacher, brings a message of damnation and redemption. As Erna Brodber argues, from the 1970s onwards, for many male Rastafari singers in Jamaica, there was a ‘sense of self as a black man, a Rastafarian, a man with a home in Africa, a man with a particular lifestyle and as one charged to guide others’.15 The political context of censuring reggae dancehall provides us with some understanding of the diasporic intra-national socio-political and historical context of how a track such as ‘Pirates’ Anthem’ emerges as a protest song.16 The track signals a complicated politics of the policing of dancehall music and culture within the shared spaces of exchange between these dispersed diasporic locations of black popular culture. The track had taken up the masculinised charge to guide ‘the people’ as politically conscious artists to warn the ‘massives’ to raise their consciousness to a set of local and diasporic political attempts at censuring reggae dancehall culture. ‘Pirates’ Anthem’, in its defence of its fellow pirate radio bredrins in England, had a direct understanding of who ‘dem’ was. ‘Dem’ was the repressive guardians of state power in their governance and rule over transnational constituencies of diasporic marginalised poor people who were experiencing their own local iteration of musical and political

14 Cooper, Sound Clash, p. 60. 15 Erna Brodber, ‘Black Consciousness and Popular Music in Jamaica in the 1960s and

1970s’, New West Indian Guide/Nieuwe West-Indische Gids, 3: 4 (1987), 145–60. 16 Barnor Hesse, Unsettled Multiculturalisms: Diasporas, Entanglements, Transruptions (London: Zed Books, 2000).

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censure. ‘Pirates’ Anthem’ was thus configured around a raced and classed politics that spoke out against state repression of reggae music in England. I now want to turn to an examination of the black-led pirate radio scene in England with a specific focus on Birmingham and its pioneering pirate radio station the People’s Community Radio Link (PCRL).

It’s Not Just a London Ting During the 1970s, London and the southeast had produced a number of dedicated land-based soul, jazz and funk pirate radio stations, including Invicta, JFM and Horizon Radio.17 It was only during the 1980s that pirate radio in the UK had taken on a specifically black political vernacular. The London-based DBC (Dread Broadcasting Company) established itself in 1981 with ‘a sound system vibe’ and presentation that was intentional about its reggae-orientated roots and culture aesthetic. DBC pirate radio deejays delivered their shows in the style of an MC, where the radio host would talk over records or use special dancehall sound effects that interacted with the tracks being played. This signatory sound system style contrasted with the banal formulaic professional codes that were customary on licensed mainstream radio. The most effective pirate deejays communicated to their listeners in ways that combined the ‘chatting’ style of the MC/toaster with the compelling musical knowledge, insight and intuition of a sound system selector. As Norman Jay recalls: ‘I remember radio stations which again perpetuated the whole suburban white soul boy thing – we could never get on with them! Whereas DBC was so wicked because it was like a blues dance on the air’.18 The longstanding impact of the sound system/pirate radio template is recognisable in the success of the group Soul ll Soul, who had merged a number of different- but-connected music genres from lovers’ rock, soul, and funk, to reggae sound system baselines that created a distinctly black British innovation. As group founder and member Jazzie B has stated, ‘we operated as a collective, not a group in the accepted sense. We ran it [Soul II Soul] as a sound system …’19 Later, musical collectives such as So

17 Goddard, Kiss FM ; Lloyd Bradley, Sounds Like London: 100 Years of Black Music in the Capital (London: Serpent’s Tail, 2013). 18 Bradley, Sounds Like London, p. 326. 19 Ibid., p. 335.

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Solid Crew and Roll Deep built and benefited hugely from this template by using pirate radio, the internet, club nights and dances to operate as self-contained, self-supporting sound system movements.20 Joy White has argued that the success of grime music was clearly tied to the way grime practitioners adopted the emerging social media technologies such as YouTube and online TV channels that have now superseded pirate radio as a platform for the dissemination of the music and culture. The scene not only originates from the entrepreneurial skills and enterprising networks found among artists, it is also a direct product of the previous generation of pirate radio and sound system practitioners.21 Grime music, much like its predecessor’s jungle, drum and base and UK garage, is a descendent of pirate radio and sound system cultures and has reconfigured and reinterpreted its methods and vernacular for a new generation. Considering the global success of artists such as Lady Leshur, Stormzy, Little Sims, Wiley, Dave, Skepta and Kano, 24-hour access to black music on licensed digital and online ‘urban’ radio platforms including BBC 1 Extra and Capital Extra, alongside the legalisation of former pirate stations such as Kiss FM and Rinse FM, it is possible to take for granted that mainstream popular music in the UK has inherently accommodated forms of black popular culture as a matter of course. As the authors of the online blog and repository the Pirate Archive remind us: ‘It’s difficult to imagine now, with the amount of radio stations available, just how little choice there used to be’. However, the stark reality of the history of black pirate radio stations reveals a systematic effort by the state to actively control, regulate and legislate against these stations and the voices of those who played and listened to the music. The histories of black pirate radio stations go far beyond the UK’s capital and have distinctly local and regional stories that are too often overlooked in favour of London-centric narratives on the histories of black music in Britain. For example, Lloyd Bradley’s book Sounds Like London and UK hip-hop veteran Rodney P’s BBC documentary The Last Pirates: Britain’s Rebel DJs, both focus on London as the UK’s hot bed of pirate radio activity.22 The problem here is that black British music 20 Ibid. 21 Joy White, Urban Music and Entrepreneurship: Beats, Rhymes and Young People’s Enterprise (London: Routledge, 2017). 22 Bradley, Sounds Like London; BBC Four, The Last Pirates: Britain’s Rebel DJs, October 19, 2019, https://www.thepiratearchive.net/ (accessed August 10, 2019).

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histories become constructed and constrained by a narrowed down lens on London that is often a local and sometimes parochial narrative that becomes substituted as a one-size fits all national story. Such a focus elides the distinctive regional histories of black music in the UK that do not easily replicate (and nor do they intend to) the London scene. For instance, Birmingham had produced a number of pirate stations including Sting FM, Hot.92, Power 92 and PCRL, where the dominance of reggae formed the bulk of its musical content. Eddie Chambers argues that reggae was the principle means by which the Rastafari message had spread from Jamaica to Britain and became the dominant means of expression for black sound during the 1970s and early 1980s. He further notes that by the end of the 1980s, the urban sound in England had changed with hip-hop enjoying a similar affection to reggae in the previous decades.23 By 1987, a number of PCRL’s presenters left the station to form Enterprise FM because they were unhappy with the lack of R&B/hip-hop that was played on the station.24 I want to focus further on the significance of PCRL, one of Birmingham’s and the UKs earliest black-led radio stations. Websites, including The Pirate Archive and the PCRL Blog Spot, have begun to curate their own online public archive platforms to document and redress aspects of these often-neglected regional histories of pirate radio. Many of the sources used in the following discussion draw upon these online digitised resources.

‘Just Because We Play What the People Want’---PCRL 103.5 FM In January 2004, Cecil Morris (Music Master), Anthony Jeffers (Daddy Pilot) and Michael Norton (Mickey Nold) appeared in front of Birmingham Crown Court charged with conspiring to manage, finance and operate an unlicensed radio station, the People’s Community Radio Link (PCRL). Morris, a Jamaican-born businessman, musician and entrepreneur also known by his deejaying name, Music Master, founded PCRL in 1985 during the uprisings in Handsworth to ease tensions in 23 Eddie Chambers, Roots & Culture: Cultural Politics in the Making of Black Britain (London: I.B. Tauris, 2017). 24 Enterprise, ‘Enterprise 1987 Pre-launch Promotion’, PCRL Blog Spot, https://pc-r-l.blogspot.com/2018/11/enterprise-pre-launch-promotion.html (accessed August 10, 2019).

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the community. However, his first venture into pirate radio began with Radio Star in 1982 following a campaign for local legal stations to include radio programmes and DJ’s that catered for black audiences. Morris ran his Rising Star Records and Management from his shop on Dudley Road in the Edgbaston area of the city. His ambitions were audacious enough that his local media enterprise included an attempt at pirate television broadcasting. In 1984, his TELSTAR Television station reportedly used the BBC Two transmitters after they went off air at night to broadcast between one and five am in the morning.25 In 1981, Music Master had used a thousand-signature petition to try to persuade licensed stations in the city to provide programmes that would meet the ‘community needs’ of its large African Caribbean and Asian populations. Despite Birmingham having a lively and thriving reggae music scene, mainstream stations continued to ignore the demand and popularity of the music. Birmingham’s reggae landscape was reflected in the popularity and the plethora of sound systems in the area; the phenomenal global success of the conscious roots band Steel Pulse and their landmark album Handsworth Revolution (1978); the impact of the local band Beshara on the reggae lovers’ rock scene; along with the huge mainstream crossover appeal of pop-reggae bands such as UB40 and The Beat. Mykaell Riley, the singer and percussionist in Steel Pulse, recalls how limited the spectrum of music was on Birmingham’s local radio stations and how much attention was given to other bands to emerge from the city’s heavy metal heritage: Growing up in Birmingham the airwaves were dominated by mainstream radio, which had a slight bias to local success. The likes of Black Sabbath, ELO and the Moody blues became very familiar alongside the Bay City Rollers and novelty acts such as the Wurzels. Meanwhile at home, we’d dance to a different tune. Here the musical influences stemmed mainly from Dad’s Blaupunkt Blue Spot, the preferred record player/radiogram amongst West Indians.26

25 Veronica Minto, ‘Britain’s First Pirate TV Station’, PCRL Blog Spot, https://p-c-r-l. blogspot.com/2012/07/britains-first-pirate-tv-station.html (accessed August 11, 2019). 26 Mykaell Riley, ‘Bass Culture: An Alternative Soundtrack to Britishness’, in Jon Sratton and Nabeel Zuberi (eds), Black Popular Music in Britain Since 1945 (Farnham: Ashgate, 2014), p. 104.

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Legal broadcasters had weekly black music shows on local radio hosted by DJs including Barry Curtis, Kris Kennedy JR and Erskine T. As well as presenting a local radio show on Beacon Radio, Erskine T had also managed a number of reggae artists, including Maxi Priest, Chaka Demus and Pliers, Carol Thompson and General Levy. However, these local radio shows on legal stations were often aired in the graveyard slot on radio schedules and were too short in length to cover the depth and breadth of what reggae music had to offer. Music Master would later accuse licensed radio stations such as BBC Birmingham and BRMB of ignoring Black and Asian audiences in the region. PCRL went on to take a rebel stance against the way mainstream local radio had neglected its black audiences. In a press release by PCRL issued in 1985, the station accused the local radio BRMB of racism stating that: BRMB proved that they did not care about the blacks in their Broadcasting area by taking off the only programme that we fought so much to get, namely, Reggaetivity. While we get a puppet presenter on a show whose ratings is the lowest on radio for the BBC Sound System.27

In the context of the music scene in Birmingham, PCRL was a pivotal force in the city’s sound system circuits. The station provided a platform for sound systems to promote their local dances, club nights, carnival showcases, Christmas, New Year, valentines, Easter and bank holiday weekend parties, as well as sound clash events taking place nationally and internationally. Many of the deejays were also members of local sound system collectives. Avid listeners could rely on PCRL to update them on the latest releases in dancehall music coming out of Jamaica; which reggae artists were coming to the UK to perform in venues such as The Humming Bird in Dale End; or what sound system clashes were taking place at other venues in the city, including the Porshe Club in the Small Heath area; or what blues parties were on at the African Caribbean Self Help Organisation at 104 Heathfield Road in Handsworth. The station also received help from other areas in the local community that was supportive of the station’s mission to provide a voice to the local community. Newspaper cuttings collated on the PCRL Blog Spot and the Pirates 27 ‘PCRL Press Release’ (The Pirate Archive), https://www.thepiratearchive.net/wes

tmids/pcrl/PCRL-PressRelease-July85.jpg (accessed August 15, 2019).

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Archive website show reports that a local Birmingham vicar, Rev Richard Bashford, created a refuge for PCRL’s transmitter to be hosted on the church tower until the local diocese had pointed out that they could not condone law-breaking. The Reverend told the press that: ‘This station is providing a voice for a section of the community who wouldn’t otherwise be heard’.28 If we think about free community radio stations as a forum, a gathering and a meeting point, pirate radio DJs in Birmingham had deliberately switched their frame of reference from piracy to freedom by renaming their operations as ‘free’ radio stations. In renaming their work within the context of freedom, pirate radio DJs and, by extension, their adjacent sound systems were finding ways to negotiate their marginalised status within the UK. Naming themselves as ‘free’ rather than ‘pirate’ can be viewed as an explicit acknowledgement of the threat of impending censure. Free radio stations were essential entities in the diasporic circuits of Caribbean music in Britain. They were important sites for community self-making, where modes of black vernacular cultures are conceived as places where blackness found ways to resist racism through the pleasure and entertainment they found within black music. In Birmingham, these circuits relied upon the global popularity of reggae music and its significance in shaping the city’s identity as an important location for the production and consumption of reggae. The station reflected as well as promoted the cultural dominance of a reggae music that was inextricably bound to the culture, faith and politics of Rastafari. While reggae was largely ignored by mainstream radio stations, PCRL filled the need of providing a platform for the music to reach audiences who were hungry to listen to and participate in the cultural vibe of Birmingham’s reggae scene. PCRL had a number of female presenters who reflected some of the gendered dynamics of the sound system culture, where women were central participants but often overlooked in the historical narrative. Rankin’ Bev played ‘raggamuffin’ dancehall music on her shows. In her short biography, she describes being a listener to PCRL and noticing the

28 Maureen Messent, ‘Pirates Who Keep One Step Ahead’, PCRL Blog Spot, https://pc-r-l.blogspot.com/2016/07/pirates-who-keep-one-step-ahead.html (accessed August 11, 2019); Cecil Morris, interview by Amandine Sanial (2013), PCRL, la radio pirate de Birmingham, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CJr4bsVEd9Q (accessed August 11, 2019).

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shortage of female deejays on the station. The up-beat tone of Rankin’ Bev’s biography published on the PCRL blog when the describes playing the music that she likes and bringing joy into the lives of her listeners is also tinged with her concern for the dangers and consequences of freedom of speech for oppressed black people globally: ‘my greatest wish of all time is to see South Africa free, so that people can voice their opinions and do what they believe in without getting killed for it’.29 Deejays Aunty Joy and Aunty Bubbles presented the Children’s Saturday Morning Show that included phone-ins, competitions, quizzes, stories and nursery rhymes. Clearly women deejays were integral to the development of the station and the sound system scene in Birmingham. Rankin Bev, along with Lady Destiny, were presenters on another of Birmingham’s longstanding free radio stations Sting FM and were among the few women in the city that ran their own sound system, the Female Connection. Music Master was clear that his intention was to broadcast content on PCRL that would combat the white-western bias of mainstream news coverage. During the 1980s, free community radio stations operated within a media landscape where it was common to see pathological images of black poverty, educational failure, teenage childbirth and crime. Stephen Small argued that because black people found themselves at a disadvantage in every major social, economic and political category, these representations held some semblance of fact while being unable to tell the whole story.30 During the 1990s, PCRL tackled the Eurocentric bias within mainstream media through its weekly Sunday evening phone-in radio show called ‘Talk Back’, hosted by Anthony Jeffers and known also as deejay Daddy Pilot. In a political context and media landscape where mainstream talk radio was and remains saturated with dominant, often right-wing Eurocentric perspectives, Talk Back created a local platform for the opinions of black people in the region to speak about topical issues that had meaning and impact upon their lives. While playing music was the primary content for the station, the opportunity for audiences to participate in a phone-in style conversation with the station’s DJs was a consistent feature of PCRL. Speaking publicly and openly about problems that affected the black community, including police brutality, was seen 29 Rankin’ Bev, ‘Rankin’ Bev’, PCRL Blog spot, https://p-c-r-l.blogspot.com/search/ label/Rankin%27%20Bev (accessed September 3, 2019). 30 Stephen Small, Racialised Barriers: The Black Experience in the United States and England in the 1980s (London: Routledge, 1994).

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as problematic by government authorities. According to Music Master, when PCRL started to broadcast live, the government applied increased pressure on the station: On Radio Star it was recordings, but now we [PCRL] were going out live and direct to the public. We were discussing a lot of things. We were discussing things that I don’t think the government wanted discussing – that the police were murdering young Black men in jail. And we started to demonstrate, and broadcast, and getting support, and the government didn’t like that so the really tek a set on PCRL.31

On 5 April 1998, Daddy Pilot’s phone-in guests were Patricia Manning and local community activist Maxie Hayles, who were in the studio to discuss the inquest into death of Patricia’s brother, Alton Manning (Jeffers 1998).32 In December 1995, Alton was found dead in HM Prison Blakenhurst at the age of 33. An independent autopsy confirmed that he had died from asphyxiation and that his death was due to the way Alton was handled by prison officers. The station’s pro-active support for campaigners against police brutality, alongside their unflinching approach to discussing topics such as domestic violence, gun crime and state racism with local and national community activists meant, unsurprisingly, that the station was seen as an unwanted host for anti-establishment perspectives and opinions. One special investigations officer from Ofcom (the regulatory body who superseded the DTI with even more draconian powers) stated that stations like PCRL do more damage than good because they were able to broadcast unchecked radical political views. PCRL is one example of how the censoring and control of forms of black speech was evident not only through the music that pirate stations had chosen to play but also through the public forums that they had created for their listeners to literally ‘talk back’ to, around and against the conditions of their social predicament. While ‘Pirates’ Anthem’ captured the spirit of resistance, persistence and defiance of free radio stations, closer analysis of these histories provides a brief insight into some of the socio-political as well as personal costs that free radio stations and their deejays had encountered and endured. Music Master, Daddy Pilot 31 Morris, ‘Pirate Flagship Plays on in Face of Ofcom Salvo’. 32 Anthony Jeffers, ‘Daddy Pilot (DP)’, PCRL Blog Spot, http://p-c-r-l.blogspot.com/

2012/07/daddy-pilot-dp.html (accessed September 30, 2019).

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and fellow deejay and station archivist Mickey Nold all received criminal convictions. In their 2004 case, Ofcom had issued heavy fines and had used their powers to confiscate expensive broadcasting equipment, their catalogue of music records and recorded files.33 On the PCRL Blog, Nold—who now oversees the preservation of the stations history through their online archive—claims that many of Pilot’s Talk Back shows were taken by the authorities before their court case in 2004.34 The struggle for legal legitimacy for stations such as PCRL was thus a double-edged sword in that despite PCRL’s numerous attempts to ascertain a legal broadcasting licence, the blocking of the station’s legal status had consequently made its illegality a vital black public sphere. Here, a politics of freedom was being negotiated through these particular entities of black popular culture through seeking legalised legitimacy within the parameters of a hostile climate that was intent on exerting their powers to directly and forcefully shut down, repress and control what was being aired on the airways of British radio. It is possible to imagine that if PCRL’s desire for legal legitimacy had been granted, this may not have necessarily given them the freedom of political expression that the station had established and developed for its listeners. Free radio provides us with an important insight into how community collectives are retained, negotiated and built through contradictory articulations of freedom. It is helpful to think through this tension as a site of struggle for the way power and censure can be unevenly brokered and negotiated. Stuart Hall’s idea over the struggle for cultural hegemony which is waged in popular culture, as anywhere else, acknowledges and insists that there are never any pure victories and pure dominations to be won in the sites of black popular culture.35 Pirate radio practitioners were negotiating a set of positionalities of power while reconfiguring black popular music as a site that was contested in ways that involved desiring co-optation within as well as resistance to the cultural hegemonic forms of mainstream media. As Hall argues, these tensions are often about ‘shifting the balance of power in the relation of culture; it is always about changing

33 Morris, ‘Pirate Flagship Plays on in Face of Ofcom Salvo’. 34 Michael Norton, ‘Pilot’, PCRL Blog Spot, http://p-c-r-l.blogspot.com/search/label/

Pilot (accessed October 10, 2019). 35 Stuart Hall, ‘What Is This “Black” in Black Popular Culture?’, Gina Dent (ed.), Black Popular Culture (Seattle: Bay Press, 1992), pp. 21–33.

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the dispositions and the configurations of cultural power, not getting out of it’.36

Conclusion ‘Pirates’ Anthem’ is an important protest song in the histories of dancehall reggae tracks because it helps us to do the work of connecting the transnational forums of dancehall culture between Jamaica and England to show how these diasporic constituencies were differentially negotiating the politics of censure. Black-led pirate stations were platforms of uneven and negotiated resistance that provided a radical outlet for black music and for particular forms of black expressions of freedom that were met with the repressive forces of the state. While being criminalised for being at the forefront of playing black music primarily for the UK’s black and multicultural working-class audiences who enjoyed reggae, hip-hop, soul, R&B, calypso, socca and rare-groves, free radio practitioners at PCRL made consistent efforts to work with officials to obtain a broadcasting licence without success. Like many free radio stations, PCRL was a vital catalyst for transforming, connecting and extending the spheres of black popular music while creating a globally connected, diaspora orientated sense of place with its community of listeners by linking the multiple public domains of sound systems and pirate radio. In many ways, an examination of free community radio stations is one important example of how black communities were working with and transgressing an inherited outlaw status. While the notion of pirate radio is associated as a site of rebellion against the state and corporate governance of British radio, it is also a story about the ways in which communities were battling to claim their own stake on their own terms in the heavily guarded and regulated structures of state and commercial radio on the proviso that they could provide a better service to black radio audiences. These struggles may seem less relevant and less fraught in our contemporary mainstream/new media landscape where former pirate stations have become lucrative legal entities or where access to black popular musical forms have come to dominate not only radio airways but digital playlists and downloads. Nevertheless, the current audio landscape in contemporary Britain would not be what it is now without the hustle, juggle and the persistent politics of negotiated resistance that can be found in the histories of the free black pirate radio movement in Britain. 36 Ibid., p. 24.

CHAPTER 10

Rebel Music in the Rebel City: The Performance Geography of the Nottingham ‘Blues Party’, 1957–1987 Tom Kew

Rebellion is synonymous with reggae and dancehall music. In light of the genres’ ongoing globalisation, however, the rebellion espoused lyrically now appears somewhat abstract; rallying a diverse and disparate listenership against a mythic ‘Babylon’ while simultaneously depending upon modern digital distribution networks to reach those same consumers. This is the phenomenon which Heath and Potter (2005) call ‘the rebel sell’.1 However, the Jamaican ‘rebel music’ which was packaged for commercial successful in the late twentieth century has remained something of a heritage product, not yet finding its own space in the increasingly 1 Joseph Heath and Andrew Potter, The Rebel Sell: How the Counterculture Became Consumer Culture (Chichester: Capstone, 2006 [2005]).

T. Kew (B) Nottingham, UK e-mail: [email protected]

© The Author(s) 2021 W. ‘L’. Henry and M. Worley (eds.), Narratives from Beyond the UK Reggae Bassline, Palgrave Studies in the History of Subcultures and Popular Music, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-55161-2_10

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digital ecosystem of the twenty-first-century music industry. This chapter suggests that putting reggae back on the ground, in the dancehall space or ‘blues party’ (a late-night sound system dance in a private residence, typically selling unlicensed alcohol), reconnects it to its key messages of rebellion against the ruling elite and the forging of solidarity among the working classes. By foregrounding the geographical sites where reggae’s rebellious message is actualised, away from the saturated landscape of digital mass communication, I develop a localised methodology of critical reading, with global applications for the understanding of a cultural phenomenon in transition.

Reggae Online and on the Ground The relative invisibility of reggae on social media2 ; the curation of narrow ‘best of’ reggae playlists on platforms such as Spotify; and the media’s endless quest to find ‘the next Bob Marley’,3 are all factors which suggest the genre is not currently reaching its full potential as a contemporary art form. As Chronixx would say, ‘Bob Marley still a lead pon Itunes / dat simply mean we nuh ready yet’.4 It could be argued that the genre sits at a difficult crossroads: simultaneously looking fondly back to its heyday as a globally popular ‘rebel music’ and anxiously forward to more commercialised forms of Jamaican-influenced music, such as the digitised ‘tropical pop’ which has brought great success to non-reggae artists such as Rhianna, Drake, Ed Sheeran or Major Lazer, with guest vocals by Justin Bieber, Ellie Goulding and Ariana Grande among others.5 So while reggae-influenced sounds are an increasingly accepted part of the contemporary musical landscape, Jamaican reggae has not enjoyed crossover success since Chronixx and Protoje’s 2014 collaboration ‘Who

2 Bob Marley sits an impressive seventh in the current top 100 Facebook pages, ranked by number of ‘likes’. However he is the sole reggae artist in the Top 100, https://fan pagelist.com/category/musicians/view/list/sort/fans/page5 (accessed May 6, 2019). 3 One reviewer took an eerily literal tone in describing the latest candidate for the

title of ‘the next Bob Marley’: ‘Judges Saw Bob Marley Reincarnated on Stage in “The Voice of Holland” […] the ghost of Bob Marley appeared on stage in the form of Mitchell Brunings,’ https://www.goodnewsnetwork.org/judges-saw-bob-marley-reincarna ted-on-stage-in-the-voice-in-holland/ (accessed May 8, 2019). 4 Chronixx, Likes (Soul Circle Music, 2017). 5 See for example, Major Lazer, Essentials (Los Angeles: Mad Decent Records, 2018).

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Knows’.6 And while ‘rebel music’ has survived over 60 years in and out of the mainstream’s favour, the current stasis is deeply problematic for the music’s future as it denies young talent the platform to establish an international career. From a cultural studies viewpoint, the seemingly bleak situation affords an opportunity for a refreshingly grounded approach that uses a space and place reading to understand how ‘rebel music’ has, since 1957, connected people in the immediacy of the blues party. To disrupt the potentially reductive narrative of reggae as globalised rebel music, with Bob Marley as its singular icon, this chapter reimagines reggae’s rebellion as a more collective, grounded and placed phenomenon, one whose ritual reproduction and performance provide a ‘geography of refuge’ for its followers.7 In doing so, it foregrounds the lived experience of reggae’s producers and consumers, exploring how reggae exists in place, negotiating in real time its position within, or on the periphery of, the society it is perceived to rebel against. This chapter was inspired first and foremost by Nottingham’s African Caribbean community, whose voices bring to life the lived experience of their ‘blues party’ culture. It is written from a twenty-first-century perspective and the author makes no claim to first-hand knowledge of the period under discussion, instead using this platform to amplify the voices of the people who lived through these unique times: in Norma Gregory’s words, the ‘hardworking, resilient Jamaican people in Nottingham’ alongside other Caribbean migrants and a culturally diverse mix of music lovers.8 As Sugar Minott sang, ‘all kinda people come a dance’.9 Pioneering studies such as ‘On the Flats’ (2012), Gregory’s ‘Jamaicans in Nottingham’ (2015) and Michael McMillan’s Rockers, Lovers and Soulheads (2015), have made this chapter possible.10 Interviews with ‘blues party’ hosts, entertainers and revellers provide the primary materials which 6 Protoje ft Chronixx, ‘Who Knows’ (Kobalt Music Publishing, 2014). 7 Sonjah Stanley Niaah, Dancehall: From Slaveship to Ghetto (Canada: University of

Ottawa Press, 2010), p. 48. 8 Norma Gregory, Jamaicans in Nottingham: Narratives and Reflections (Hertford:

Hansib, 2015), Kindle edition, location 146. 9 Sugar Minott, ‘All Kinda People’, Showcase (Kingston, Jamaica: Uptempo, 1982). 10 The Partnership Council, On the Flats: An Oral History of the Hyson Green Flats

1965–1987 (Nottingham: Fizzogarri, 2012); Gregory, Jamaicans in Nottingham; Michael McMillan, Rockers, Lovers and Soulheads: Sound Systems Back in da Day (New Art Exchange, 2015).

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are considered through a theoretical model that accentuates space, place and community. The chapter therefore seeks to explore the familiar concept of ‘rebel music’ but on unfamiliar terms, and in the most unlikely of settings.

#Rebelnotts Nottingham is a post-industrial city in the East Midlands of England. The city has had a black presence since at least the seventeenth century, including entrepreneur George Africanus (1763–1834). In the twentieth century Nottingham became home to Windrush-era African Caribbean migrants who numbered approximately 2500 by 1958 and nearly 4000 by the 1991 census.11 With the rapid decline of Nottingham’s hosiery industry at the end of the century, employment for many African Caribbean migrants was sought in industries such as mining, healthcare and transport.12 Workplace conditions were often less than favourable, with long hours, low wages and institutional racism disproportionately affecting people of colour. It was only natural that these migrant communities would seek the release of the blues party; even if this act would be interpreted as rebellious by some white residents of Nottingham. As one interviewee put it, ‘too much “thump thump” and bass for my liking!’13 Perhaps hypocritically, the city’s history reveals a long-held propensity towards rebellion. Its most famous agitator, Robin Hood, demonstrates the prestige bestowed upon select rebel figures. So attractive is this rebellious ideology, that South Yorkshire is making its own claim to ownership of the Robin Hood myth.14 The Nottingham populace has historically been very vocal about its grievances. In 1764 the city’s Goose Fair became the site of violent protests against an increase in the price of cheese. 11 Denise Amos, ‘Black Community History’, The Nottinghamshire Heritage Gateway, http://www.nottsheritagegateway.org.uk/people/blackcommunity.htm (accessed May 8, 2019). 12 Norma Gregory, Jamaicans in Nottingham: Narratives and Reflections (Hertford: Hansib, 2015). 13 Resident ‘Dale’ quoted in Joshua Kimuyu, Hyson Green Flats—The Story, https:// www.youtube.com/watch?v=gwAh1vUUV4E (accessed May 7, 2019). 14 Claire Schofield, ‘Why Robin Hood Is a True Yorkshire Hero—And Not a Nottingham Myth’, Yorkshire Post, March 13, 2018, https://www.yorkshirepost.co.uk/ news/analysis/why-robin-hood-is-a-true-yorkshire-hero-and-not-a-nottingham-myth-19060434 (accessed April 2, 2019).

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Armed Dragoons were summoned to restore order, as stallholders were attacked and wheels of cheese were bowled down the streets.15 This rebel spirit was again evident during of the Luddites’ uprising in 1811, when a movement of ‘Rebels Against the Future’ indulged in what Bob Marley might later have dubbed some ‘burnin’ an’ a lootin’.16 Recent campaigns designed to cement a sense of Nottingham’s identity, by celebrating some of its major cultural practitioners, have pinpointed this spirit of rebellion as a common theme in the work of Lord Byron, D. H. Lawrence and Alan Sillitoe. For several years in the 2010s, Nottingham wore its rebel credentials on its metaphorical sleeve. Stepping outside Nottingham train station revealed a large, colourful banner stretched across a building on Station Street. Travellers to the city were met with portraits of Byron, Sillitoe and Lawrence arranged under the heading of ‘Our Rebel Writers’. In an era of only limited funding for literary culture, the display represented the combined vision of two independent organisations: The Alan Sillitoe Committee and the Howie Smith Project. This joint endeavour produced not only the highly visible output of a campaign banner, it also activated the social media hashtag #rebelnotts. Notably the hashtag suggests a more ambitious remit than the banner, moving beyond ‘Rebel Writers’ to celebrate a broader, geographical trait of rebellion associated with the city. In amplifying their rebellious credentials, the campaigners are seeking to distance the city from the historical prejudices these creatives faced, and thus signal the inclusive rebel values of contemporary Nottingham. But it was not always thus. Celebrating marginalised cultural figures is a noble aim, yet even a cursory glance at the banner would reveal that all of the ‘rebels’ held up for celebration were white and male. This is not fully representative of Nottingham’s diverse population. It is not the aim of this chapter to deny the validity of Byron, Sillitoe or Lawrence’s contribution to Nottingham’s cultural heritage, nor to undermine this valuable work undertaken in promoting the city’s spirit of rebellion. This chapter does, however, seek to expand upon and interrogate the notion of rebellion as a trait to 15 ‘Nottingham Goose Fair’, National Fairground and Circus Archive, University of Sheffield, https://www.sheffield.ac.uk/nfca/researchandarticles/nottinghamfair (accessed May 7, 2019). 16 Kirkpatrick Sale, Rebels Against the Future: The Luddites and Their War on the Industrial Revolution: Lessons for the Computer Age (New York: Basic Books, 1993); Bob Marley and the Wailers, ‘Burnin’ and Lootin’’ from Burnin’ (London: Island Records, 1973).

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be celebrated and even ‘seconded to the mainstream’, as Graham Huggan (2001) puts it.17 It does so in the context of the Nottingham blues party scene: exploring how Caribbean people sought spiritual ‘refuge’ in the blues against a backdrop of discrimination and riots in the 1950s; how everyday domestic spaces were transformed in rebellious ways as the culture developed from the 1960s to the 1980s; and how the unwritten rules and norms of the ‘dancehall space’ were negotiated by male and female participants alike.18 In addressing these themes, this chapter ultimately attempts to understand if Nottingham’s vision of a ‘rebel city’ is broad enough to incorporate those whose culture has been understood as simultaneously rebellious yet attractive within a global marketplace.

Sites of Rebellion, or a ‘Geography of Refuge’?19 This analysis suggests continuity between the ‘performance geography’ of sound system culture in Jamaica and in the UK. The spatial nuance of the term ‘dancehall’, simultaneously a space and a music inseparable from its place of creation, and the mapping of various venue spaces in relation to power structures, are at the heart of Sonjah Stanley Niaah’s work on performance geography in Kingston Jamaica and, as I will argue, in impromptu diasporic dancehall spaces in Nottingham. My process of translation, of mapping, does not depend upon assumptions of cultural homogeneity. What connects these geographically and socially disparate locations is the powerful social function of the dance as ritual. Turner’s concept of ‘communitas’ describes a heightened sense of togetherness and community. It is activated by the liminality between the ritual process of congregation and that of everyday life, and is therefore invaluable for reading the spaces of the dancehall or blues.20

17 Graham Huggan, The Postcolonial Exotic: Marketing the Margins (London: Taylor & Francis, 2001), p. 20. 18 Kevin Frank, ‘Female Agency and Oppression in Caribbean Bacchanalian Culture:

Soca, Carnival, and Dancehall’, Women’s Studies Quarterly, 35: 1/2—The Sexual Body (Spring–Summer, 2007), 172–190 (176). 19 Sonjah Stanley Niaah, DanceHall: From Slave Ship to Ghetto (Ottowa: University of Ottowa Press, 2010), p. 48. 20 Victor Turner, ‘Liminality and Communitas’, in The Ritual Process: Structure and Anti-Structure (Chicago: Alpine Publishing, 1969), pp. 94–113.

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From the 1950s, right through to the present day, wherever amplified reggae music is broadcast in the city of Nottingham, it generates a varied range of responses. The mobile public address systems known as ‘sound system’ were not only a practical means to play imported American, and later Jamaican, records for a homesick audience, they had potential to facilitate cultural exchange with white Nottingham residents, some of whom were drawn to the phenomenon of the ‘blues party’ and sound system.21 As original 1950s Jamaican migrant and sound system operator, ‘Doctor’, recalls: Inna di fifties it was terrible … teddy bwoys dem … oh God it was terrible … riot… Oh! Believe you me, it was terrible … an’ I said ‘alright, build a music’ [sound system], 1957, and I said ‘alright, I want this music, to get everybody to hear that, the black and the white come together’, and that’s where I start from. My sound weh I build was called Count Melody, oh yeah, that’s my sound!22

From as early as 1957, the makeshift performance spaces established in homes served, if not to replace, then at least to extend the functionality of comparable sites in Jamaica: to entertain, to engender community spirit, to celebrate life in a safe space. Whether in Kingston or Nottingham, the ‘dance provided physical, ideological and spiritual shelter for a generation of lower-class Jamaicans’.23 Oral accounts of the 1950s Jamaican migrant experience in Nottingham demonstrate that the practice of ‘stringing up’ what the neighbours felt were ‘exceedingly loud’ sound systems to facilitate cultural expression, was as much an act of self-preservation as it was of rebellion.24 In terms of legislation, the period under discussion was covered by the Noise Abatement Act (1960), passed ‘to make new provisions in respect

21 Lloyd Bradley, Bass Culture: When Reggae Was King (London: Penguin, 2001), p. 116. 22 Doctor, interviewed by McMillan for Rockers, Lovers and Soulheads: Sound Systems Back in da Day (New Art Exchange, 2015). 23 Niaah, DanceHall, p. 54. 24 Resident ‘Dale’ quoted in Joshua Kimuyu, Hyson Green Flats—The Story, https://

www.youtube.com/watch?v=gwAh1vUUV4E (accessed May 7, 2019).

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of the control of noise and vibration with a view to their abatement’.25 The subsequent analyses suggest this abatement to have been largely unsuccessful. At the linguistic level there is a telling disparity between the scientific definition of ‘vibrations’ intended by the legislation and the Jamaican social construct of ‘vibrations’ or ‘vibes’. While the latter does encompass the former in its definition, ‘vibes’ depend upon additional factors such as the craft of the selector; the size and character of the congregation; the sense of ‘communitas’ which develops between them.26 The ideological gap between the two definitions of ‘vibrations’ is the figurative space where hostilities develop between the revellers at a blues and the disgruntled neighbours. This is not, however, a uniquely British problem. In Jamaica, conflict over noise levels has existed for as long as sound systems have had the power to facilitate it.27 In Kingston, dancehall spaces are antithetical to the wants of upper-class society and, by extension, law enforcement agencies. Niaah states: ‘anxiety over the staging of dancehall events – their sonic proportions and their associations with criminal elements – has precipitated legislation either being created or revised for enforcement’.28 Jamaican police alike wield the power to ‘lock off’ gatherings they deem to be excessively loud or unruly, exploiting Jamaica’s Noise Abatement Act (1997) to extort money from promoters.29 While the archival records of Nottingham’s blues parties make no direct reference to police extorting bribes from promoters or deploying firearms, one interviewee suggested that officers took their own ill-gotten rewards from the dance: ‘dem come, and dem eat off yuh curry goat also and then confiscate the drinks!’30 This suggests a dichotomy within British perceptions of Caribbean culture as simultaneously rebellious yet also desirable. In this one personal recollection, the authorities terminate the event, yet subsequently enjoy the culturally specific produce they obtain by abusing their

25 Noise Abatement Act, 1960, http://www.legislation.gov.uk/ukpga/1960/68/sec tion/1/enacted (accessed February 11, 2019). 26 Turner, ‘Liminality and Communitas’, pp. 94–113. 27 Bradley, Bass Culture, p. 34. 28 Niaah, DanceHall, p. 10. 29 Niaah, DanceHall, p. 65. 30 Veronica Barnes interviewed by McMillan for Rockers, Lovers and Soulheads: Sound

Systems Back in da Day (New Art Exchange, 2015).

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status as law enforcement agents. Other reports suggest that attempts to quell the blues were temporary: ‘they’d get them out and then they’d move somewhere else’, or ineffective; the police ‘found it hard, to actually do much about it’.31 These reports accord with Niaah’s assertion that the dance or party expresses and increases the agency of the community. It ‘has a purpose onto which the power of the gathering/group is centred: it attracts patrons (increases in appeal and effect) and therefore marshals power onto itself’.32 This power simultaneously protects the participants from external threats while in itself being interpreted as a threat to the social order. Interviews with Windrush-era migrants to Nottingham suggest that the element of criminality was often external; that the dance was a safe space to get away from criminals rather than a breeding ground for the same. A Jamaican-born migrant to Nottingham, Calvin ‘Wally’ Wallace, recalls the brutal street politics of the 1950s: As a West Indian, you could not walk on your own in certain places or at certain times. You had to walk in threes or fours. The ‘teddy boys’ went around with bicycle chains. When they saw three of four Jamaicans together, they would not attack us as we were in a group. A lot of them got ‘cut up’ in St Ann’s during the riots.33

Here, the ‘West Indians’ are portrayed both as victims and perpetrators of racial hostility. While the streets are ‘marshalled’ by groups of racist ‘teddy boys’, the migrant population have developed coping strategies— safety in numbers—which mediate the potential power of the hostile white gangs. If a group of ‘three or four’ has the potential to deflect, or at least defer, violence, a gathering of dozens or even hundreds in a blues dance suddenly seems a very appealing ‘refuge’ for those in the Caribbean community. The violent agency expressed in the riots of 1958, namely the ‘cutting up’ of teddy boys, initially seems to reinforce Niaah’s assessment of dancehall culture as incorporating ‘criminal elements’. However, the 1950s Nottingham context is a far cry from the ‘dons and shottas’ of downtown

31 The Partnership Council, On the Flats, p. 56. 32 Niaah, DanceHall, p. xvii. 33 Gregory, Jamaicans in Nottingham, location 1004.

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Kingston.34 In Wallace’s recollection above, self-defence at least partially justifies the use of violence. Another 1950s Jamaican migrant, Vernon Gregory ‘King’, infers that violence was used only as a last resort, and served a vital function in limiting future conflict and therefore protecting the Jamaican community from subsequent intimidation: They [teddy boys] thought that they could beat up black people as they liked. They did not know that black people would fight back and defend themselves. Black people were not an easy walkover.35

Gregory’s statement resonates with Nottingham author Alan Sillitoe’s oftquoted aphorism of ‘don’t let the bastards grind you down’.36 While Sillitoe’s protagonists may appear, superficially at least, to have more in common with the notorious ‘teddy boys’ than Jamaican migrants, the fictional characters’ nuanced class-consciousness and tenacious resistance to oppression suggest many commonalities. Sillitoe’s most famous document of this working-class cohort is the novel Saturday Night and Sunday Morning, the publication of which coincides chronologically with the race riots of 1958. While many white working class and Jamaican migrants shared workplaces and inner-city neighbourhoods, they received uneven rewards for their labour. The terraced streets of Lenton, where Sillitoe’s disaffected youths roamed, were also home to many Caribbean migrants and Raleigh’s vast bicycle factories. Prior to 1958, however, Sillitoe’s white protagonists would have been able to gain employment at Raleigh, while people of colour were barred. In a little-known Nottingham–Jamaica connection, shortly after the 1958 riots, Jamaican Prime Minister Norman Manley and the West Indies Federation exerted pressure on British firms to employ Caribbean migrants. In a highly visual image of rebellion, container-loads full of Nottingham-made Raleigh bicycles were sent back to Britain from the ports of the Caribbean.37 Manley and his political allies would not tolerate Raleigh’s discriminatory employment practices, and their direct industrial action effected positive change. Beyond the visible minority of ‘teddy 34 Donna Hope, ‘Dons and Shottas: Performing Violent Masculinity in Dancehall Culture’, Social and Economic Studies, 55: 1/2 (2006), 115–31. 35 Gregory, Jamaicans in Nottingham, location 944. 36 Alan Sillitoe, Saturday Night and Sunday Morning (London: W.H. Allen, 1958). 37 Gregory, Jamaicans in Nottingham, location 436.

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boys’, the shared experience and living space of working-class white British and black Caribbean migrants would go on to shape the development of both communities throughout the latter part of the twentieth century.38 The blues party was a site where black and white integrated; where the ‘sonic proportions’ were pushed to the limits of social acceptability and, consequently, where cultural expression came to be perceived as rebellious. To understand the blues party as a site subjected to multiple simultaneous interpretations, as both a site of refuge and rebellion, Niaah’s concept of an ‘occult zone’—inspired by Franz Fanon’s 1963 reference to ‘zones of occult instability’—is here useful. Fanon paints a figurative landscape, ‘where the people dwell that we must come to; and it is there that our souls are crystalized […] perceptions and lives are transformed with light’.39 While signalling the perceived ‘otherness’ of such spaces, Fanon’s imagery also celebrates their redemptive, transformative power; the ‘light’ which speaks to the joy of congregating around music. Extending this reading, which encompasses a simultaneity of perceptions of the dancehall space, Niaah states that although ‘often deemed an occult zone (even if not in those words), the performance space is a collective construct that has spawned communities, diasporas and transnational geographies’.40 Both Fanon and Niaah acknowledge the discomfort implicit in outside perceptions while emphasising the transcendent, spiritual benefits of congregating and ‘crystallising’ a collective bond. The prominent reggae journalist John Masouri grew up in Nottingham and his earliest recollection of reggae dates back to a 1968 blues party.41 As a white British aficionado of Jamaican music, Masouri’s account offers an insider/outsider perspective and speaks to Fanon/Niaah’s notion of the ‘occult zone’:

38 Gregory, Jamaicans in Nottingham, location 436. 39 Franz Fanon, The Wretched of the Earth, trans. Constance Farrington from Les damnes

de la terre (New York: Grove Press, 1963 [1961]), p. 183. 40 Niaah, DanceHall, p. 15. 41 Harry Sword, ‘Retracing the Roots of British Sound System Culture’, Vice, https://

www.vice.com/en_uk/article/zng9y8/british-sound-system-culture-092 (accessed May 7, 2019).

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In 1968 – I was 15 – I went to my first blues party. This was in a very rundown area of Nottingham. There were already a fair amount of Caribbean people there; I guess I was the first generation to go to school with Jamaican kids. I had a girlfriend, and her uncle used to run this blues, so I used to go there. It was very intimidating, very exciting – another world. I was fascinated.42

The inside/outside perspective is enabled by Masouri’s close connections to the local Caribbean community; there is an implicit suggestion that the girlfriend is of Caribbean heritage, as her uncle runs the blues. This detail is not considered worthy of elucidation by the interviewee, it is simply a fact of life in inner-city Nottingham. Masouri’s contact with the Caribbean community is presented as quotidian; normalised by the informal collective noun of ‘Jamaican kids ’ which is indicative of the completely natural way in which children of diverse ethnicities interact, unburdened by learned awareness of racial difference. At the age of 15, however, there is here an indication of perceived otherness in Masouri’s recollection. His clear delight and enjoyment at the experience is partially facilitated by his status as a ‘fascinated’ visitor in ‘another world’. This excerpt demonstrates how the dual status of the dance as a site of refuge and of perceived rebellion is contradictory, yet the contradiction sits at the heart of diasporic cultural expression.

‘Who’s Gonna Make the Dance Ram?’43 One way in which rebellion has been expressed through Caribbean culture in Nottingham is the use of space in ways not intended, or condoned, by the authorities. However, within this framework of spatial rebellion, authentic sites of integration are formed—if only momentarily—and alternative conceptions of power are activated. This irreverent and self-affirmative approach to cultural expression can be read as a continuation of dancehall expression in Kingston, Jamaica. As Niaah states, ‘dance venues were the spaces in which an ordinary sound system operator could achieve the fame of a prime minister by vying for the

42 Ibid. 43 Andrew Paul, ‘Who’s Gonna Make the Dance Ram?’ (London: Fashion Records, 1986).

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title of top sound system’.44 While this alternative power-structure might subvert institutional norms, it contains some democratic elements which are not entirely alien to more formal structures of governance. Extending Niaah’s political analogy, the top entertainers can be seen to be canvassing through their informal networks. Distribution of printed flyers and fundamental word-of-mouth recommendations help to build the initial interest in a given event. Although not rebellious per se, these preparations foregrounded the time and space where victory (or humiliation) would manifest: in the blues, the people voted with their feet. While a political party aspires to win seats, such an orderly accommodation has no place in the blues. Nottingham blues party host and patron Josephine Taylor remembers the cramped conditions which were typical of the residential gatherings: ‘Bag-a-people. It’s wall-to-wall, doorto-door’.45 Far from dissuading attendance, the extent to which the dance was ‘ram’ was interpreted as a clear indication of the resident sound system’s prowess; the social connectivity of the host(ess); and the quality of the communal ‘vibes’ inside. Niaah’s work on the ‘ram dance’ mentality greatly assists an understanding of how Nottingham’s Jamaican community used and claimed space for cultural expression: Patrons and organisers alike have a ‘ram dance’ conception of space, considering that no space is ever too small to stage an event, as the more persons there are bursting at the seams of the venue, the more successful the event is. This is a consistent theme in dancehall culture, signifying an inherent philosophy of space linked to notions of success, transcendence and collective ritualising. In this spatial philosophy, an expansive view of space and the primacy of performance are evident.46

Niaah bridges the gap between the immediacy of the performance space and the abstract realm of theory. ‘Success, transcendence and collective ritualising’ are three positive outcomes that might momentarily relieve the social and economic pressures which people of African and Caribbean heritage experienced in Nottingham, for example the colour bar in place at Raleigh. In a society where institutional racism limits the 44 Niaah, DanceHall, p. 54. 45 Josephine Taylor, interviewed by McMillan for Rockers, Lovers and Soulheads: Sound

Systems Back in da Day (New Art Exchange, 2015). 46 Niaah, DanceHall, p. 60.

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opportunities of black people, there is an affirmative self-actualisation taking place within the blues. This process is collective and spontaneous to a degree, yet it also thrives under the guidance of an individual, or small collective, who can bring people together and make the blues ‘ram’. Spatial metaphors permeate reggae culture. When the soundman Sir Clifton moved from London to Nottingham in the 1960s, it is said that he ‘dominated the field’.47 His success can be evidenced using the Jamaican ‘ram dance conception’ of space, whereby he transcended the confines of the building and led his audience to a frenzied state of ‘communitas’: Clifton carried the swing for a long long time and when you go to his party they was like ram party … cos everybody come in from club and go ‘bwoy me a go Clifton yuh know, dem seh big tings a gwaan down deh!’ He had a really good following of people, and his party was always ram pack, I’m telling you, people outside standing up, they can’t go in cos it’s so packed. But the music as well was that good that people would be dancing outside cos they can’t get into the house.

The tantalising promise that ‘big tings a gwaan’ at Clifton’s dance does not necessarily correlate with a large performance venue. Most blues were held in modest terraced houses or flats, yet, returning to Niaah’s ‘ram dance’ theory, it is not the size of the venue but the relative capacity which counts: ‘the more persons there are bursting at the seams of the venue, the more successful the event is’.48 At the ‘seams’ of the physical perimeter, Clifton’s vast following spills out into the domain of wider Nottingham society. In transcending the physical space and accompanying structure of sonically discrete private properties—encapsulated by the aphorism ‘an Englishman’s home is his castle’—the sense of ‘communitas’ for the revellers is further elevated. Using Turner’s model, it ‘breaks in through the interstices of structure’.49 As the structure of societal order momentarily breaks down, the sonic ‘seams’ of the building’s walls cannot contain the vibrations and the weight of the bass line fills the night. It is within this duality that the blues party sits; simultaneously 47 Parliament (V Rocket Sound) interviewed by McMillan for Rockers, Lovers and Soulheads: Sound Systems Back in da Day (New Art Exchange, 2015). 48 Niaah, DanceHall, p. 60. 49 Turner, ‘Liminality and Communitas’, p. 128.

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enabling ‘success, transcendence and collective ritualising’ within the space while enraging those non-participants who unwillingly experiencing the blues vicariously. Once ‘communitas’ takes hold under the selector’s guidance, ‘it transgresses or dissolves the norms that govern structured and institutionalised relationships and is accompanied by experiences of unprecedented potency’.50 That a sound operator could create such a phenomenon partially explains the prestige their followers attributed to them. Whether neighbouring residents would have agreed at 4 a.m. is another matter. When reggae historian Simon Jones refers to ‘sound system culture in 1980s Britain at the height of its political and cultural power’, he highlights the growth of the art form from its 1950s origins to the decade considered by many to be its apex.51 From occasional weekend blues, the Nottingham scene developed into a full calendar of festivities, taking place every single night. The Hyson Green flats, a complex of concrete post-war maisonettes connected by aerial walkways, were the centre of this culture in the 1970s up until their demolition in 1987.52 By the 1980s it became necessary to host multiple blues on key nights in the flats complex. As local resident Kevin recalls, ‘you couldn’t just have one a night. No way. Because it’s a flat. How many people can you get in a flat?!’ While there is cultural affirmation and—arguably—collective safety to be found in sheer numbers, this alone does not explain the unprecedented growth and popularity of the blues in Nottingham between 1957 and 1987. Jones’ statement about the ‘cultural power’ of sound system speaks to its unifying capabilities, particularly relevant in 1980s Britain. Jamaican sound system culture went on to influence other rebel musics such as punk and, later, acid house: ‘Thatcherism was the common enemy that sparked the proliferation of countless ’80s subcultures’.53 As compelling an argument as this is to celebrate reggae as

50 Ibid. 51 Simon Jones and Paul Pinnock, Scientists of Sound: Portraits of a UK Reggae Sound System (Birmingham: Bassline Books, 2018), p. 1. 52 The Partnership Council, On the Flats, p. 3. 53 Arron Merat, ‘Rocking and Raving Against Thatcherism: From Crass to Acid House,

How Musical Subcultures United Against a Common Enemy’, Fact Magazine, April 10, 2013, https://www.factmag.com/2013/04/10/rocking-and-raving-against-thatcherismfrom-crass-to-acid-house-how-80s-musical-subcultures-united-against-a-common-enemy/ (accessed May 9, 2019).

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‘rebel music’, which inspired and joined other movements with a countercultural tenor, the blues arguably faced the harshest opposition due to institutional and street-level racism. The horror of the 1981 New Cross Massacre, which protestors allege was sparked by insidious calls to ‘direct action’ in a speech made by Dame Jill Knight, demonstrates a dangerous dimension to such close-quarters socialising.54 Taylor identifies how a blasé approach to the physical dangers of the dance were products of their specific time and place: It was just a different time. I think if we had those scenes now, people would be really quite cautious. I’d roll up into a blues on my own; there’s no lights in a blues! Bag o people. It’s wall-to-wall, door-to-door. There was no exit. But I’d be in a blues on my own cos no-one else wanted to go out; not a problem to me. Would I do that now? Maybe not, but I’m glad that I had that experience because everyone was just free. That’s what reggae gives you, it gives you the opportunity to be yourself.55

With an increase in legislation and litigation culture, the blues party would surely face much harsher opposition today. Taylor willingly identifies the potential hazards involved and notes that her own values may have shifted over time—‘Would I do that now?’—in line with the greater stringency with which environmental health is enforced to actualise the values of a more risk-adverse society. Nonetheless, as a moment in time, the relative safety of the blues was testament to the togetherness these events engendered. Certainly, the process of converting a domestic space temporarily into a dance venue can be interpreted as an act of rebellion; yet the predominant theme coming out of the oral history of the blues era is that of refuge, social cohesion and protection.56 The blues party was largely a cathartic process for the Caribbean community and ‘a safety valve for pent-up frustrations’.57

54 The Monitoring Group, ‘Did Met Police Halt New Cross Fire Investigation?’ http:// www.tmg-uk.org/did-met-police-halt-new-cross-fire-investigation/ (accessed January 2, 2019). 55 Josephine Taylor, interviewed by McMillan for Rockers, Lovers and Soulheads: Sound Systems Back in da Day (New Art Exchange, 2015). 56 Niaah, DanceHall, p. 48. 57 Ibid., p. 236.

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Rebel Music for ‘Each and Everyone’? While Turner’s anthropological model of ‘communitas’ highlights the potential benefits of a community rallying together around a shared form of cultural expression, there is a less utopian dimension here which must be considered. The same vein of enquiry which above led me to query the #rebelnotts campaign’s choice of exclusively white male figures makes it important to consider whether the celebratory space of the blues party has room for everyone. While I am not here referring to the physical capacity of such spaces, the semantic overlap is deliberate: was there room in the Nottingham blues party for everyone, regardless of their gender? Turner states that ‘communitas exists where social structure is not’.58 Yet even within the informal, liberating and hedonistic environment of the dancehall or blues party, there are structures in place which regulate who is welcome and when. Having established that the Hyson Green flats complex hosted a wide variety of blues parties—‘you could literally rave in Nottingham 7 nights a week’—it is important to understand that these did not always represent a utopian ‘open house’ community where anyone could ‘rave’ at any time.59 In this way they could be argued to simply mirror the gender politics of wider society. As the sociologist Urry states, ‘landscapes and townscapes should not be viewed as neutral objects on which to gaze but as irreducibly gendered’.60 I argue that this gendering of space extends to the Jamaican dancehall and British blues party alike, threatening equally to undermine their status as sites of ‘rebellion’ and as ‘refuge’ for all participants. If a dancehall space replicates the gender inequality inherent in wider society can it be understood as a site of ‘social protest’, as Stolzoff would have it? As he observed in Jamaica: ‘dancehalls are usually male-dominated spaces’.61 While this may accurately describe the anthropologist’s experience of the Kingston dancehall, it only partially applies to the Nottingham blues scene.

58 Turner, ‘Liminality and Communitas’, p. 111. 59 Josephine Taylor, interviewed by McMillan for Rockers, Lovers and Soulheads: Sound

Systems Back in da Day (New Art Exchange, 2015). 60 John Urry, Consuming Places (London: Routledge, 1995), p. 26. 61 Norman C. Stolzoff, Wake the Town and Tell the People: Dancehall Culture in

Jamaica (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2000), p. 206.

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The key for female participants was in understanding the unwritten, even unspoken, social norms and customs which dictated their eligibility to attend a given blues. As Hyson Green flats resident Maxine recalls: There would be some blues where it’d be like mainly men, and you couldn’t really go in there, where they’d be gambling and playing cards. But sometimes we’d go round, just like hang outside, but women couldn’t go in certain blues – it was seen as more a man thing. But come Monday, Friday and Saturday, blues was kicking.62

The matter-of-fact tone here suggests a degree of acceptance; that this was simply how it was in the blues. The contrast between the ‘gambling and playing cards’—stereotypically masculine activities—and the ‘kicking’ parties held on other days, suggests that the inclusion of females was a factor which increased the sense of occasion and excitement. However, the fact that women were often not welcomed during the midweek ‘down time’ suggests a degree of segregation and even objectification: that females were only welcomed at times when the men wanted to pay attention to them; when they were celebrating rather than just relaxing. Stolzoff interpreted this phenomenon in the Jamaica dancehall, arguing that ‘men generally are seen as creative, sexual and violent agents, and women as sexual objects whose sexuality is both desired and feared, pitting women against each other as rivals for male attention’.63 This somewhat polarising interpretation does not do justice to the more balanced, nuanced, gender relations in the Nottingham blues scene. Competition is undeniably a component of blues dance culture. However, the hyper-sexualised displays of the Kingston dancehall scene did not take hold with the same theatricality in Nottingham. An incompatibility between Stolzoff’s reading and my own is the joint assumptions that competition between female dance patrons entails animosity and also that it evidences subservience and a desire to impress their male peers. While social competition was an inherent component of the blues party, as it is in any commercial city centre venue, Taylor recalls an alternative situation which emphasises the female agency and creativity missing from Stolzoff’s reading:

62 Maxine, quoted in Hyson Green Flats—The Story (accessed May 7, 2019). 63 Stolzoff, Wake the Town and Tell the People, p. 204.

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Women were competing. They were competing with fashion, but in a way where they wanted to go outside of what the standard shops were selling. They wanted to be really, really creative. I remember having outfits that had one arm, half a leg, no back, my mum saying ‘Where’s the rest of your clothes?! Mi can see yuh naked!’64

Taylor articulates a DIY ethos which seeks to reject homogenous high street fashion and express a Caribbean–British aesthetic which parallels and yet is divergent from the dancehall queens of Kingston. There are echoes of the British punk aesthetic here, where groups such as The Slits would radically alter their clothing to express their rejection of mainstream beauty ideals. Taylor’s recollection above in fact suggests that generational rather than gender differences were the points of resistance to youthful female expression. If the ‘really creative’ outfits are intended to express rebellion, then this is directed not only against mainstream British fashion but also against disapproving parents, those first-generation migrants from the Caribbean whose relatively conservative values eschew excessive displays of flesh. Blues patrons were never a homogenous group and each individual expressed themselves for specific personal motives. However, archival records suggest that female patrons were certainly not interested in individual expression solely for the sake of pleasing the men. They expressed this through their fashion and, in some cases, through their mastery of sound system performance. McMillan goes on to claim that in Nottingham, ‘female-led sound systems were also popular, characterised as musically eclectic’.65 Eclecticism has enabled Valerie ‘Lady V’ Robinson to excel as a promoter, entertainer, and sound system manager. She has helped to lead V Rocket sound to national and international acclaim, all the while navigating a male-dominated industry. While her gender does not define her status in the sound system arena, Robinson is mindful that it shapes her experience and that of her following:

64 Josephine Taylor, interviewed by McMillan for Rockers, Lovers and Soulheads: Sound Systems Back in da Day (New Art Exchange, 2015). 65 Michael McMillan, ‘Press Release: Nottingham Sound Systems… Back in Da Day’, September 24, 2015, http://www.nae.org.uk/uploads/pages-attachments/30/201 50929093134-SoundSystemPressRelease.pdf (accessed March 24, 2019).

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It’s unique when the ladies can go up and show the man dem that we know our things too, we know our history, we know how to play good music and we know how to address our audience. It bring a difference to the everyday dances.66

While Errol Dunkley sang ‘every man do his thing a little way different’, female sound system pioneers had to carve out their own space beyond the traditional male networks.67 That Dunkley’s classic lyric does not acknowledge the agency of females, is telling of how their influence on reggae culture has been understated. ‘Difference’ is framed here as strength, as independence, rather than a reason for being dismissed or ostracised. Robinson understands the importance of ‘addressing our audience’ and this too activates an understanding of the blues as a site of female agency. Apart from the male-only sessions, Nottingham’s blues parties facilitated the growth of female-oriented reggae audiences and sounds. When lovers’ rock developed in the 1970s, it helped to catalyse a sense of female purpose and belonging in the dancehall space. The smooth, romantic and quintessentially black British sound connected with a female fan base that relished the experience of hearing their music amplified in the blues or dance: ‘ah fi we dis’.68 The lovers’ rock style worked perfectly with the darkness and intimacy of the ‘ram’ blues party and close, sensual dancing was a natural response to the sensation of the bassline rolling. Sonically this was very different from the more militant roots music which had characterised the maleoriented spaces of the conscious, Rastafarian sound systems. While the latter placed much emphasis on a thumping bass pattern best delivered through custom bass speakers for movement of air pressure into the chests of the congregation, lovers’ rock in Nottingham was often experienced on a smoother system by the name of Top Notch. It was, as owner and operator Delroy Young recalls: Not so much a sound system, it was a big stereo but it used to deliver a sound that the women liked and that’s all we used to work to. Our motto was ‘please the women.’ Don’t business with the man. There isn’t a man 66 Valerie Robinson interviewed by McMillan for Rockers, Lovers and Soulheads: Sound Systems Back in da Day (New Art Exchange, 2015). 67 Errol Dunkley, ‘A Little Way Different’ (London: Arawak Records, 1977). 68 Bradley, Bass Culture, p. 370.

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who wouldn’t be out there saying ‘Top Notch party, yeah man mi deh deh! Whole heap a gal deh deh!’69

In pursuing a female-first agenda, Top Notch was able to bypass the macho, hyper-technical sound system world, where the emphasis was on having the biggest, heaviest sound system, fine-tuned for clashing and figuratively ‘killing’ any rival sound. Top Notch and other Nottingham lovers’ rock sets—such as Mighty Tone—were able to create an atmosphere that would appeal to all genders because their sessions did not intimidate or exclude. The female solidarity engendered by these gatherings accords with Turner’s notion of ‘communitas’, as male and female came together in an environment tailored to accentuate a feminine, uniquely black British aesthetic.

Conclusion: Ramp and Play To gain access to a lovers’ rock session, or indeed any blues hosted in the Hyson Green flats, revellers entered the ‘dancehall space’ via a liminal space of excitement and anticipation: the concrete ramps. These typically post-war, brutalist concrete walkways provided access to the upper floors of the maisonettes and marked a transitional space between wider Nottingham society and the ‘other’ world of the blues party. Regular patron Maxine remembers the ramps as a direct access route to hear the latest music’. ‘[As] soon as I touched Hyson Green, I used to come alive. And then I’d go up the ramps and straight away, you’d hear different music playing and I’d just do straight to where lovers’ rock was’.70 This image suggests a world of musical choice for the revellers, different ramps leading to different Caribbean-inspired sounds, each one partially audible and potentially enticing more and more revellers into the ‘ram dance’ spaces inside the blues. The liminal space of the Hyson Green walkways can be seen to assert its own figuration of time by not conforming to a regimented ‘rhythm’ of the working week. Resistant to the ‘school night’ mentality of the Monday– Friday/9-to-5—even though many patrons still had to get up for work in the morning—the flats enjoyed a thriving Monday night blues culture. 69 Delroy Young interviewed by McMillan for Rockers, Lovers and Soulheads: Sound Systems Back in da Day (New Art Exchange, 2015). 70 Maxine, quoted in Hyson Green Flats—The Story (accessed May 7, 2019).

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Percydread was vocalist with Nottingham roots reggae band Natural Ites and recalls how the walkways separated the ‘city space’ from the ‘blues space’ of the flats: Monday night was a raving night. They would be at Ad Lib and different places in the city, then they would head to the flats for the parties and things. And there would be more than one party. You’d walk on the walkway and it would just be – buzzzzzz – buzzing with people and sort of vibes and things going off: reggae music t’umping down an’ ting’.71

The animated manner in which Percydread buzzes his lips conveys the palpable excitement of entering a world of blues parties and the ‘communitas’ tangible on the ramps as people travel from the highly regulated, restrictive spaces of the city, into the more self-determined dancehall spaces within the multiple host flats. The ramps were betwixt and between the street and the dance. The 1981 riots which broke out in Brixton and spread to many innercity neighbourhoods across the UK did find a momentary flashpoint in Hyson Green on the weekend of 10–12 July.72 Many residents argue that these disturbances marked the beginning of the end for the flats complex, whose demolition was announced in 1985 and carried out in 1987. The ’81 riots showed the authorities that the flats’ spatial dynamics made them incredibly difficult to police: a labyrinth of concrete which gave a strategic advantage to those intimately familiar with their layout. The same concrete ramps that had been the walkways to a refuge of musical eclecticism and cultural expression became escape routes for rebels of diverse backgrounds entangled in violent conflict with the police. The ‘geography of refuge’ had transformed in character, as violent physical rebellion replaced the non-violent resistance of the blues. Many in Nottingham’s Caribbean community mourn the loss of a cultural focal point that the flats provided. A poignant campaign banner protesting their demolition read ‘HOMES NOT HYPERMARKETS’ but fell on deaf ears. The land was privately purchased and has since housed a vast ASDA store. One small but significant square of land has, since 2008, preserved some of the cultural significance of the plot. The New Art Exchange houses a community gallery, performance spaces and café 71 Percydread quoted in Hyson Green Flats —The Story (accessed May 7, 2019). 72 The Partnership Council, On the Flats, p. 67.

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with a culturally-specific agenda to promote BME arts. In 2015, to launch Michael McMillan’s Rockers, Lovers and Soulheads: Sound Systems Back in da Day exhibition, the venue hosted a blues of its own, bringing in an authentic vintage wardrobe-style sound system and painstakingly replicating the unique post-colonial aesthetics of a Caribbean-British home. This author had the honour of playing a choice few Jamaican 45s to warm up the room and mark the presence of a new generation of sound system culture in the city. The musical spotlight then rightfully shone on original blues entertainers such as Daddy Crucial, who whipped the room into a state of ‘communitas’: singing, dancing and reminiscing ‘til a morning’. The curry goat did ‘sell off’ and the bar was drunk dry. For just a few hours the rebel spirit of the blues party was resurrected in the New Art Exchange, even though the world outside had changed immeasurably since those glory days of 1957–1987, in which the blues party culture made an indelible mark on the rebel city of Nottingham.

CHAPTER 11

‘Curious Roots & Crafts’: Record Shops and Record Labels Amid the British Reggae Diaspora Peter Hughes Jachimiak

This chapter is concerned with the inter-related nature of both reggaeorientated record labels and reggae-supporting records shops amid the Birmingham and Bristol reggae scenes during the 1970s and 1980s. Indeed, those two cities/scenes are focused upon here as, according to de Koningh and Griffiths, the former—the UK’s second city, Birmingham— was ‘the country’s biggest reggae stronghold next to London and had the second-largest West Indian Community’, whilst the latter—Bristol, and despite its far smaller St. Pauls-centred black community/reggae scene—contributed quite significantly to British reggae with bands such

P. H. Jachimiak (B) University of South Wales, Pontypridd, UK e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s) 2021 W. ‘L’. Henry and M. Worley (eds.), Narratives from Beyond the UK Reggae Bassline, Palgrave Studies in the History of Subcultures and Popular Music, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-55161-2_11

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as Black Roots.1 Moreover, according to Paul Sullivan, because of Bristol’s pivotal role in the global transportation of slaves during the 1700s, ‘[t]he subsequent African-Caribbean influx gave – and still gives – Bristol a distinctly multicultural demographic that sets it apart from other cities in the southwest of Britain, and indeed from many other British cities’.2 This chapter is also concerned with what was happening during the 1970s and 1980s in both Birmingham and Bristol as, from around 1974 onwards, ‘dreadlocks, red, green and gold, combat fatigues and impressive-looking staffs were common-place on Britain’s inner-city streets’.3 Yet, despite this period being a golden age of reggae—whereby acts were achieving chart success following their signing to major record labels such as Virgin—‘artistic compromise was sometimes involved’.4 Thus, at the very time that reggae was going global, there was a parallel move towards the self-protection and self-nurturing of local scenes in order for those involved to reinforce their distinctive, grounded authenticities via a loyal dependence upon record labels, record shops and other musical facilities and talent found upon their own inner-city doorsteps. Moreover, as Martin Langford asserts, the importance of city-based micro-labels such as Shoc Wave and Third Kind Records cannot be overstated, as the latter especially was ‘almost totally ignored at the time, but it also left a legacy of recordings much appreciated by connoisseurs of independent British reggae’.5 As such, then, this chapter is—methodologically speaking—an attempt to map the diasporic musical and social networks that linked the reggaeorientated record labels and reggae-supporting record shops to be found at the heart of both the Birmingham and Bristol reggae scenes during the 1970s and 1980s. For, first and foremost, when mapping the records shops alone, great emphasis will be given to the streets of the two cities. 1 Michael de Koningh and Marc Griffiths, Tighten Up! The History of Reggae in the UK (London: Sanctuary, 2003), p. 158. 2 Paul Sullivan, Remixology: Tracing the Dub Diaspora (London: Reaktion, 2014), p. 147. 3 Lloyd Bradley, Bass Culture: When Reggae Was King (London: Penguin, 2000), p. 429. 4 David Katz, Solid Foundation: An Oral History of Reggae (London: Jawbone Press, 2012, edition), p. 240. 5 Martin Langford, cited in The Bristol Reggae Explosion—Best of the 70s/80s CD (Bristol Archive Records, 2018).

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Not only are streets an essential element of what will, later on in this chapter, be termed the alternative public cultural spheres, but, according to Stuart Hall et al., in their exploration of mugging as a race-derived, tabloid-driven crime of the 1970s, the streets populated by the black male youths of Handsworth in Birmingham became inherently criminalized.6 Criminalized, that is, with the newspapers’ making of Handsworth as a so-called ghetto/new slum, where even the ‘litter in the streets becomes the sign of incipient criminality’.7 With this criminalization of the streets of Handsworth at the forefront of our minds, it is also worth noting that such urban sprawls have both centres and peripheries that are very much interlinked and dependent on each other. Susanne Rau not only locates such a centre/periphery model of spatial mapping/thinking as being derived from capitalist approaches, ‘where it was used to characterize a hierarchical relationship of two spaces based in asymmetrical interactions’, but insists that ‘the dichotomy is less fruitful […] if the relationships between the positions are not seen as relational’.8 To this end, Rau suggests that (especially with regards our consideration here of the centre/periphery relations to be found in Birmingham and Bristol) ‘an organically circular form as an alternative model’ would be far more appropriate.9 Yet, whilst still very much valuing such an organic, circular understanding of the centre/periphery of a city such as Birmingham and/or Bristol, we must also allow for the vibrant dynamic that is the socio-cultural musical network of reggae. In other words, the notion of a network—in geographical terms—allows us to critique the all-too-great an emphasis previously given to the idea of a dominant central place. As Rau asserts, whilst the centrality of the central place is ‘[still] used in economic and urban history, it has been strongly criticized because of its hierarchical, rigid structure and its homogenous conception of space and is currently being replaced by more flexible network theories’.10

6 Stuart Hall, Chas Critcher, Tony Jefferson, John Clarke, and Brian Roberts, Policing the Crisis: Mugging, the State, and Law and Order (London: Macmillan, 1979). 7 Ibid., p. 115. 8 Susanne Rau, History, Space, and Place (London: Routledge, 2019), p. 94. 9 Ibid., p. 94. 10 Ibid., p. 211.

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Socio-cultural musical networks that overlay the reggae scenes of both Birmingham and Bristol during the 1970s and 1980s stretch out much further than the sea-locked confines of the United Kingdom. Such networks are not only the very manifestation of the global black diaspora, but ground—very, very firmly—the activities of, say, musicians, producers, audiences and so on amid a distinctly British sensibility. Paul Gilroy establishes the extent, and depth, of such diasporic conditions, and insists that, within the United Kingdom ‘[an] intricate web of cultural and political connections binds blacks here to blacks elsewhere’, but ‘[at] the same time, they are linked into the social relations of this country’.11 Such an elaborate global/local web is given strength, in the context of reggae in Britain during the 1970s and 1980s, by the twinned themes of ‘dread’ and ‘roots’. For, on the one hand, dread is the Rastafarian term for the particularly Afro-Caribbean-centred black experience, to the extent that, according to Les Back, not only can dread ‘be used as a substitute for blackness’, but that—in conveying commonness— “[young] black people plot the historical connectedness of black people throughout the new world by developing a ‘dread ontology’ that provides the philosophical and practical matrix in which links are made within the diaspora”.12 Moreover, according to Back, such a dread ontology facilitates a potent form of black self-reconstruction that, in turn, is particularly prevalent amid the rhetoric of roots. For roots—awash with Africancentric metaphors—is ‘a powerful means whereby young black people place themselves in history’, as ‘[it] is, in a sense, the furthest back that their cultural heritage can be traced’.13 More importantly, roots as a lyrically driven sub-genre of reggae were particularly vital in a British context. As Lloyd Bradley makes explicit, ‘[to] the new young bands roots reggae was a particularly relevant expression of blackness’. When compared to other versions of reggae, ‘UK roots had a far greater sense of narrative, with lyrics drawing a wealth of imagery from the high-rise estates and grey streets of Birmingham, Bristol or London’.14

11 Paul Gilroy, There Ain’t No Black in the Union Jack (London: Routledge, 1992, edition), p. 205. 12 Les Back, New Ethnicities and Urban Culture: Racisms and Multiculture in Young Lives (London: UCL Press, 1996), p. 147. 13 Ibid. 14 Bradley, Bass Culture, pp. 430–431.

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Liminality and Rhizomes: An On-Going Model of Ethnicity In an attempt to conceptualize a framework within which the inherent racial tensions of a modern-day society can be accommodated (that is, multiculturalism alongside racism), Les Back put forward a model of ethnicity that was (and still is) malleable enough to be able to adapt and adopt to the extremely multifaceted nature of urban communities where black and white (and others) mix. In doing so, Back drew upon the previous work of a number of theorists: firstly, in order to incorporate the notion of liminality, Back drew inspiration from both the Franco-Dutch folklorist Arnold Van Gennep (1960) and the anthropologist Victor Turner (1969); secondly, Back turned to Deleuze and Guattari’s (1986) concept of the rhizome—with Back, in turn, filtering such rhizome-orientated thinking through his own conceptualization of the cultural intermezzo. Indeed, Back was at pains to insist that his application of liminality to late-1980s/early-1990s inner-city London served to accentuate its role in facilitating, as a state of separation amid the banality of everyday life, the move from one societal status to another. Thus, liminality in this sense, involved far more than just the conveying of an identity to an individual and/or groups, but also the evolution (and possible transposal) of public roles. For, ‘[it] is in this sense that I [Back] maintain that the alternative public sphere occupied by black and white young people in South London constitutes a liminal space’.15 Furthermore, in coupling liminality—as a stage of status shifting—to that of the rhizome, Back stresses that ‘[the] logic of the rhizome is always about doing and making connections between things that have no necessary relationship to one another’. However, in placing great emphasis upon the unstable nature of the rhizomatics of contemporary youth culture (where racism is a fundamental characteristic of inner-city vernacularism), Back is keen on putting forward a model that is flexible enough to accommodate not only ‘the congregationist ethos of the rhizome’, but that is attuned ‘to the ways in which racial division can continue to be potentially active within these polyglot cultures’.16

15 Back, New Ethnicities and Urban Culture, pp. 244–245. 16 Ibid.

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With such liminal, rhizomatic polyglot cultures having emerged amid the multiracial inner cities of the United Kingdom come the late1980s/early-1990s (with the 1970s and 1980s being the decades amid which racial tensions within these communities were, arguably, at their most acute), Back’s conceptualization of the cultural intermezzo is crucial here. For the intermezzo, with its boundaries configured diagrammatically in the form of a diamond, was where young people interacted with each other amid peer-orientated, multiracial socio-cultural groups. In such spaces, symbolic transformation of meanings took place as—liminaly speaking—identities were made and re-made. Significantly, though, Back perceives there to be twinned faultlines running through these intermezzo multiracial cultures. For, whilst the first is the manifestation of the processes that either bring about, or eradicate, localized expressions of popular racism, the second, in a far more complex manner, comes about as a result of what is known as black closure. As this is where more generalized aspects of black culture are re-appropriated in a context-specific manner and, as a result of this locale- and temporal-specific form of (black) re-appropriation, they are further instilled with inimitable (black) meanings. Crucially, though, such instances of black closure are incomparable with white racism, as—paradoxically—such black closure often brings about cross-racial appropriation and attempted ownership of the symbols of black culture by whites. Indeed, this not only ‘includes situations where whites are seen to be parodying black culture’, but it is the point at which, quite often, ‘whites take their identification with blackness beyond the limits of black consent’. So Back, in an effort to differentiate his work from previous—that is, less flexible—studies of multiracial urban communities, insists that the ‘liminal and mixed cultures that I have described defy boundaries of race and ethnicity’, as ‘[they] are racially and ethnically inclusive cultural forms’. Thus, with Backs emphatic, boundary-eradicating words in mind, we now turn to a consideration of the independent reggae record shop as emblematic of such a cultural intermezzo.17

17 Ibid., pp. 247–248.

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The Independent Reggae Record Shop as Yard Andy Bennett stresses that, during a post-Powell era, the emergence of reggae had an immense impact on Afro-Caribbean youth in Britain, as they very swiftly identified with both the music’s lyrical message and the Rasta style of the musicians associated with this musical form.18 According to Bennett, the highly meaningful nature of both reggae’s message and Rasta style to young, under-privileged Afro-Caribbeans living in the United Kingdom was not only inseparable from their experiencing of a dire socio-economic environment, but very much a by-product of them being subjected to, on a daily basis, the discrimination and intolerance of the dominant white population. Quite simply, ‘[the] arrival of reggae music in Britain during the late 1970s significantly altered the way in which notions of blackness and black identity were expressed’. Moreover, for Bennett, what was absolutely crucial in this new-found expression of blackness was the Rasta-aligned image of reggae musicians of the time—with Bob Marley, of course, being the most significant proponent of both reggae music and Rasta style. Yet, whether copied from Marley, or any other Afro-Caribbean musical icon, the eventual appropriated Rastafarian aesthetic that manifested itself in Britain come the late-1970s, ‘was an essentially adapted form’ that was, quite crucially, ‘learned and borrowed from the covers and sleeve notes of imported Jamaican reggae albums’.19 More significantly, such a learned and borrowed process of appropriation was a reworking that, ultimately, came to serve the wants and desires of second-generation Afro-Caribbeans living in the United Kingdom at the time. Alongside the overly religious elements of Rastafarianism becoming far less notable to Afro-Caribbean youth in Britain during the late-1970s, its worth as a means of cultural resistance increased. Here was a look that Afro-Caribbean youth could insist was theirs—that is, a look that was as estranged from white British culture as it could get (to the extent that, initially, white youth found themselves unable to identify with it in any shape or form). Thus, in effect, ‘Rastafarianism became a piece of cultural territory which was impenetrable from the outside’, whereby it rapidly became ‘a localized reworking of the Jamaican Rasta style that 18 Andy Bennett, Cultures of Popular Music (Buckingham: Open University Press), 2001. 19 Ibid., p. 81.

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stressed its essential blackness in the face of a dominant white society whose racism was becoming increasingly institutionalized’.20 Indeed, with Bennett placing great emphasis upon the impenetrability, from the outside, of this localized reworking of Rastafarianism, it is essential to note that whilst, on a day-to-day level, the socio-economic conditions to which the Afro-Caribbean youth were being subjected to continued, ‘their ability to negotiate such circumstances was significantly transformed through the new cultural space which the Rasta image and reggae music created’.21 Significantly, such emerging new cultural spaces were often the result of semi-institutional underground forms coming to the fore amid multicultural inner-city areas—especially that of, as far as the second-generation Afro-Caribbean youths were concerned, the sound system. Seemingly oblivious to the mainstream media industries, sound systems were a natural, organic retort to an almost complete lack of public leisure facilities available to the UK’s Afro-Caribbean communities. Quite often excluded from white-dominated places and spaces, Afro-Caribbeans were left with no option but to win back autonomous—and, in the main, unauthorized—cultural spaces. Simon Jones and Paul Pinnock, in their exploration of a Midlands-based reggae sound system, note that such autonomous, unauthorized cultural spaces arose out of a socio-cultural network of private houses, flats, backyards and far more public areas such as streets, parks, gyms, community centres and churches. In effect, ‘[these] spaces, and the performance practices pursued within them, amounted to alternative public cultural spheres’, wherein the AfroCaribbean experience of racially-derived inequalities was ‘transformed through the exploration and affirmation of collective diasporan identities’.22 Of course, the flourishing of such newly emerged black public spheres was also a result of the centrality of commercial enterprises to such Afro-Caribbean networks. As well as ‘restaurants, grocery stores, bookshops, hair and beauty salons and night clubs’, such commercially

20 Ibid. 21 Ibid. 22 Simon Jones and Paul Pinnock, Scientists of Sound: Portraits of a UK Reggae Sound System (Birmingham: Bassline Books, 2018), p. 9.

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driven networks ‘also included an infrastructure for the import, distribution and retail of recorded music, comprised of record shops, distribution enterprises, record labels, studios and musicians’.23 Needless to say, such a reggae-centric network-within-a-network was, in the main, independent in nature out of necessity. Estranged from not only the established—that is, white—mainstream musical marketing and distribution infrastructure, reggae was ‘[shunned] by Britain’s broadcasting and media institutions’ to the extent that, being barely heard on radio during the mid-to-late 1970s, ‘most Jamaican music was filtered out from the music’s industry marketing channels and retail outlets’.24 Thus, it was down to both local sound systems and independent, reggaefriendly record shops that the main, inter-related media forms through which this music was sponsored and spread. According to Jones and Pinnock, ‘[record] shops in particular were important cultural spaces’, as they were ‘distinguished from high-street chain stores and mainstream records shops by their layout and modes of consumption’. In effect, amid the cramped but vibrant confines of these local, independent stores, young Afro-Caribbean youths could hear all of the latest reggae releases being played on what amounted to mini sound systems. Thus, ‘[record] shops, as a result, were not only spaces of discovery and learning about music, but also important places of social gathering and exchange’.25 Yet these record shops (that is, independent reggae record shops in particular) as spaces of knowledge and places of socio-cultural interaction, were also often a site of white appropriation of black culture and, as a result, were characterized by the problems that such shared cultural and leisure locations inherently possess. Moreover, according to Simon Jones, ‘[given] that some of these spaces were bound up with a particular kind of territorialisation of black identity, and charged with political meaning, the mere presence of whites could be a sensitive issue and one subject to proscription’.26 So, independent reggae record shops, with the majority of their customers coming from the Afro-Caribbean community, and being quite often situated amid quite intimidating ghettoized

23 Ibid., p. 9. 24 Ibid. 25 Ibid. 26 Simon Jones, Black Culture, White Youth: The Reggae Tradition from JA to UK (Birmingham: Bassline Books, 2016, edition), pp. 159–160.

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urban settings, were far from welcoming for any white fans of Jamaican music. Simply put, ‘for white people unfamiliar with this environment, the process of entering a reggae shop for the first time could be an uncomfortable experience’.27 Such an uncomfortable experience for whites (within these black spaces of the independent reggae record shop), brought a very real manifestation of what Les Back understood as one of the twinned faultlines running through intermezzo multiracial cultures—that of black closure. With this specific instance of black closure in mind, it may be beneficial to remind ourselves of the definition of ‘yard’ amid Afro-Caribbean parlance. As Back notes, the term was commonplace during his conversations with black British youths. Particularly prevalent in the speech patterns of the children whose parents originated from Jamaica, ‘yard’— as both a word and concept—not only referred to home, but also ‘to the house one lives in or the area one calls home territory’.28 If the AfroCaribbean home is somewhere where blacks should feel safe, comfortable and familiar, we can further conceptualize—by extension—the independent reggae record shop as yard.

The Birmingham Scene: Centre and Outer-Ring Simon Jones explores the daily lives of both black and white communities in-and-around the Balsall Heath inner-city area of Birmingham. In doing so, Jones notes that both sets of communities ‘had become harmonized around the shared spaces and cross-cutting loyalties of street, pub and neighbourhood’. Jones insists that such neighbourhood-centred harmony not only revolved around shared leisure-orientated sites as cafes, grocery stores, betting-shops and the like, but that Afro-Caribbean-centred activities and locations ‘such as dances, blues parties, record shops and various social functions, were also inhabited by other groups in the local population’.29 In essence, then, this was Les Back’s rhizomatic conceptualization of mid-to-late-1980s Britain, whereby Afro-Caribbean alternative public cultural spheres were being cohabited by both black and white. Moreover, according to Jones, this collocation of black and white communities

27 Ibid. 28 Back, New Ethnicities and Urban Culture, p. 150. 29 Jones, Black Culture, White Youth, p. 120.

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was not the sole preserve of Balsall Heath (or even, more widely, Birmingham), as identical multicultural districts had grown organically in other parts of the United Kingdom. For Jones, such close-quarter habitation, and its resultant shared experience, by both black and white, was to be found amid many urban inner-city locales that also possessed a multi-ethnic demographic. Thus, ‘Liverpool’s Toxteth, Cardiff’s Butetown and Bristol’s St. Pauls were perhaps the most notable examples of long-standing mixed communities, all of which had existed for several generations’.30 However, by the late-1970s, the notion of the mixed community as purely a characteristic of the inner-city was no more—especially in the case of Birmingham, as that city’s multi-ethnic demographic had, by that time, spread to the outer-ring suburbs. This was all as a result of the relocation of many a black family from the ghettoized city centre to more open suburbs, to the south and west of Birmingham (such as, Northfield, Rubery, Frankley, Kings Norton and Bartley Green) during the late-1960s and early-1970s. Part-and-parcel of Birmingham council’s urban regeneration/relocation programme, this not only meant the bulldozing of row after row of terraced housing, but the placing of black families amid (formerly) white-only council estates. Indeed, with this relocation to the suburbs in mind, it is worth noting, within the setting of black British vernacular, the use of the word country. As country ‘was a specifically Jamaican term that was used in the British context to signify the suburbs, or, in local usage, to refer to any town smaller than Birmingham’.31 Moreover, situated in such country areas of outer-ring Birmingham, the sound systems of the suburbs existed amid an almost entirely different socio-cultural context to that found in the inner-city. That is, they found themselves operating upon largely white, working-class council estates, where there was (especially when compared to the areas located towards the centre of Birmingham) ‘much more pronounced and visible forms of racism, both from local residents and from far-right nationalist groups such as the National Front who were an active presence in these areas at this time’.32

30 Ibid., p. 121. 31 Jones and Pinnock, Scientists of Sound, p. 15. 32 Ibid.

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The Birmingham Scene: Record Shops and Record Labels Michael de Koningh and Marc Griffiths make reference to the specialist record dealer advertisements to be found in any mid-1970s issue of the magazine, Black Music, noting that ‘there was certainly a lot of reggae activity going on in Birmingham around this period’. More significantly, as far as this chapter is concerned, they also highlight the fact that reggaefriendly record stores proliferated the city, as ‘by the middle of 1975 there were at least ten shops serving the area’.33 Thus, at this juncture, we will map—in detail—six of those record shops.34 Located around and below the centre of Birmingham,35 these were (and in one instance, still is)—in an anti-clockwise, W-shaped arc—the following: Mango Records, Aquarius Records, J. E. Wyatt, the Diskery, Don Christies and Abi Records. Meanwhile, north-west of Birmingham city centre (at 2.5 miles walking) was Mango Records, housed at 104 Grove Lane, Handsworth, with Brian Harris taking it over in 1964. Then Aquarius Records, also north-west of Birmingham city centre (at 2 miles walking), was at 79 Soho Road, Handsworth. According to de Koningh and Griffiths, the shop was run by Junior Bradley and provided the premises from which he issued records via his Junior imprint. It specialized in reggae, funk and soul releases.36 Then, west of Birmingham city centre (at 2.2 miles walking), at 330 Dudley Road, Winson Green, was J. E. Wyatt, which stocked mainly reggae and soul. And, claiming to be—according to

33 Koningh and Marc Griffiths, Tighten Up!, p. 159. 34 Whilst focusing upon six record shops, it must be noted that the following—in

alphabetical order—were also central to Birmingham’s Reggae scene of the 1970s and 1980s: Atomic Records (two shops in the Small Heath area, run by Aaron Smith, known as English, who also run two short-lived labels—Atomic and Sun and Star [discussed later]); Black Wax (run by Keith Thornton, in Lozells, with a label of the same name also being set up—and, again, discussed later); G. G. Jeffs (Wolverhampton Road); Summit Records (originally situated in West Bromwich, but later had premizes at the Bull Ring [Dale End], Stephenson Street, and now Dudley Road [and, historically, mainly dealt with UK releases]; Tip Top Records [Rookery Road], Handsworth); Zion Records (Villa Road, Handsworth). 35 For the purposes of this chapter, the centre of Birmingham is deemed to be the Birmingham HM Passport Office, positioned just off Bull Street. 36 Koningh and Marc Griffiths, Tighten Up!, p. 159.

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David Bentley’s Birmingham Mail online article—the UK’s second oldest record shop (that is, after Spillers of Cardiff) is the Diskery. At the time of writing, Bentley states that the shop ‘is said to be one of only three remaining vinyl stores in Birmingham city centre’.37 Only just south of Birmingham city centre (at 0.8 miles walking), the Diskery is currently situated at 99–102 Bromsgrove Street, having already been positioned, first, on Union Street, then, secondly, Moor Street,38 and thirdly on Hurst Street. Significantly, whilst de Koningh and Griffiths admit that the Diskery was not a reggae record shop as such, it ‘always used to be a good place to find Jamaican sounds both old and new’.39 Meanwhile, Don Christie’s, south-south-east of Birmingham city centre (at 2.1 miles walking), was to be found at 116 Ladypool Road, Sparkbrook.40 Indeed, de Koningh and Griffiths note that this commercial property, having been a West Indian family run business since the 1960s, was eventually taken over by one David McGinn. In fact, retaining the name of the previous owners, McGinn was thereafter ‘forever known as Don’. Don (that is, again, McGinn) eventually sold the shop, after many years, to Ezra, a high-profile local Rastafarian and ‘son of former Birmingham sound system man Duke Sonny’.41 Finally, Abi Records, east-south-east of Birmingham city centre (at 2 miles walking), was at 402 Coventry Road, Small Heath. As previously noted, three of the aforementioned shops had record labels aligned with them. For Aquarius, Bradley’s Junior label released a number of hard-to-find reggae collectibles—with, for de Koningh and Griffiths at least, Laurel Aitken’s ‘Think Me No Know’, Anthony King’s ‘Let Them Talk’, and the Soul Cats’ ‘Land of Love’ being of particular

37 David Bentley, ‘Nostalgia: 30 Birmingham record shops where you spent your Saturdays and your hard-earned cash’, 13 August 2014. BirminghamLive, available at: https://www.birminghammail.co.uk/news/nostalgia/nostalgia-30-birminghamrecord-shops-7607715 (accessed May 15, 2019). 38 The Diskery’s initial location is a matter of debate. As, according to the Birmingham Music Archive: ‘Information suggests the shop first opened in Union St in 1952 but actual company records do not show anything during 1952 (this could simply be a case of the shop opening slightly after the records were submitted)’ (http://www.birminghammusic archive.com/the-diskery/, n.p). 39 Koningh and Marc Griffiths, Tighten Up!, p. 163. 40 Don Christies also had an outlet at Birmingham’s Bull Ring. 41 Koningh and Marc Griffiths, Tighten Up!, p. 162.

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note. Very much typical of such a small, independent label amid the Birmingham reggae scene (and British reggae more generally), de Koningh and Griffiths stress that with Junior, the ‘distribution was probably decidedly local, with only a few hundred copies being sold around the Birmingham shops’.42 More than this, any attempts at dating the label and its releases is nigh-on impossible, as no year of issue was ever provided, ‘although our guess is that it would probably have been between 1969 and 1970’.43 Meanwhile, Atomic Records (headed by Aaron Smith, or ‘English’, alongside his two stores in Small Heath), operated two shortlived labels—namely Atomic and Sun and Star. Now, whilst Atomic put out just a single tune by a local singer (Carlyle Rowe’s ‘Darling’), Sun and Stars’ debut release was the Loving Brothers’ ‘Rule Ethiopia’. This was followed by Doctor Alimantado’s ‘Best Dressed Chicken’ single. Recorded in 1975 at Black Ark (Lee Scratch Perry’s recording studios in the Washington Gardens neighbourhood of Kingston, Jamaica), ‘[it] was one of those tunes that seemed to have such erratic distribution that hunting down a copy even during its release period was a job in itself’. However, and quite significantly, ‘[in] and around Birmingham […] it was everywhere’.44 This would suggest—quite strongly—that amid the networks of the global Afro-Caribbean diaspora, localized points of cultural dissemination were particularly well serviced with such Jamaican recordings via local reggae-friendly shops and labels. Yet, even such crucial elements of the Afro-Caribbean alternative public cultural sphere often proved to be rather precarious, or short-lived, as the ‘Atomic set-up seems to have folded by 1977’.45 In 1975, the record label Mango was founded by Brian Harris and, whilst Harris did not produce any recordings himself (as many local labels owners often tended to do), he instead ‘licensed hot new platters from producers he knew in Jamaica’.46 Around the same time as Keith Thornton established his Black Wax shop in Lozells, he introduced his label of the same name, with its initial release being Pat Kelly’s ‘Sunshine’ (reaching No. 2 in the specialist reggae charts in April 1975). 42 Ibid., p. 159. 43 Ibid. 44 Ibid., p. 159. 45 Ibid., p. 159. 46 Ibid., p. 162.

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Then, around 1976, Harris and Thornton merged their businesses, with the Black Wax label continuing to perform well with many a Lee Scratch Perry produced hit and beyond—for example, the Mighty Diamonds’ Channel One produced ‘Country Living’ (No. 2 in the reggae charts in September 1975) and Carl Malcolm’s ‘Miss Wire Waist’ (also released in 1975). Indeed, Black Wax deemed itself to be so successfully popular that Harris, describing himself as the ‘People’s Number One Reggae and Soul Controller’, also kick-started a burgeoning mail-order business. Thus, dealing with a massive range of releases (from both within and outside the United Kingdom), de Koningh and Griffiths assert that ‘if Black Wax didn’t have it you probably couldn’t get it’.47 In fact, in order to capitalize on Black Wax’s success, Harris and Thornton not only established a companion label, Locks (with, amongst its first release, the Mighty Diamonds’ ‘Right Time’, which reached No. 1 in the reggae singles chart in October 1975), but they also engaged with quite a revolutionary form of distributing their releases. Harris and Thornton realized that no matter how bustling their record shops were on, say, Fridays and Saturdays, their customer reach was always going to be localized (and thus finite). So, acknowledging that only a limited number of customers would ever visit their stores, ‘they resolved to take their records to the people’ and ‘[thus] was Vandisc born’.48 In effect, then, this was a distribution company set up in the mid-1970s by Harris and Thornton (along with another, Bobby Khouri), whereby in a van and on the road they enthusiastically distributed records, imported from Jamaica, all round the United Kingdom.

Bristol Scene: Riots and Carnivals Madge Dresser and Peter Fleming explain that the ward of Ashley acted, historically, as the principal area of Bristol where Afro-Caribbean immigrants initially settled, and is more colloquially known as St. Pauls.49 Yet such a catch-all naming actually disguises the fact that the ward is made up of a number of districts—namely St. Agnes, St. Jude’s Montpelier, St.

47 Ibid., p. 163. 48 Ibid. 49 Madge Dresser and Peter Fleming, Bristol: Ethnic Minorities and the City, 1000–2001 (Chichester: Phillimore and Co., 2000).

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Pauls and St. Werburgh’s. According to Dresser and Fleming, the adjacent nature of the districts of Easton, St. Jude’s, St. Pauls and St. Werburgh’s— with the Ashley Road extending from Easton into St. Pauls—resulted in a real sense of oneness amongst the migrant population to be found there. However, come the 1960s and 1970s, with the construction of the M32, this community was geographically and socially fragmented. Moreover, stress Dresser and Fleming, 1974 proved to be a pivotal year for St. Pauls, as that was the year when local press coverage of the area provided a more open, public platform for racism—to the extent that, out of the 90 candidates that the National Front fielded for the general election of October 1974, two were to be found in Bristol. Whilst—together—they only managed to garner 2000 or so votes, this proportionally small number did not do justice to the influence held by both candidates. Indeed, in that same year, Bristol’s religious leaders were unhappy about the significant number of National Front candidates attempting to stand for election in the Avon county elections, chastising ‘them for whipping up hysteria against immigrant communities at local meetings’.50 In fact, the social situation was set to worsen. In April 1980, with a police raid on the Black and White Café in St. Pauls for the relatively minor incident of illegal drinking, a significant outbreak of large-scale rioting resulted. Quickly escalating, this involved both black and white youth setting fire to a local bank and post office, and many instances of more extensive looting. Termed the St. Pauls riot—or, within St. Pauls itself, an uprising—it ‘came as a profound shock to the city and the nation at large’.51 Indeed, such disturbances went national very quickly indeed, as, according to Joshua et al., ‘[the] summer of 1981 totally shattered any idea that the crowd violence in Bristol might be a one-off or isolated event’, as ‘[between] March and August, events in Bristol were to be repeated in almost every major city in Britain’.52 In Bristol’s St. Pauls, things went from bad to worse, with the situation rapidly deteriorating between the police and the Afro-Caribbean community (particularly the young black men of the area), to the extent that in 1982 a minor punchup between youths from Barton Hill and St. Pauls quickly escalated and

50 Ibid., p. 149. 51 Ibid. 52 Harris Joshua, Tina Wallace, with the assistance of Heather Booth, To Ride the Storm: The 1980 Bristol Riot and the State (London: Heinemann, 1983), p. 192.

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culminated in the vicious assault by black youths on a locally respected community policeman, PC Ian Bennett. With no respite in proceedings up to and including further inner-city rioting mid-decade, the Avon and Somerset police, in 1986, when introducing a new strategy, carried out a further raid on the Black and White Café. Code-named Operation Delivery, and with the police estimating that there were around 200 hardcore criminals from the St. Pauls area (that is, out of a total population of around 15,000) dealing hard drugs on the café’s premises, many locals interpreted the use of police with heavy equipment as highly provocative. Perhaps more significantly, a number of others saw it as some form of institutional reprisal for both the 1980 riot and the attack upon PC Bennett. Either way, the ‘response was what one eye-witness described as organized guerrilla warfare, with armed police being regularly bricked by angry youths’.53 With such guerrilla warfare centred on a local café in mind, it is also essential that we acknowledge that the emergence of Bristol’s black community was very much leisure orientated. Thus, come the opening of the highly iconic Bamboo Club in St. Pauls in 1966 (where both Bob Marley and Desmond Dekker performed), a number of other noteworthy venues were to open their doors, eventually, to a largely AfroCaribbean clientele. Indeed, according to Rehan Hyder, ‘[the] arrival of The Bamboo Club was followed by a growing range of nightclub and live music venues with a focus on black music’. Listing establishments such as The Western Star and Domino Club in Broadmead and The Tropic and Moon Club in Stokes Croft, they ‘all ensured that black music played a key part in shaping an increasingly diverse musical culture in the city’.54 Additionally, this all paved the way for such local Afro-Caribbean entrepreneurs as Cleon Green and Johnny St. Clair, who operated latenight venues in the area during the 1970s, and inner-city pubs such as the Criterion, the Inkerman, St. Nicholas and The Plough all coming under, eventually, Afro-Caribbean management. Most significant of all was the establishment of the St. Pauls Carnival. Debuting in July 1968, this event serves not only as ‘a barometer of the social and ideological changes within Bristol’s race relations’, but perhaps even more importantly as a 53 Dresser and Fleming, Bristol, p. 151. 54 Rehan Hyder, ‘Black Music and Cultural Exchange in Bristol’, in Jon Stratton and

Nabeel Zuberi (eds), Black Popular Music in Britain Since 1945 (Routledge: Abingdon, 2016), pp. 85–99.

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festival; it ‘was a colourful riposte to the negative depictions of St. Pauls in the media’.55 Whilst initially an attempt to reflect—and thus bring together—the European, Afro-Caribbean and Asian communities to be found in St. Pauls, the carnival adopted far more of a Caribbean essence when Trinidadian Francis Salandy took over its organization in 1975. For Salandy not only possessed first-hand experience of carnival traditions, but was in regular contact with many London-based carnival artists. So, all-in-all, this juncture marked a pivotal moment in the carnival’s history and, indeed, very identity. Moreover, though, ‘[the] 1980 riots and the subsequent focus upon African-Caribbean concerns consolidated that shift’.56

Bristol Scene---Record Shops and Record Labels Madge Dresser and Peter Fleming note that, ‘[for] white and black Bristolians raised outside the inner city, the music scene was an entry into black Bristol’.57 Moreover, such an entry into Bristol’s black music scene— especially that of the 1970s and 1980s—almost certainly involved daily engagement with the city’s record shops and record labels. Martin Langford (of Dubmart), in his detailed sleevenotes to Bristol Archive Records’ CD, The Bristol Reggae Explosion, 1978–1983, gives us a vibrant insight into his experience of shopping for reggae releases in late-1980s Bristol: If you had bothered to trawl through Bristol’s record shops in the late eighties, Tony’s, Revolver, Plastic Wax, Replay etcetera, you would probably have found one or both of the Talisman singles, an assortment of records from the prolific Black Roots, a copy of ‘Pretty Girl’ and if you were lucky a copy of the Restriction record.58

55 Dresser and Fleming, Bristol, p. 169. 56 Ibid. 57 Ibid., p. 173. 58 Martin Langford, The Bristol Reggae Explosion, 1978–1983 CD (Bristol Archive

Records, 2011).

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So, in the order that Langford lists them, we will now explore those four named record shops in more detail, providing their distance (that is, walking) from the St. Pauls area of the city.59 In their ‘A–Z of The People’ (that is, significant people amid the history of Bristol’s many music scenes), Bristol Archive Records note that Tony’s was a record store belonging to Tony Dodd who, after selling his own record collection at Cannons Marsh Market and Eastville Market (and after co-opening Revolver Records), began to operate as Tony’s Records at both a stall (upstairs) and a self-contained shop proper (downstairs) at Princess Victoria Street, Clifton. This would eventually relocate, in 1984, to Park Street (1.5 miles, walking, from St. Pauls). Indeed, Dodd admits that the ‘shop always had close connections to the local music scene’, but ‘after extremely good times around 88–92, I closed the shop in 1996 due to falling interest’.60 Meanwhile, the Revolver Records shop at The Triangle in Clifton (1.6 miles, walking, from St. Pauls) and the rather claustrophobic home of Revolver distribution issued, according to Bristol Archive Records, its own records from 1981 under the Recreational label. Indeed, the shop itself is remembered, quite colourfully by the Richly Evocative website, as being clouded with a multitude of odours: ‘It was difficult to breath, as a musty smell hung thick inside, which was tempered only by the cigarette smoke fug that filled the air— generated by a cast of intimidating leather-jacketed and/or dreadlocked über-cool/weird guys’.61 According to Liam Gray of B24/7 , in compiling online Bristol’s top record shops, Plastic Wax—at 222 Cheltenham Road (that is 1 mile—again, walking—from St. Pauls)—is ‘[located] on the bend just off Gloucester Road’ and ‘serves as the oldest record shop on the list, opening its doors in 1978’.62 Replay, meanwhile, is remembered by the 59 As such, and in contrast to our mapping of Birmingham’s record stores in relation to that city’s centre, we not only map, conversely, Bristol’s record shop in relation to their proximity to, or distance from, the St. Pauls area of the city, but note that—in doing so—that are all separated, geographically, from St. Pauls by the A38. 60 http://www.bristolarchiverecords.com/people/people.html. 61 This was amid their article, ‘Record Store Day—Here’s to Revolver Records, Bristol’ (https://richlyevocative.net/2011/04/15/record-store-day-heres-to-revolver-rec ords-bristol/, n.p.). 62 Liam Gray (26 October 2018), ‘Bristol’s top record shops’, B24/7 , available at: https://www.bristol247.com/student/arts-and-culture/bristols-top-recordshops/ (accessed May 15, 2019).

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Bristol Post, amid Natalie Banyard’s online article thus: ‘That run-down area by Bristol Bus Station was always a little bit grotty, but it used to be full of shops including the much-loved Replay’.63 Indeed, noting the run-down nature of the area in which Replay could be found, it is worth noting that it was 1.4 miles walk from St. Pauls. Moreover, in addition to the four shops listed by Langford, it is essential here to include Popsy’s. As, appearing on the back of the booklet that accompanies The Bristol Reggae Explosion 2, the 1980s CD, is an evocative sepia-tinged photograph of Popsy’s (in full, Popsy’s Curious Roots & Crafts).64 With over-thedoor signage offering the provision of ‘Records, hats, badges, pictures, frames, tailoring, etc.’, it was owned by Popsy Curious and—according to Langford—‘is a well-known figure in St. Pauls’.65 With regard to the positioning of local labels amid Bristol’s reggae scene, Langford makes explicit their precarious existence (that is, of both musicians and the labels they attempted to release music on): ‘The artists struggled to afford recording sessions and even if the music made it to tape there were barely any outlets for it’.66 However, whilst Langford goes on to insist that there was Shoc Wave (see below), he also admits that ‘it was under-financed and overstretched’, with each-and-any Bristolbased reggae-friendly label ‘struggling to release one or two singles’. For example, Dallas (the stage name of Dennis McCalla) released just one record on his own Rain Tree label, ‘Peacemaker’ (1984). However, ‘just 100 copies of the single were pressed’, and ‘[like] so many other local records, distribution was handled by Revolver Records’, whereby ‘a lack of funds killed the fledgling label before it could develop’. In fact, for Langford, the only relative success in the Bristol area was associated with the local reggae band Black Roots’ Nubian Records imprint. Whilst not highly commercial at the time of release, in retrospect their music and

63 That is, under the ‘Buying your first vinyl’ sub-heading of ‘13 things you’ll definitely remember if you grew up in Bristol in the 80s and 90s (https://www.bristolpost.co.uk/ whats-on/whats-on-news/things-remember-grew-up-bristol-3092). 64 Martin Langford, The Bristol Reggae Explosion 2, the 1980s CD (Bristol Archive Records, 2018). 65 Sadly, Popsy Curious passed away ahead of the release of Bristol Archive Records’ The Bristol Reggae Explosion—Best of the 70s/80s (2018). 66 Langford, The Bristol Reggae Explosion (2011).

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their label left ‘a legacy of recordings that provide an alternative history of the city’s music’.67 Yet, with such talk of an alternative history being offered, rarity and scarcity very much characterize the releases by almost all Bristol-based labels. For example, Langford notes that the sole vinyl release by local reggae musician Bunny Marrett, ‘Times Are Getting Harder’ (1980), just about managed to trickle out via the aforementioned Shoc Wave. To the extent that it ‘was one of those good tunes that passed under people’s radar’, ‘the few hundred copies pressed mostly sold locally and made no impact in the wider market’.68 Meanwhile, Ron Green, as Langford makes explicit, ‘was a one-man recording industry’.69 Simultaneously acting as producer, engineer, vocalist and multi-instrumentalist, he operated his own label, Third Kind Records. But, once again, ‘[it] didn’t manage many releases’, as ‘Ron’s label barely scraped the surface of his creativity’.70 Moreover, local groups (that is, recording-wise) were often at the mercy of the trust (or, sometimes, lack of it) of local labels and studios. For, as Langford makes clear in his overview of the oh-so-brief career of the Weston-Super-Mare band Cool Runnings, the band—having relocated to Bristol—were rumoured to have been preparing to record for Shoc Wave. However, in their impatience, the band turned, instead, to local record shop and sound system owner Mr. Williams in order to release their debut ‘Robin Hoods of the Ghetto’ (1983) on his short-lived Raka Records label. But, as with a number of locally released reggae recordings across the country, ‘the band received no payment and didn’t even get their master tape back’.71 So, with Shoc Wave appearing again and again amid a number of historical testimonies relating to Bristol’s musical heritage, we now turn to a more detailed consideration of that label. As, according to the booklet that accompanies the Bristol Archive Records CD, Shoc Wave—A Bristol Story (2013), Shoc Wave Records (and its associated publishing company, Unitone Publishing Limited) was founded in 1979 in Easton, Bristol,

67 Ibid. 68 Ibid. 69 Martin Langford, The Bristol Reggae Explosion 3, the 80s, Part 2 CD (Bristol Archive Records, 2012). 70 Ibid. 71 Langford, The Bristol Reggae Explosion (2011).

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by Dominican Gene Walsh, where its 7” and 12” releases provided ‘an essential service documenting and releasing the music of Bristol’s West Indian community and beyond’.72 Whilst still undertaking an apprenticeship at the Rolls Royce aircraft engine plant at Filton, Walsh collaborated with musician Jashwha Moses and wrote ‘Dominica Independence Fever’ (following that island’s actual independence in 1978). Then, having found both a suitable recording studio and pressing plant, Walsh put it out as Shoc Wave’s debut single. Eventually, then, Walsh ‘managed to sell 1200 copies of the single, mainly to family, friends and colleagues at Rolls Royce’.73 Despite a string of reggae releases (which, admittedly, failed to sell in any significant quantity), Shoc Wave moved into the pop/rock market for the majority of the 1980s. In an attempt to latch onto the success of Two Tone, Walsh signed The Rimshots, a Bristol-based skainfluenced band consisting of five white middle-class male youths. Indeed, the band’s Mike Darby remembers, quite fondly, Walsh’s patronage: ‘Yes, Gene gave me my first opportunity to make a record but more importantly than that he used to invite us to his home where he would play Dominoes with his friends, cook us chicken, peas and rice and talk of his dream, his vision for his company and how he believed he and his team could take Bristol and put it on the map’.74 Yet, Walsh’s honourable attempts to make permanent Bristol’s music on any form of map was only partially successful. As, despite releasing music well into the 1990s, Walsh eventually ‘returned to his roots within the City’s West Indian community’ and, in turn, ‘stuck to reggae, soca, disco, soul, ska and dance’.75

Conclusion This chapter has attempted something akin to that of Bristol Archive Records’ string of CD releases. Indeed, Martin Langford, in the opening paragraph of his sleevenotes to the The Bristol Reggae Explosion, Best of the 70s/80s, reflects upon the original premise of such an extensive reissue programme, which started in 2011: ‘Back then we were working on a

72 Martin Langford, Shoc Wave—A Bristol Story, CD (Bristol Archive Records, 2013). 73 Ibid. 74 Ibid. 75 Ibid.

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rather novel idea, nobody had previously attempted to produce a historical overview of reggae based not on a label, producer or artist, but on geography’.76 As such, this chapter—first and foremost (that is, behind its primary focus on British reggae)—has given great emphasis to geography: namely, the geographies of both Birmingham and Bristol of the 1970s and 1980s. More than that, it has also attempted to overlay upon those geographies the respective musical networks of those cities. But, as well, it has tried to pinpoint amid those networks the positioning—that is, not only geographically, but in a socio-cultural way—Birmingham’s and Bristol’s record stores and record labels. Yet, this chapter also possesses another significant sub-focus—that is, the people responsible for, and behind, Birmingham’s and Bristol’s respective reggae scenes. This, of course, coincides with (at the time of writing) an exhibition, ‘Handsworth Self Portrait: 40 Years On’, held at MAC Birmingham (March–June 2019), with all photographic portraits there originally taken between the 18 August and 7 October 1979 outside of 81 Grove Lane, Handsworth, Birmingham. 81 Grove Lane was the site, at the time, of the ‘Handsworth Self-Portrait’ project, devised by Derek Bishton, Brian Homer and the late John Reardon. As Killian Fox for The Observer makes clear, these self-portraits eventually helped to radically transform Handsworth’s rather tarnished reputation of the time in the public’s consciousness: Forty years ago, the multicultural Birmingham suburb of Handsworth was mired in social and economic decline – and a negative media image. When three men set up a pop-up photography studio on the street and invited passers-by to take their own pictures, residents responded enthusiastically […] and a unique community album was born.77

Indeed, such a unique community was being born, according to Kieran Connell, ‘[as] Steel Pulse’s debut material began to be stocked alongside Jamaican imports at specialist record shops such as Mango Records, based at 104 Grove Lane (a few doors down from the premises owned by the photographers Derek Bishton, Brian Homer, and John Reardon)’.78 76 Langford, The Bristol Reggae Explosion (2018). 77 Killian Fox, ‘Take a Selfie, 1970s Style’, The Observer, 3 March 2019, pp. 14–17. 78 Kieran Connell, Black Handsworth: Race in 1980s Britain (Oakland: University of

California Press, 2019), p. 108.

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Mango Records, stocking records by Birmingham’s premier Reggae group Steel Pulse and many other home-grown acts, was just a few doors away from this ground-breaking photography project, for both were ‘on a shopping route with shops over the road, a fish-n-chip shop, a butchers, a betting shop, and a good throughput of people’.79 So people. And records. People and records, side by side, in harmony. Just like the Aand B-side of any reggae 7 inch that would have been sold, at the time, at Don Christie’s in Birmingham, or at Tony’s in Bristol.

79 Fox, ‘Take a Selfie, 1970s Style’, p. 17.

CHAPTER 12

From Sound Systems to Disc Jockeys, from Local Bands to Major Success: On Bristol’s Crucial Role in Integrating Reggae and Jamaican Music in British Culture Melissa Chemam

Whiteladies Road, Black Boy Hill, Caribbean history and spirit, links to Africa. The lyrics to ‘Bristol Rock’, written in 1981 by Black Roots, tell us about their city from the band’s point of view. They were taken as children to this English city from their original island in the Caribbean, Jamaica. Reggae has had a major influence on Bristol. The music helped immigrants and children of immigrants understand their post-colonial situation at a time when the political rhetoric was often hostile. By the late 1960s, such discourse contrasted with the ‘Mother Country’ call of the previous decades. Bristol has had for some time a significant number of residents from the Caribbean, and from Jamaica specifically. In the 1950s,

M. Chemam (B) Bristol, UK © The Author(s) 2021 W. ‘L’. Henry and M. Worley (eds.), Narratives from Beyond the UK Reggae Bassline, Palgrave Studies in the History of Subcultures and Popular Music, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-55161-2_12

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Caribbean workers had been asked to settle in England for the postwar reconstruction. Even before then, however, Bristol had a history of exchanges with the Caribbean following John Cabot’s departing from the city to explore the North American continent in the late 1500s. For a relatively medium-sized city in terms of population, this part of its population came to play a significant role culturally in the 1970–90s, more than in most part of the UK. The Caribbean population arriving in Britain after the Second World War has been named the ‘Windrush Generation’, referencing the boat that travelled from Jamaica to England over 70 years ago. The boat— the Empire Windrush—is today represented in Bristol in a painting on a wall in Campbell Street, St. Pauls, with the word ‘Migration’ displayed over its bow. It was here, St. Pauls, that a deeply rooted sound system culture, centred on blues parties and lovers’ rock, later on ska and reggae, emerged from the 1960s. And reggae itself soon infused Bristol’s wider music scene into the late 1970s, changing the city’s cultural landscape for good. There has, to date, been little academic research on the cultural influence of reggae in Bristol. As a journalist and writer, I started interviewing musicians from Bristol in early 2015. I wrote a book on Bristol’s subcultures and most successful artists, primarily Massive Attack, Tricky, Inkie and Banksy. I had access to a lot of Bristol artists and musicians, collating material that formed the backbone of Massive Attack—Out of the Comfort Zone (2019). It soon became obvious to me that Bristol’s music culture came to life from the late 1970s, with reggae running through the city’s punk, post-punk, hip-hop and graffiti scenes. This chapter will therefore explore the emergence and influence of reggae in Bristol, asking how reggae helped transform Bristol’s musical culture through the 1980s into the musical melting pot we know today.

Bristol, a City with a Special Caribbean History and Sociology ‘Kingston logic, Kingston logic, Kingston logic …’ repeats Tricky in his 2010 song ‘UK Jamaican’, a phrase—and a song title—that could be a mantra for many of Bristol’s musicians and producers. Bristol, after all, has a special location on the island of Britain. The closest port to London on the west coast, the city became, with the development of the country’s maritime power, a key link between England and the Americas. In 1497,

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John Cabot departed on board the Matthew of Bristol to finally reach a territory later re-baptised Newfoundland. From thereafter, as European powers began to conquest what was designated ‘the New World’, Bristol grew from rural town to strategic trade port. The city saw the arrival of sailors, merchants, adventurers, businessmen and explorers, travelling from England to the Americas, the Caribbean islands in particular, and soon to Africa.1 Some African people were later enslaved, traded and sent to the Caribbean on sugar, tobacco and cotton plantations from the 1700s, some taken to Bristol like Pero Jones, bought by wealthy enslaver, plantation owner and sugar merchant, John Pinney, who brought him in 1784 from Nevis to Bristol, where they lived in the Georgian House (now a museum).2 Such a history has of course deeply influenced Bristol’s culture.3 With the extension of the British Empire, moreover, and on through the outbreak of First World War (1914–18), the UK enrolled soldiers from the colonies in the British Army.4 Many had to transit from the colonies to Britain before being sent to the battlefields. In such a way, Bristol saw the first noticeable increase in its Caribbean population, precipitating a sociological shift.5 By the end of the war, the government intended to send most soldiers back to India, Africa and the Caribbean. But some stayed, leading the local authorities in Bristol to plan the construction of affordable social housing from 1919, notably in areas such as Southmeads and Fishponds in the northern suburbs of Bristol.6 For many, the interwar period was one of struggle and poverty. The Second World War (1939–45) then saw Bristol on the receiving end of extensive bombing, both as a port and a headquarters of the British

1 Madge Dresser, ‘The Black Presence in Slaving Port: Bristol 1688–1835’, in Madge Dresser and Peter Fleming (eds), Bristol: Ethnic Minorities and the City, c.1000–2001 (London: Phillimore Press, 2007). 2 Madge Dress, ‘Remembering Slavery and Abolition in Bristol’, Slavery and Abolition, 30: 2 (2009), 223–46; Christine Chivallon, ‘Bristol et la mémoire de l’esclavage. Changer et confirmer le regard sur la ville’, Les Annales de la recherche urbaine, 85 (1999), 100–10. 3 See, for example, David Olusoga, Black and British: A Forgotten History (London: Pan, 2017). 4 Stephen Bourne, Black Poppies: Britain’s Black Community and the Great War (London: The History Press, 2014). 5 Olusoga, Black and British. 6 See the Housing and Town Planning Act of 1919 (The Addison Act).

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air force. The war also brought African-American GIs and more soldiers from the Caribbean to help the British army in its resistance against the Germans. Again, soldiers stayed in Bristol, coinciding with an unprecedented call for workers to help rebuild the country in the aftermath of the conflict.7 Through the 1950s and 1960s, Jamaicans especially arrived at Bristol by their thousands, along with Barbadians, Trinidadians and others. They settled, generally, in newly populated neighbourhoods on the east side of the city, from St. Pauls to Barton Hill and Easton, endeavouring to make themselves a home in an often unwelcoming environment. Notices in windows read ‘No Dogs, No Irish, No Blacks’. In response, the Caribbean community found comfort in house parties soundtracked by sound systems, sonic installations designed to play music indoors or outdoors and informed by Jamaica’s ska and reggae culture.

New Kinds of Protests and the Role of Reggae Music in Immigrants’ Integration Bristol has long been known as a rebellious city. From the 1800s, protests had changed the city, helping workers gain the right to strike and MPs, Quakers and campaigners fight for the abolition of slavery.8 In the 1960s, the sociology of protest changed with events like the 1963 Bus Boycott drawing national attention to racial discrimination.9 In that year Roy Hackett, Owen Henry, Audley Evans and Prince Brown, four young West Indian men, formed an action group that later became the West Indian Development Council. They were unhappy with the lack of progress in fighting discrimination by the pre-existing West Indian Association. Paul Stephenson, whose father was from West Africa and who had been to college, became their spokesman. Inspired by the refusal of Rosa Parks to give up her seat on a bus in Alabama in the United States in 1955, they decided to boycott the Bristol Omnibus Company, drawing attention to its policy of not hiring drivers from Africa or the Caribbean. Two years 7 See, for example, David Matthews, Voices of the Windrush Generation: The Real Story

Told by the People Themselves (London: Blink, 2018); Clair Wills, Lovers and Strangers: An Immigrant History of Postwar Britain (London: Penguin, 2018 edition). 8 Madge Dresser and Andrew Hann, Slavery and the British Country House (London: English Heritage, 2013). 9 Madge Dresser, Black and White on the Buses: The 1963 Colour Bar Dispute in Bristol (Bristol: Bristol Broadsides, 1986).

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later, the 1965 Race Relations Act was passed, making racial discrimination unlawful in public places.10 It was followed by another Act in 1968, extending the provisions to housing and employment. There were constructive social interactions too. ‘Since the 1960s’, the historian Edson Burton told me, ‘St Pauls has been a mixed area of different working-class groups from diverse communities, including Irish, Scottish, English, Italian families, and others […]. The neighbourhood never had a high school, so the young people had to continue their studies elsewhere and mix with the rest of the population. Which gave to this generation a sense of solidarity and brought the different cultures closer’.11 Such diversity helped define this generation, with the sons and daughters of migrants feeding into and feeling part of British society, ready to claim their rights as British citizens. Reggae, written as a call for freedom, would come to soundtrack and inspire these struggles. Roots reggae became increasingly popular with Bristol’s black working-class youth in the 1970s. Its Rastafarian message about overcoming injustice struck a chord with those on the receiving end of racism and poverty. Jamaicans who had settled in St. Pauls, Easton, St. Werburgh, Montpelier, Southmeads, Easton, or Knowle—and, later, their children—were instrumental in setting up a network of reggae sound systems. Tarzan the High Priest was perhaps the most notable of the early ones, soon to be followed by Count Neville, Count Ajax, Honey Bee and, in the early 1970s, and Sir Bastian. The Bamboo Club would provide an early hub (see below), while St. Pauls’ carnival was initiated from 1968, taking place in early July and attracting revellers from all over the city. Later in the 1970s, the carnival became a hotspot for a new generation of DJs. By this time, blues parties in people’s homes had paved the way for a culture of home studios and self-made recording. Fridays and Sundays especially were a time for parties, and most Jamaican families had at least one apprentice DJ in their close surroundings. Talented Jamaican and Caribbean musicians also came to Bristol. The Jamaican legend Bob Marley performed with his band The Wailers in summer 1976 at the Colston Hall as part of his Rastaman Vibration tour. The show took place on 23 June, but Marley was regularly spotted in St. 10 Raphael Samuel, Patriotism: History and Politics v.1: The Making and Unmaking of British National Identity: History and Politics Vol 1 (London: Routledge Revivals, 1989). 11 Melissa Chemam, Massive Attack—Out of the Comfort Zone (Bristol: Tangent Books, 2018), p. 37.

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Pauls, often citing Bristol in the press as one of his favourite English cities for its deep Caribbean feel. Not dissimilarly, Horace ‘Andy’ Hinds also performed in Bristol in the early 1980s. Born in 1951, Horace joined the mythical Studio One in Kingston in 1970, founded in 1962 by Clement Seymour Dodd (aka Coxsone) and considered to ‘the Jamaican Motown’. Later collaborating with Massive Attack in the 1990s, Andy’s music had a major influence on the city. During the 1980s, however, Bristol’s love for reggae took on more profound connotations. On 2 April 1980, police entered the Black and White Café—where West Indian youth spent time playing games and reggae records—in an anti-drug operation. The violence of the raid provoked a counter-reaction, described in the press as ‘riots’. ‘The media baptised the 1980 events as “riots”, not the protesters’, local historian Roger Ball told me in 2015.12 The reaction spread to Brixton in London in 1981, precipitating a wave of protests through Britain’s inner-cities over the summer of 1981. For Bristol, it marked another moment of historical change.

Bristol Reggae: Key Places, Spaces and Venues The evolution of Bristol’s reggae-informed culture was partly facilitated by places and spaces of integration and interaction. Musician and songwriter Janine Rainsforth grew up in St. Pauls in the 1970s. She later became a singer and clarinet player, forming the band Maximum Joy with Tony Wrafter. She remembers the area fondly: It was a diverse and friendly neighbourhood, even if our financial possibilities were dreadful. It was a time of mass unemployment but St Pauls was a place of integration, especially during the Carnival, where a lot of gigs against racism were organised. In the background though, the country was ridden by the National Front’s speeches. Workers’ strikes were recurrent. Families like mine were suffering from power cuts; our garbage was sometimes not collected for days … And of course, our music was influenced by that context, African sound and jazz music. Music quickly represented a new form of hope for us, of independence. And our lyrics were from the start a reflection of all that, polemical and provocative.13

12 Ibid., p. 37. 13 Ibid., p. 35.

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To counterbalance the difficulties, St. Pauls generated a number of bars and clubs, among the most well-known being the Carnot, Charlotte, Granary and Top Cat. Meanwhile, the carnival each year attracted larger audiences from further and further away: Southmead, Bedminster, Clifton, Hotwells, and, later, from all over the city. Local residents would host their cousin from East and South Bristol for the weekend. Chris Johnson, born in Southmead in the mid-1960s and later known as DJ Krissy Kriss, remembers: ‘The carnival became a real pilgrimage. Even if the place had a territorial logic, and gangs were circulating there, no one wanted to miss it and it remains among my best memories in Bristol’.14 A free event and occasion to celebrate the summer with music and outdoor partying, the carnival gradually attracted working-class families from English, Irish, Polish, Welsh or Italian background. By the late 1970s, St. Pauls’ carnival provided space for a new generation of entertainers, most importantly in the form of DJs, the disc jockeys spinning vinyl on turntables to play music for friends and revellers. They played ska, reggae, disco and funk. Nightclubs also started to organise parties for the evenings, with live music and DJs taking care of the late night or weekend. Their emergence was organic and self-initiated. ‘With reggae culture, a “Do It Yourself” spirit, a rebel spirit, came to Bristol’, Burton recalled. ‘In some ways that has also generated a creative space. It’s a key thing in the rebel culture of reggae, with the Rastafarian movement, and to punk culture. It’s about breaking walls, moving away from conservativeness’.15 Come the 1980s and these exchanges filtered reggae through other youth and subcultures, enabling encounters that would transform Bristol’s cultural make-up. One key space of interaction was the Bamboo Club in St. Pauls. The club was founded by Tony Bullimore, a navigator and entrepreneur born in 1939 who moved to Bristol in the early 1960s and married a West Indian woman, Lalel. Both faced racist abuse when walking down the street together. Nevertheless, they remained united and opened the Bamboo Club in 1966. The club housed a restaurant, a little theatre workshop and a football team. It also provided the headquarters of the Bristol West Indian Cricket Club. Its top floor hosted the music venue,

14 Ibid., p. 38. 15 Ibid., p. 23.

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where young DJs came to play reggae as well as American soul music.16 ‘The club is done out the same as an English club’, Tony told the BBC. ‘People can come in here – friends of West Indians can come in here and enjoy themselves. It takes away this inferiority complex that “we haven’t got anywhere to take our English friends.” Now they can take them here’.17 Roy Hackett, who led the 1963 Bristol Bus Boycott, remembered that before the Bamboo opened ‘you couldn’t go into pubs in Bristol on your own if you were black’.18 It brought Bob Marley and the Wailers, the Skatalites, Johnny Nash, the Mighty Diamonds, Benny King, Joe Tex and the incredible Ronnettes, and Jimmy McGriff to Bristol. The Bamboo also attracted younger music lovers soon to become instrumental in the next generation of Bristol music. Future punk rockers, such as Mike Crawford and Nick Sheppard, mixed and mingled with reggae fans like Grant Marshall, Miles Johnson and Rob Smith. Unfortunately, the club burned down in 1977, just before the Sex Pistols were due to play. Bullimore, however, opened the Granary Club in the early 1970s and remains a Bristol legend. He passed away in 2018. Of course there were other clubs open to music aficionados in the 1970s. A pub like the Criterion was central to many people’s daily life, as was the Black & White Café. In areas such as St. Andrews, Montpelier, St. Werburghs, Stokes Croft, Southmead and Kingswood, mixed communities from Jamaica, Italy and Ireland intermingled. Therein, music would permeate the air. Dehvan Othieno, born in 1956 in Jamaica and a founding member of Talisman, grew up between St. Agnes and St. Werburghs following his arrival in Bristol as a 12-year old. His parents gave him a taste for music, not playing any instruments themselves but singing in churches and listening to a lot of records at home, especially old American blues, rhythm ‘n’ blues. ‘Ska started to infiltrate the house in the late 1950s, early 1960s’, Dehvan told me.19

16 BBC, The Story of the Bamboo Club, broadcast November 2016; Dave Haslam, Life After Dark: A History of British Nightclubs and Music Venues (London: Simon & Schuster, 2015), p. 188. 17 BBC Audio Archives, 2018. 18 Ibid. 19 Interview in Fishponds, Bristol, in December 2018.

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You wouldn’t hear this music on the radio back then, I think this type of music was too militant to be on the radio, but my parents had their own record collection. They also went to dance halls, where people went to dance and listen to music. We discovered music via the word of mouth, or on the sound systems on the corner shops and record shops. We then went through a natural transition, in the Jamaican/Caribbean community, from blue beat to ska to rock steady and then reggae. Each style had something that spoke to us. They naturally reacted to one another, like punk did to rock ‘n’ roll. Since then, I’ve always been into the more soulful genres of music, the one with a rebel and militant side to the music. Then I learned to play an instrument and embraced reggae fully.

Record shops and youth clubs helped connect these areas and provided another space of contact. Mr. Pews’ shop especially, in Montpelier, on Picton Street, run by an English man and his son, but also Plastic Wax Record on Gloucester Road and, later, Revolver Records on the Triangle, between Queen’s Road and Park Street. In Easton and St. Werburghs, Jamaican boys used to go to youth clubs to listen to music. Places such as the Baptist Mills Club, founded by Bristol’s City Council, were sites of formative influence. Dehvan Othieno remembered: ‘It was quite a big thing at the time, because it was the first time young boys like us had a place where to go. It had a television room, a gym, an art and music room. That’s where a band like the Cavaliers would play firstly’.20 In other parts of Bristol, venues like the boat Thekla on the river Avon, which opened in 1984, and the Trinity Community Centre in Easton (open in 1978), became instrumental in promoting reggae bands. Then, from 1980, the key nightclub where young DJs influenced by reggae came to express themselves and create a new sound was the Dug Out on Park Row. But, before then, from the late 1970s, Bristol not only attracted the top reggae artists from Jamaica, it also began to develop its own reggae bands and DJs.

Bristol Reggae: Bands and DJs Bristol was crucial to the history of British reggae, producing a series of prolific bands that reflected both the spirit of the music and a genuine home-grown sound. Bristol’s best-known reggae bands are Black Roots

20 Ibid.

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and Talisman, though numerous others existed alongside the DJs so important to disseminating the culture. Black Roots were the most successful reggae band to come out of Bristol. Formed in St. Pauls in 1979 by eight musicians of Jamaican origin, Black Roots started playing covers before writing their own songs. The band members dropped their English names as a rejection of their erstwhile slave masters, presaging a body of work that was much informed by the British Empire’s history in the Caribbean and the liberating philosophy of Rastafari. According to the band’s guitarist Jabulani Ngozi: Reggae has always been about conveying a message. It took me at least two years to adapt to living in England. It was so different, and difficult […] Schools in the neighbourhood did not even have a book or a pen to offer to students like me. We lived with the constant interrogation of a possible return. Then we all experienced unemployment, we spent our days playing dominoes in the cafes of St Pauls. One day we went to listen to Burning Spear at the Colston Hall and reggae gave us a reason to live. He made us understand that we had something to offer to life. At that time, St Pauls was considered a ghetto, though there was no risk, there was no violence; but the media described it as a lawless neighbourhood.21

Ngozi’s favourite record store was Mr. Pews’, a safe haven to escape his reality. On forming Black Roots, they played local pubs before releasing an EP in 1981 on their own Nubian label. Entitled Bristol Rock, it was played on BBC Radio One by John Peel and led to the 1983 album Black Roots. Lyrically, their songs give expression to a Rastafarian philosophy imbued with spirituality and a quest for freedom that interrogates notions of identity in a land still marred with racism, for example, on their song ‘Slavery’. Bristol itself shaped their work. Without studying history formally, the members of Black Roots were aware of the Empire and Bristol’s part in it through oral history, utilising reggae as means to maintain and spread their message to fellow English citizens in denial of disparities in the city. Indeed, other Bristol bands—Talisman, Restriction and The Radicals—have supplemented this tradition.22 ‘I was in a band called The

21 Chemam, Massive Attack, p. 39. 22 Various Artists, The Bristol Reggae Explosion, 1978–1983 (Bristol Music Archive,

2011).

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Cavaliers just before we formed’, Talisman’s Dehvan Othieno told me, ‘and drummer Conrad Kelly was in another band named The Panthers. These bands were playing a little bit of everything, covers mainly, from the Rolling Stones for instance, to entertain a large group of people; The Panthers played a bit of reggae. Then we formed Talisman in 1976’.23 With Talisman, reggae came to the fore, allowing Dehvan to write songs such as ‘Dole Age’, released on the local Revolver Records label in 1981. As its title suggests, the song depicted unemployment and described a group of young people trying to get into a gig with no money and ‘living in a dole age’. Talisman’s roots sound was set against the social realism of their everyday life: a British reggae informed by Bristol and the realities of struggle. Equally, Joshua Moses’ ‘Africa Is Our Land’, first released in 1978 on the More Cut label, is today recognised as a roots reggae classic, be it British or otherwise. Bristol’s reggae bands also paved the way for a new generation of musicians. Not only did Talisman tour with an array of punk and post-punk acts, feeding into the cross-fertilisation of music genres into the 1980s, but musicians who cut their teeth in reggae bands went on to inform the evolution of British hip-hop and drum ‘n’ bass. A band such as Restriction, for example, included Rob Smith on guitar, who later co-founded Smith & Mighty, and Carl Williams, the older brother of Roni Size. The band’s sound engineer was Dave McDonald, who went on to work with Portishead. As much as the bands if not more, it was Bristol DJs who disseminated and popularised reggae in the city. The first DJs to play reggae were not from a Caribbean background, showing how quickly the music began to infiltrate the city soundscape. The most celebrated was DJ Derek (Derek Serpell-Morris), who performed in Montpelier and St. Pauls from 1977–78 and later became one of the first English DJs to play reggae outside of his own local area. Born in 1941 to a working-class family, Derek grew up in St. Andrews. He developed a passion for all sorts of Jamaican music at a very early age and became known for playing ska, rocksteady, reggae, dancehall and soul. As to his influence, Peter D. Rose of the band Smith & Mighty described how his parents, Jamaican immigrants, went to Derek’s parties.24 Reggae thus helped them cross social

23 Interview with the author in Bristol in December 2018. 24 Interview with the author in Bristol in May 2019.

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and cultural barriers in Bristol. More than that, it helped forge a crosspollination that spread beyond Bristol to change British music even more fundamentally.

Legacies of Bristol Reggae Reggae’s link to punk is well-known, informing the sound and imagery of bands such as The Clash and being celebrated in Bob Marley’s ‘Punky Reggae Party’ (1977). Roots and dub music gained popularity with British punks from the music’s inception in the mid-1970s, with Don Letts playing reggae records between acts at London’s Roxy nightclub in early 1977. The Sex Pistols’ Johnny Rotten was a reggae aficionado citing Dr. Alimantado’s ‘Born for a Purpose’ as one of his favourite songs in a 1977 radio interview. After the Sex Pistols split, Rotten was sent to Jamaica by Virgin Records as a talent scout for their Frontline reggae sub-label. In Bristol, reggae soon informed the city’s fledgling punk scene. ‘We all dived into reggae,’ Mike Crawford told me, ‘whether it’s at The Dug Out, on Park Row, or in clubs like the Bamboo Club in St. Pauls, we were all there together’.25 The Pop Group, who formed in Bristol in 1977 and performed a splenetic mesh of punk, funk, jazz and reggae, were produced by Dennis Bovell. ‘Funk was my first love’, founder Mark Stewart remembered. ‘[But] in Bristol the Jamaican community was the place to go late at night. Later on, I started following sound systems. I’m a bass head, you know’. After The Pop Group, Stewart worked with On-U Sound and Adrian Sherwood, continuing to infuse his music with the reggae influence forged in Bristol. ‘I had a bunch of Jamaican-born, British-raised Rastafarian mates’, Mark explained to me, ‘so I came and did the first ever [Mark and the Maffia] concert and did a version of “Jerusalem” at the anti-racist rally in London’.26 In London, Mark and his friends from Bristol spent time in Ladbroke Grove, going to blues parties and befriending The Slits, Michael Smith, Linton Kwesi Johnson and Prince Far I, ‘a Jamaican legend’ to him. Other Bristol (post-)punk bands absorbed reggae influences, including The X-Certs, Pigbag and Rip, Rig & Panic. At the same time, however,

25 Chemam, Massive Attack, p. 40. 26 In March 2019, in London.

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a new generation of DJs and MCs were emerging from Bristol’s underground, participating in DJ collectives, illegal parties and club nights to signal an even more multicultural environment. From here came such influential collectives and groups as the Wild Bunch, Smith & Mighty, Fresh 4 and Massive Attack. Reggae and hip-hop combined to shape a British bass culture, with DJs, turntables and MCs operating together. New Bristol venues, such as the Dug Out, stirred their heady brew of punk, funk and reggae with the new hip-hop sounds finding their way to the UK from New York. But despite hip-hop’s heralding something of a cultural revolution, reggae remained integral to the Bristol sound. The Wild Bunch, the most well-known crew of the mid-80s, always retained an affinity to Bristol’s reggae tradition. Smith & Mighty came out of St. Pauls, from where Ray Mighty remembered his Jamaican father and friends spending ‘a lot of time in blues clubs’.27 As for Massive Attack, the most successful of Bristol’s reggae-influenced bands, their sound was forged in part by the vocal contribution of Horace Andy, thereby connecting Bristol’s bass culture to Jamaican roots. With regard as song such as ‘One Love’, from 1990s Blue Lines, Robert Del Naja (3D) remembered: ‘It sounded like a reggae song without a baseline’, which is the opposite of what you normally associate reggae with. Yet it was a ‘reinterpretation by the band of a reggae theme’, a prime example of how bands like Massive Attack channelled their ‘reggae inspiration’.28 In his thesis ‘The High Art of Trip Hop’ (2018), the sociologist Jeff Wragg wrote in relation to trip hop’s reggae influence: A good example of this fusion is the track ‘Five Man Army’, which draws on several musical devices derived from reggae and adopts the hip hop informed methodology of creating loops based around a sample and rapping over the top of it, in this case using samples from soul singer Al Green, and reggae stars Dillinger, Lloyd Robinson, and Horace Andy […] The references to reggae that can be heard on this track include the solo drum intro, a very common feature of reggae music. Another common

27 In an interview with the author in August 2015. 28 Interview with the author in February 2015 in Bristol.

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feature of reggae drumming is hitting the crash cymbal at the beginning of a fill, as opposed to the end.29

Horace later performed some of his own songs—remixed or reinvented— on Massive Attack’s later albums Protection (1994), Mezzanine (1988) and Heligoland (2010). Hits like ‘Angel’ and songs like ‘Spying Glass’, ‘Man Next Door’ and ‘Girl I Love You’ directly tapped into Andy’s reggae heritage. Also guest of the Wild Bunch and featuring on the first Massive Attack album was Tricky. Born of English, African and Jamaican parentage, Tricky (Adrian Thaws) has infused his music with Bristolian references that tap into a reggae influence, telling stories of his city and mixed-race culture: ‘Even if I told you, you still would not know me / Tricky never does, Adrian mostly gets lonely / How we live in this existence, just being English upbringing, background Caribbean,’ he raps on the title track, ‘Blue Lines’.30 Having grown up in what he described as a ‘white ghetto’, Tricky mainly learnt about his Jamaican roots through music and identification with bands like The Specials. On tracks such as ‘Tricky Kid’ (1996), he also mentions the reality of being both ‘white’ and Caribbean: ‘Heard there’s German-Jamaicans / With twisted faces same in it as ever was / Tell me what the race is ’.31 Later, on 2010’s Mixed Race album, ‘UK Jamaican’, her raps: ‘You confess, you got your bullets in your vest keep it moving, move away smoke my cokes you former player / your such a bird keeps your word, turn to dust, I corrode, and then I rust ’.32 Massive Attack’s and Tricky’s home-grown style of hip-hop, keeping their local accents and referencing their daily habits, gave birth to a British form of storytelling in music. This would not have been possible without their exposure to a multicultural reality that soon came to characterise Bristol and was exported to the world as one of Britain’s major creative success. Reggae was one of its conduits.

29 Jeffrey Wragg, ‘The High Art of Trip Hop: Extending the Bristol Sound by Incorporating Compositional Approaches from Classical Music’ (PhD Thesis, University of Waikato, Hamilton, New Zealand, 2018). 30 Tricky, ‘Maxinquaye’, Maxinquaye (4th & Broadway, 1995). 31 ‘Tricky Kid’, Pre-Millennium Tension (Island, 1996). 32 ‘UK Jamaican, Mixed Race (Domino, 2010).

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Conclusion There are countless other acts from Bristol I could point to as absorbing and redirection a reggae influence. There were sound systems emerging throughout the 1980s (e.g. Roots Spot Crew, Kama Dread, Addis, Henry & Louis, Armagideon). From 1990, Jack Lundie and Andy Scholes produced music under the name of Henry & Louis and launched their Two Kings label, heavily influenced by reggae. Towards the end of the decade, the band Alpha brought electronic music ‘influenced by reggae and hip-hop sounds’.33 In between, reggae and dancehall gave shape to Bristol’s drum ‘n’ bass culture, pioneered by Roni Size, DJ Krust and others on labels such as V Recording and Full Force. Former members of Fresh 4, Size and Krust came from Jamaican families and grew up in St. Andrews and Knowles West respectively. Both cite reggae as a formative influence. Nowadays, DJs and crews still relate to the sound of reggae in Bristol, from DJ Stryda to Laid Blak, Peter D. Rose and Young Echo producing music through hip-hop, grime and dub-step that extends the city’s bass culture. Bristol has a particular history, at the forefront of the colonial conquest of America and the Caribbean. Now it has a cultural identity that is very much informed by such a history, but also by fusing black music—from ska and reggae to hip-hop—to create what is often termed a ‘Bristol Sound’. The settling of Jamaican migrants from the 1950s resulted in a fascinating hotbed for reggae musicians but also the basis for a particularly open and mixed music scene. And reggae-infused Bristol’s culture so deeply that the city’s cultural landmarks were all born out of its influence. From Black Roots and Talisman, Smith & Mighty, Massive Attack to Tricky, DJ Derek to DJ Stryda, Bristol has written a major chapter in Britain’s history with and out of reggae. The city has therefore made a unique contribution to the history of British Jamaican culture, which has also contributed to a vast number of new genres, all inspired in some way by the spaces, places, sounds and spirit of reggae.

33 Andy Jenks from the band Alpha in Chemam, Massive Attack, p. 137.

CHAPTER 13

Growing Up Under the Influence: A Sonic Genealogy of Grime Joy White

Of course, the roots of all this is reggae. Kevin; DJ, interviewed in 2009

Grime music has a sonic genealogy that draws on its cultural connections to the Caribbean and West Africa. A twenty-first century genre, it has altered the soundscape of popular music in the UK. Grime is specifically English musical genre. What started out as a niche practice that articulated the lived experiences of young black men from inner-city east London, is now an endeavour that attracts a national and international audience. As a diaspora cultural form, grime has been enriched and sustained by its Black Atlantic connections to the Caribbean, Africa and North America. The East London area contains some of the most deprived wards in England, with high unemployment and enduring poverty. At the same time, the City of London and Canary Wharf financial districts are nearby,

J. White (B) University of Bedfordshire, Luton, UK e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s) 2021 W. ‘L’. Henry and M. Worley (eds.), Narratives from Beyond the UK Reggae Bassline, Palgrave Studies in the History of Subcultures and Popular Music, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-55161-2_13

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visible locations of great wealth. This is the backdrop to grime, young people with few resources, creating a musical sound that had its own sonic, cultural and socio-economic relevance. In 2007 I began interviewing people who were involved in the grime music scene in some way; MCs, DJs, producers, event promoters and videographers among others.1 Opening the chapter is a quote from a 2009 interview with Kevin2 just as he was about to play his beachside set in Ayia Napa in Cyprus. At that time, Kevin was a 30-year-old DJ, who had been a member of a north London crew for 15 years. He talked about his journey—playing music of various styles over the years, reggae, jungle, UK garage and grime. Reggae is used here as a repository for various styles. Dancehall, a contemporary iteration of the reggae genre, is the focus of this chapter where I reflect on the influence of reggae and sound systems on grime musical production.

Introducing Grime Grime is an arrhythmic, unruly genre, it draws from an eclectic mix of sounds structured around 140 beats per minute (BPM). Grime beats disturb and disrupt, forming a sonic representation of the alien spaces that its creators occupy—an example is Danny Weed’s classic ‘Creeper’ instrumental.3 In contrast to UK rap, grime lyrics are delivered at a rapidfire pace. Grime sounds like where it is from; the street corners and council estates of inner-city east London. Its sonic origins flow through the musical practice of the black diaspora, namely hip-hop, reggae (particularly dancehall), jungle and UK garage. Jamaican and UK sound system culture and practice also had a significant influence. The early days of the grime scene housed the creative outpourings of supposedly disorderly teenagers. Young people who refused to conform to the polished, stylised aesthetic of the UK Garage scene found a home in grime. Rude Kid is a longstanding music producer in the grime scene, he reflected on how he became attuned to grime:

1 Joy White, Urban Music and Entrepreneurship: Beats, Rhymes and Young People’s Enterprise (Abingdon: Routledge, 2016). 2 I have used pseudonyms for all research participants. 3 See https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ok4UHXhA9Gc.

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[…] when I heard garage I thought, yeah this sound is sick, but then grime came along and was like a darker version of that and it was just something that I really, really enjoyed. Then one of my cousins showed me sets of Ruff Squad and N.A.S.T.Y crew and from then I’ve always been hooked on grime and I loved it, I loved the sounds.’4

Although it came of age in the YouTube era (from 2005 onwards), grime’s original terrain lay predominantly within the UK pirate radio network. These organisations, often hidden in plain sight, provided a congenial training ground where young DJs and MCs5 could put in their practice hours. Pirate radio stations played the music that young people wanted to hear, in a way that they wanted to hear it, with requests, shout outs as well as information regarding upcoming events. I interviewed Neville—an MC turned event promoter—twice, once in Ayia Napa in 2009, and again in London in 2016. Neville had this to say about the early pirate days: Now, you can go on Google, you can see everyone and hear everyone, back then it was just radio, no CDs just tapes. Nasty Crew, East Connection played a massive part in this, everyone was on Deja Vu. If it wasn’t for D_____ and K_____ [station managers] we wouldn’t have had Monday as grime night, all the crews, all the collectives, every Monday. Rinse didn’t even play grime then …

Pirate radio stations—such as Rinse FM, Deja Vu and Freeze—had a central role in showcasing grime. DJ Geeneus was sixteen years old when, along with DJ Slimzee, he set up Rinse in the east London area of Tower Hamlets. According to Geeneus in a 2009 interview with Fact Mag, it was on Rinse in 2002 when UK Garage began to evolve into grime. He

4 Rude Kid interview with Camilla Thomas for Dine on Grime, https://dineonGrime. com/2018/12/31/interview-rude-kid-at-Grime-originals/. 5 Pirate radio in UK Garage and Grime scenes operated from an eclectic mix of venues including, council flats in tower blocks Matt Mason, The Pirate’s Dilemma: How Hackers, Punk Capitalists, Graffiti Millionaires and Other Youth Movements Are Remixing Our Culture and Changing Our World (London: Penguin, 2000). Wiley’s mum’s kitchen Wiley (2017) Eskiboy. William Heinemann, and a treehouse on the A13 rinsefm (2012), 18 Years of Rinse|2009: Marcus Nasty, available at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xI8 aA9ab_yg&feature=youtube_gdata_player (accessed September 28, 2012).

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said: ‘it was more like a darker side of Garage. We kind of converted the scene, into a darker sound … grime started in east London’.6 The vibe, energy and content of those stations was much admired by licenced radio and it was a driver behind the establishment of BBC Radio 1Xtra in 2002. At the same time, for the Metropolitan Police and Ofcom, pirate radio was simply a criminal nuisance that needed to be eradicated as it was not paying tax, jeopardising air traffic control and disrupting the emergency services.7 The beauty of grime, however, is its accessibility, its DIY nature means that talent alone can get you started. With grime it is possible to sustain a musical career without the input of an intermediary— such as a record company. For black youth in particular, the grime scene is a site of emancipatory disruption where it is possible to step into new identities as artists, performers, or entrepreneurs.8 In a socio-economic landscape that is beset by racism and inequality, this emancipatory aspect cannot be ignored. As with any real-life tale, there is no single story of grime, it is layered, nuanced and complex. The moment where one genre ends and another begins is not clear cut, the edges are blurred. As memories fade, or play tricks, conversations continue about what was the first grime track, or where the genre started. In UK Hip-Hop, Grime and the City (2015), Richard Bramwell notes the south London contribution to the emerging grime scene, and while discussion continues regarding the geographical location for the origins of grime, there is little disagreement that the London Boroughs of Newham and Tower Hamlets played a significant 6 Simon Hampson, Interview: Geeneus —FACT Magazine: Music and Art (2009), available at http://www.factmag.com/2009/01/01/interview-geeneus/ (accessed September 11, 2010). 7 For DJ Slimzee from Rinse FM (Dean Fullman), an anti-social behaviour order (ASBO), issued in 2003, banned him from entering any building over four storeys high without permission (Sanchez, 2005). Other control measures included Form 696, introduced by the Metropolitan Police in 2005 and abolished in 2017. Form 696 was a Promotion Event Risk Assessment Form that was meant to reduce serious crime (Metropolitan Police SC9 Proactive Intelligence Unit, 2009). Event promoters were asked to provide the name, date of birth and contact details of every artist performing at an event. See also: Form 696: ‘Racist police form’ to be scrapped in London, https://www. bbc.co.uk/news/uk-41946915. 8 See Joy White, ‘We Need to Talk about Newham: The East London Grime Scene as a Site of Emancipatory Disruption’, in Anna Minton, Alberto Duman, Malcom James, and Dan Hancox (eds), Regeneration Songs: Sounds of Investment and Loss in East London (S.l.: Repeater, 2018).

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role.9 At first, it had no name, hence Wiley’s quizzical references in his track Wot U Call It?,10 where he runs through various suggestions of what this new genre might be called. Prior to the grime tag, it was also known as 8-bar, sublow or eskibeat.11 What is not in dispute is that, for black youth, from the early years of the twenty-first century, the grime music scene has been a key feature of London life. Popular culture embraces and highlights the pioneer narratives of Wiley (the ‘godfather of grime’) and Dizzee Rascal, who burst into the public consciousness when he won the Mercury Prize as an eighteen-year-old in 2003.12 The more recent achievements of artists such as Skepta (who won the Mercury Prize with Konnichiwa in 2016), and Stormzy (a recording artist whose album Gang Signs and Prayer got to number 1 in 2017) have brought grime to a much wider audience.

Grime in Context: Origins and Kinship Grime emerged from the UK garage scene, a genre that was an innovative UK take on US House music. The UK garage scene was problematic, so dogged by disorder that it eventually became a highly marginalised practice, with few opportunities for artists to perform. In 2001, South London Garage crew So Solid found themselves in the curious position of having national chart success with 21 Seconds but unable to play live anywhere in London. In an interview in 2003, So Solid’s MC Harvey said: ‘if you had Westlife in here you’d ask about the album, but people ask us about the violence’.13 Beset by violent incidents that were anxiously reported by the media, garage music events were viewed with trepidation by politicians and regulating authorities. The lyrical content was also subject to scrutiny with

9 Richard Bramwell, UK Hip-Hop, Grime and the City: The Aesthetics and Ethics of London’s Rap Scenes (New York: Routledge, 2015); Dan Hancox, Stand Up Tall: Dizzee Rascal and the Birth of Grime (Kindle, 2013); Mason, The Pirate’s Dilemma; White, Urban Music and Entrepreneurship. 10 Wiley, Wot U Call It (2004), https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e1YKFV45M18. 11 Hancox, Stand Up Tall. 12 Ibid. 13 So Solid Crew, Welcome to www.sosolid.co.uk (2006), available at http://www.sosolid. co.uk/lisaharveyromeo.html (accessed April 13, 2012).

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suggestions that it encouraged brutality, criminality and gang membership.14 Eventually, public performance of UK garage music became so problematic that it disappeared from view.15 In time, the ‘bling bling’ or showy themes of UK garage reflected in tracks such as ‘Champagne Dance’ gave way to grime’s grittier oeuvre. In London, the distinction between garage and what took its place hinged on geographical locations. South of the River Thames, as UK garage faded away, UK rap took its place, with a slower more laconic style typified by artists such as Giggs. Grime draws on a cultural, political and economic history of having parents and grandparents from the black diaspora. Its practitioners assert black urban identities that are hyper localised, and rooted in areas such as Plaistow or Bow rather than, or as well, as Africa or the Caribbean. Grime allows an artist to stake a claim to the lived experience of a specific and particular place, and the thriving scenes in cities such as Birmingham, Manchester, Sheffield and Nottingham are testament to this.16 For fans and performers it also contributes to a sense of belonging. The grime scene offered a liminal space for young men and women with limited resources to create music that spoke to and of their surroundings; the street corners and council estates of inner London while at the same time reaching back into their Caribbean heritage. ‘Ina de Ghetto’, a track by Wretch 32 featuring artists Badness and Ghetts, illustrates this folding of space, time and place.17 The words are spoken and sung by the three artists using both London and Jamaican dialects. The lyrics and visuals 14 First Sight, Race Adviser Attacks So Solid Crew (2002), available at http://news.bbc. co.uk/1/hi/entertainment/music/1846237.stm (accessed April 14, 2012). BBC News Channel, ‘Minister Attacks Rap Lyrics’, BBC, February 12, 2003, available at http:// news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/wales/2752681.stm (accessed April 14, 2012). J. Plunkett, ‘Blunkett to Target Rap Producers’, The Guardian, January 6, 2003, available at http://www. guardian.co.uk/media/2003/jan/06/radio.politics (accessed April 14, 2012). 15 J. Jackson, ‘Ready to Blow’, The Guardian, April 25, 2005, available at http://www. guardian.co.uk/music/2005/apr/24/popandrock3 (accessed April 14, 2012). 16 For more on the Birmingham’s contemporary music scene including Grime, see Noisey Birmingham: The Unstoppable Rise of Birmingham Rap, https://www. youtube.com/watch?v=tioWaKF0t3w (accessed April 10, 2019). This article features Grime MCs talking about music and their locality; R.I.O from Manchester, Kannan from Sheffield, Jaykae, from Birmingham, Kamakaze from Leicester and Mez from Nottingham, https://i-d.vice.com/en_uk/article/vbd55x/the-regional-grime-artists-youneed-to-know (accessed April 10, 2019). 17 Wretch 32 ft. Badness & Ghetto—INA DI GHETTO, https://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=oYgmsCBKmLM.

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make connections between poor, urban London and Kingston; Jamaica. It shows how grime draws on a distinctly Caribbean heritage to speak to a global and diaspora audience.18 In Trench Town Rock: The Creation of Jamaica’s Music Industry (2005), John McMillan explores the global success of the Jamaican recorded music industry. McMillan highlights the ‘creative city’ of Kingston and its ‘creative clusters’ as spaces that allowed for innovation. McMillan suggests that it is the proximity of a large number of artists and producers that leads to increased competition between those who want to stay ahead of the game.19 Parallels can be drawn with the grime music sector, where creative clusters were formed on street corners, council estates and in youth clubs. In the UK, grime’s rise emerged at a time of accessible advances in technology, camera phones made it possible to record a short film, while YouTube offered a place to post and share the videos. For the first time, fans could see, as well as hear, what the artists looked like. It also meant that, what in previous times would have been a highly localised practice, was now immediately visible to other artists as well as fans, and could elicit instantaneous response and feedback. In its early years, grime artists made use of radio, record shops and raves to promote their creative output. Police crackdowns on live grime events, and pirate radio in London meant that performance locations for this creative expression spread outwards away from inner London to areas such as Milton Keynes, Watford and Swindon.20 Dissemination of grime on pirate radio was then supplemented by social networking sites such as MySpace and Facebook, digital TV—specifically Channel AKA21 (formerly Channel U) and YouTube, the video broadcasting site. Advances in technology meant that grime, unlike UK garage, did not fade away. Accessible Internet platforms allowed for audiences to be established in surrounding areas, then across the UK and beyond. As more social media platforms emerge artists make use of Twitter, Instagram and Snapchat, for example, as everyday promotional tools. 18 White, Urban Music and Entrepreneurship. 19 John McMillan, Trench Town Rock: The Creation of Jamaica’s Music Industry

(Stanford Graduate School of Business, 2005). 20 https://www2.le.ac.uk/institutes/cameo/cameo-cuts-1/cameo-cuts-6. 21 Channel AKA ceased broadcasting in June 2018 see G. Barrett, ‘The Music Channel That Gave Grime a Home’, June 14, 2018, available at https://www.bbc.com/news/ newsbeat-44411966 (accessed March 23, 2019).

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What is also apparent is that the family and kinship connections from reggae music to the grime music scene are of critical importance. From the interviews I carried out, there are numerous examples where performers talk about the influence of reggae on their own work. Reggae and dancehall framed the sonic landscape of their formative years, disseminated via relatives who were also involved in music in some way. Ian, a club and radio DJ that I interviewed in 2009, told me that his father was a UK reggae singer who achieved commercial success in the 1980s. Oliver, who I met on a beach in Ayia Napa, was an MC and recording artist in a number of genres including UK garage and then crossing over to grime. Oliver’s father was a reggae DJ in clubs, on the radio, and as part of a sound system. Four brothers, Victor, James, Edward and Andrew who I interviewed at various times over a two-year period, talked about growing up with a father who was a drummer in a reggae band. All of them had a long history in UK garage, grime and UK funky. For David, an independent recording artist who was also a member of a north London crew, growing up meant being part of a landscape of music, sounds and performance. He told me: ‘I’m not sure when I started, my brother was a DJ, my Dad was a DJ, music took hold of me’. Wiley, ‘the godfather of grime’ has also spoken about how reggae and Dancehall has influenced his musical practice. In an interview with Fact Magazine in 2017, Wiley points out that his Dad was in a reggae band (playing piano, bass, keyboard and drums), and then he had this to say: We gotta remember here that no matter what anyone is doing there’s a lot of influence that’s gonna have come from Jamaica and the West Indies. Without there being dancehall and American music that we’ve all grown up on then none of this would be possible.22

Other reggae/UK rap/grime kinship connections include: Karl Wilson (Konan from Krept and Konan), the son of singer Delroy Wilson; Sir Spyro (grime DJ and music producer), son of UK reggae singer Nerious Joseph; Maxwell D, MC and independent recording artist, son of reggae DJ Natty B. These kinship communities underpin the foundation for creative clusters that have formed in the grime scene.

22 Fact 2017, https://www.factmag.com/2017/01/15/wiley-interview-godfatherdrake-next-generation-Grime/.

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Crews, Creative Clusters and Enterprise Grime’s reggae heritage is apparent in three key ways: first, the role of the crew with historical examples such as Roll Deep, Pay as U Go, East Connection, More Fire Crew, Heartless Crew and N.A.S.T.Y crew; secondly, the ‘sound clash’ or adversarial performance battle; finally, grime MCs ‘spitting’ or rapping lyrics over a beat. The crew forms a key part of reggae sound systems and the subsequent UK garage and grime scene. In this context a crew is defined a group of like-minded individuals who are friends or have some kind of kinship connection and share a common interest, in this case music. So, for example, So Solid, Heartless Crew, Boy Better Know (BBK), Pay As You Go, Roll Deep, East Connection and N.A.S.T.Y were comprised of young men who attended the same schools or youth clubs, grew up on the same estates, or have some kind of familial relationship. Grime scene veteran Dizzee Rascal honed his craft via a sporadic apprenticeship with the Roll Deep crew, where he was championed by Wiley until their artistic differences got the better of both of them. Roll Deep was a grime crew of approximately a dozen young men from the London Borough of Tower Hamlets, it included Scratchy, Riko Dan, Trim, Tinchy Stryder, Breeze, Manga, Danny Weed and Target. In a recent interview, Danny Weed and Target reflected on their early grime days and discussed how they all grew up together—along with other Roll Deep members Scratchy and Breeze.23 They recall that at one point all of them worked in Wiley’s dad’s patty shop in east London, where, according to Danny Weed, ‘we got free patties and shit money’. As a crew, Roll Deep had two number one singles in 2010: ‘Good Times’ and ‘Green Light’. Former members continued as individual artists and performers. Target is now a DJ on Radio 1Xtra and Tinchy Stryder has had a number of chart hits. In Newham, another East London Borough, Sharky Major, Marcus Nasty, Jammer and other members of N.A.S.T.Y crew were also building a darker, grittier sound from the waning UK garage genre.24 N.A.S.T.Y crew was founded at the turn of the century until an acrimonious split left 23 i-D Staff, Danny Weed and DJ Target Discuss the History of Grime|Read, i-D, available at https://i-d.vice.com/en_gb/article/danny-weed-and-dj-target-discuss-the-historyof-Grime (accessed July 8, 2015). 24 https://www.discogs.com/artist/313535-Nasty-Crew.

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Marcus Nasty at the helm for a while. Like Roll Deep, this crew was also a fluid collection of approximately a dozen young male artists. Members included: DJ Mak10, Stormin, Ghetts and Kano, with Dizzee Rascal also working alongside DJ Mak10 and Kano in the early days. After the split, D Double E, Jammer and Footsie morphed into the Newham Generals and eventually signed to Dizzee Rascal’s Dirtee Stank label. No longer a prime force as a crew, N.A.S.T.Y’s pirate radio sets, such as this classic Deja Vu pirate radio set from 2003, where they go back-to-back with Roll Deep, are the stuff of legend.25 In this set you hear an adolescent Tinchy Stryder, whose voice has not yet broken, participating in a sound clash. It is also possible detect in the language and the phrasing, and the use of Jamaican patois, an undeniable sonic connection to dancehall. The adversarial or sound clash element of the outdoor sound system included versioning—where different lyrics were spoken or sung over the same rhythm tracks, invoking call and response between the performers and the audience. In a ‘sound clash’—an antagonistic lyrical competition—the act of rhyming over a beat is a crucial aspect with the emphasis on bringing something new or original to the battle. Performers will often throw down a lyrical challenge and ‘send for’ another artist. The clash was reworked and reconfigured for the enclosed dwellings of the UK. Over time, UK-based sound systems emerged and playing many styles of music: swingbeat, RnB, soul and UK garage. It is this sonic influence that can be heard in the early canon and when garage was evolving into grime. In a live performance at Alexandra Palace in 2002, Maxwell D., Romeo (from So Solid Crew), Major Ace and Wiley spit their bars over a garage/grime instrumental from DJ EZ, switching between a London and Jamaican dialect as they do so.26 Former members have evolved into different roles and genres; Sharky Major continues to perform as an MC and is the instigator behind the Grime Originals events Marcus Nasty is a DJ on Rinse FM, Ghetts is an independent recording artist, the late Stormin carved out a successful career as a drum ‘n’ bass MC, and Jammer’s regular MC clash, Lord of the Mics offers a platform for emerging and existing talent.

25 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7JVCGsbtm94&feature=youtube_gdata_player, Roll Deep B2B N.A.S.T.Y crew 92.3 Deja Vu FM. 26 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LE7PWSRU5js, Romeo So Solid Crew, Wiley, Pay As U Go, HLC, Major Ace and Maxwell D Live at Alexander Palace 2002.

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Many crews and individual artists, in common with their reggae sound system counterparts past and present, have an enterprising element, perhaps selling merchandise or promoting/hosting events.27 In the grime music economy, collaboration is actively sought. Participants will share knowledge, musical products and opportunities. A collaborative way of working supports the establishment of online and offline creative clusters where ideas and resources can be shared, stimulating innovation and novel combinations. In many ways this aspect mirrors the creative clusters described by John McMillan in Trench Town Rock. Enterprise in the grime scene, follows sound system routes in terms of music dissemination, merchandise and events, but with expansion into further areas. For August Bank Holiday in 2017, grime crew BBK hosted an event at the 02 in London.28 BBK Takeover was an all-day festival including music across 6 stages, 5-a-side football, skateboarding, BMXing, roller disco, gaming events and cinema, food. Girls of Grime is an online platform established in 2017 to promote and showcase the work of female grime MCs. Drawing on a long and somewhat opaque history of the contributions of women in grime from artist such as Lady Fury, Shystie, Nolay, Lioness and Lady Leshurr, Girls of grime created an online and physical space that centres women performers. The founder, Shakira Walters, successfully navigates a male dominated environment to create a contemporary all women crew that provides support, opportunities and networks.29 Grime Originals is another new platform, founded by Sharky Major, who played a key role in the emergence of grime, it hosts regular live events and sells related merchandise (snapbacks, tees, and hoodies).30 It is evident that partnership and collaboration underpin enterprise and creative practice in the grime music scene. 27 I explore the business aspect in more detail in The Business of Grime, https:// www2.le.ac.uk/institutes/cameo/cameo-cuts-1/cameo-cuts-6. 28 BBK Takeover full line up: BBK (Skepta, JME, Wiley, Jammer, Maximum, Solo 45, Frisco, Shorty), A$AP Rocky, Bassboy, Blue Daisy, Bok bok, DJ set, CASISDEAD, Chip, Cosmo Pyke, Connie Constance, Cosima, DJ Argue & Slimzee, Donae’O, Dre Skull, Ghetts, House Band, J Hus, Kojey Radical, Logan Sama, Mabel, Mornings Unfiltered with Cham, Ms Banks, Plastician, P Montana and Hemah, Poet presents Vibbar, Preditah, President T, Radar Radio + special guests, SK Vibemaker, Slowthai, Snoochie Shy, Steel Banglez, Suspect, Tim Westwood, The Joints show with Big Zuu, Todd Edwards, TQD, Work It, https://www.theo2.co.uk/events/detail/boy-better-know-takeover. 29 https://www.instagram.com/girlsofGrime/?hl=en. 30 http://Grimeoriginals.com/.

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Grime, Dancehall, Collaboration If, in the 1990s, rap music was the CNN for the ghetto,31 then reggae music was the media to articulate the struggles of the poor in a postcolonial Jamaica. In Jamaica, reggae could be heard via the sound systems—a portable endeavour comprised of equipment and crew, particularly the selector who assesses the vibe and chooses the records to suit, and the DJ who ‘toasts’ or chats over the selected tunes. The sonic genealogy of grime can be traced back to those Jamaican sound systems. Grime’s sonic and material foundations lie, and are grounded in, the sound systems, shebeens and blues dances of previous decades. Sound systems in Jamaica may have started out playing American RnB imports, but in time this gave way to ska, followed by rocksteady and ultimately reggae. In the 1970s and 1980s each area of London and every big city with a black Caribbean community, had a sound system.32 Prior to the technological advance of the video and the cassette recorder, reggae music travelled from Jamaica as a physical product, imported in suitcases at first and then ordered directly from the source. Reggae is a repository for a number of musical styles, including roots and culture and dancehall.33 Dancehall, a faster, more pared-down version of reggae emerged in the late 1970s. By the mid-1980s, Wayne Smith’s ‘Under Mi Sleng Teng’ heralded the arrival of the digital sound in dancehall.

31 Spike Lee and Yusuf Jah, Fight the Power: Rap, Race and Reality with Yusuf Jah

(Edinburgh: Payback Press, 1997). 32 Some well-known examples of sound systems from the 1970s to the early 1990s are: Duke Vin, Count Shelly, Sir Coxsone, Chicken, the Thunderstorm, Frontline, Sufferer, Studio 1, Count Suckle, Duke Neville, Java, Shaka, Saxon, Fatman, Mafiatone, Jah Tubby’s, King Tubby’s, Unity, Gemi Magic, Metro Glory, Abashanti, Channel One, Virgo, One Love, Jamdown Rocker, Jah Observer, Quaker City, Wasifia, King Alfa, Trenchtown, Urban Rockers, Sir Christopher Kebra Negus, Jungle Man, Sovereign, Love Injection, Lord Koo’s, Sir Higgins, […] Pioneer, CFFM, Latin Rave, AK, Sancho Panza, Gaz’s Rocking Blues, Lord Sam, Rough but Sweet, Special FX, Fun Bunch, Secret Rendezvous, 4 Play, Special Touch, 5th Avenue, Hyper ESQ, Studio Express 365, Mellow Prime Time, 90%, After Dark, Gal Flex, Ill Kids, Firin’ Squad, Drop Squad, Boogie Bunch, Rampage, BIPA, Tonka, Touch of Class, Pleasure Roadshow, Confunkion, Active Force, Players, Caveman Boogie, Midnight Express, Soul II Soul, Mistri, The Mistri Crew. See R. Belgrave, British Association of Sound Systems (undated), available at http://www.bas sline.org.uk/Press%201.htm (accessed September 11, 2010). 33 D.P. Hope, Inna Di Dancehall: Popular Culture and the Politics of Identity in Jamaica by Donna P Hope (University of the West Indies Press, 2006).

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Grime has its origins in Black Atlantic musical forms and flows. It comes out of an inner-city environment where the offspring of Caribbean migrants are embedded in urban London and its linguistic canon reflects this. To illustrate this point, listen to early grime track ‘Know We’ from Pay as U Go.34 Its opening announcement that [MCs] Wiley, Major Ace, God’s Gift and Maxwell D ‘deh bout’ roots it firmly in a specific sonic genealogy. Later works such as Kano’s ‘T-Shirt Weather in the Manor’ where, while relating past summer days with family and friends in East London, he asks the girls to ‘Back it up and whine pon mi’.35 In ‘Sonic Boom’, Chip reflects on success, fading from the limelight, and then coming back from the brink ready to take up the challenge: ‘Tune for tune in a dance, I’ll lick a man down’.36 Each track shows the continuity, in terms of language-use, between dancehall and grime. This genre has been created out of what Paul Gilroy identifies as the ‘displacement, relocation and dissemination of black creative expression’.37 The practitioners in this field are predominantly, but not exclusively, young, black men. The consumers of it, however, as with reggae music, are from all over the UK, Europe and increasingly Africa and North America. Dancehall was originally a physical place to stage dances or events, and it is now used to define a genre of popular Jamaican music.38 Operating as a democratic space or an alternative public sphere, it was a site for the sound clash—where respective sound systems could debate lyrically and musically. Chatting on the mic, Lez Henry argues, allows for a certain freedom, where an artist can freely critique anyone or anything.39 Dancehall extends out into many areas including fashion, language, performance practice and politics.40 For Jamaica’s poor communities, the sound system offered informal employment opportunities, selling tickets, merchandise 34 Know We by Pay as U Go was released on vinyl in the year 2000, https://www.you tube.com/watch?v=UiCQnQ6xtRQ. 35 Kano—T Shirt Weather in the Manor, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6uSa5t bEwYk. 36 Chipmunk—Sonic Boom, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ggx76AwoBr4. 37 Paul Gilroy, The Black Atlantic: Modernity and Double Consciousness (Verso, London,

1996), p. 80. 38 Niaah, ‘Kingstons’s Dancehall’, 102–18. 39 Bull and Back, Auditory Culture Reader, p. 443. 40 Niaah, ‘Kingstons’s Dancehall’, 102–18.

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and food, or providing labour to move equipment. According to Donna Hope, sonically dancehall marks a disjuncture from what has gone before (mento, ska, dub, roots, rock reggae) in terms of musical style and creative practice.41 It therefore creates a new form that is grounded and positioned in the social, political, cultural and economic issues of Jamaica in the early 1990s. Sonjah Stanley Niaah asserts that the dancehall story is one that allows for the formulation of new identities, identities that are able to critique a dominant western narrative of propriety.42 In Jamaica and the UK, these distinctive forms of the Black Atlantic vernacular are disseminated into the rhythms of everyday life. A Black Atlantic genre, it travelled via sound tapes, video recordings and Sound Systems and found a home in the UK with parents of the grime generation. In many ways, grime can be seen as a cultural intermezzo where new identities as performers, artists and entrepreneurs are made possible by a somewhat rebellious conviviality. Performers and participants in the grime scene are, for the most part, of Caribbean and African descent. We can see that the contemporary black experience is one of diaspora—a process of unsettling, recombination and hybridisation.43 Diaspora experience within the grime scene is nourished by its connections with the Caribbean, particularly Jamaican dancehall. In 2012, grime MC Chipmunk (now Chip) teamed up with Mavado for ‘Every Gyal’ and, in 2015, South London duo Krept and Konan’s track ‘Freak of the Week’ sampled a Beenie Man classic ‘Who Am I?’ with a remix featuring Beenie Man and Popcaan. Ghetts released Ghetto Gospel 2 in September 2018, on which the track ‘Houdini’ also samples ‘Who Am I’.44 Boy Better Know (BBK), a north London grime crew, travelled to Jamaica in 2012 to prepare for the Red Bull Culture clash by immersing themselves in sound system culture. BBK member Skepta, who is of Nigerian descent, described how artists such as U-Roy, Ricky Trooper and Popcaan were ‘the originators,

41 Hope, Inna Di Dancehall. 42 Niaah, ‘Kingstons’s Dancehall’, 103. 43 Stuart Hall, ‘New Ethnicities’, in James Donald and Ali Rattansi (eds), Race, Culture

and Difference (London: Sage, 1992). 44 Chipmunk—Every Gyal ft. Mavado, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VTrOiY e-2oQ. Krept & Konan—Freak Of The Week ft. Jeremih, https://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=BigyqAiSiSQ. Ghetts—Houdini, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mOHj7h Tsro0.

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masters and legends of what we do’.45 A later Red Bull Culture Clash, in 2014, was streamed live online from Earls Court in London. In competition were BBK, Rebel Sound (a collaboration between veteran Reggae DJ David Rodigan, Shy FX, and Chase and Status), A$AP Mob from the US (including A$AP Ferg who is of Trinidadian heritage) and Jamaican sound system Stone Love. Collaboration and partnership-working continues to be an intrinsic component of the grime scene. The contemporary reach into the Jamaican dancehall scene is considerable, grime and dancehall continue to work together in interesting and innovative ways. From Alkaline’s explicit ‘Extra Lessons’, featuring two London MCs, Chip and Kojo Funds,46 to Wiley’s remix of his track ‘Boasty’ 47 with SteffLon Don (Dutch, Jamaican, UK based), Sean Paul and Idris Elba, a wealth of connections to Jamaican idiom as well as a dancehall beat are on display. It is clear that grime is both intercultural and outernational.

Grime Outernational Post Second World War black settlement in the UK was characterised by a tentative welcome that soon turned to anti-black discrimination. The subsequent political resistances and civil uprising gave way to an everyday multiculturalism that is the lived experience of practitioners in the grime music scene. A historic engagement with this political past is a more amorphous task for this constituency, and the volatile racial politics of the 1970s and 1980s appear to have less significance for cultural production in this economy. Yet, in the given names of grime music artists Jammer and Chip (Jahmek Power and Jahmaal Fyfe respectively), it is possible to see the traces of a black political narrative that references Rastafarian ideals.48 In past and contemporary collaborations the influence and impact of reggae on grime is visible and significant. For Stuart Hall, ‘black’ was a way to reference common experiences of racism, a singular 45 Red Bull Music Academy, Film: Boy Better Know in Jamaica|Red Bull Music Academy Daily (2014), available at http://daily.redbullmusicacademy.com/2014/09/boy-betterknow-in-jamaica-film (accessed February 28, 2016). 46 https://itunes.apple.com/us/album/extra-lesson-remix-feat-kojo-funds-chip-single/ 1237295352 (accessed March 28, 2019). 47 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=huaE85-V8u4, Boasty by Wiley, Stefflon Don and Sean Paul (feat. Idris Elba) (accessed March 28, 2019). 48 White, Urban Music and Entrepreneurship.

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unifying identity across ethnic and cultural differences at a time when black experience was placed at the margins.49 Black is no longer a singular unifying framework. Black, in the context of the grime music scene, means to connect to a Caribbean or (usually) west African heritage. At the same time, the convivial activities of working class inner-city youth offer new identities, produced in part through a productive tension between local and global influences means that being English (white and black) is also an intrinsic component of this cultural intermezzo.50 The opening decade of the twenty-first century saw grime music emerge from the street corners and council estates of urban east London. This is where the offspring of Commonwealth migrants and the white working class socialised and congregated, drawing on Jamaican sound system culture and practice and dancehall rhythms, filtered through jungle and UK garage, to create a uniquely English sound. An iconic moment on Mistajam’s show on BBC Radio shows General Levy performing his timehonoured Jungle track ‘Incredible’. What is interesting is how veterans of the grime scene—Dizzee Rascal, Lethal Bizzle, JME, Jammer and Footsie, among others—take such obvious delight in a song that was released in 1994 when they were probably still at school. As they spit his bars word for word General Levy acknowledges the importance of the grime genre and we see the influence of reggae at work across the generations. Jamaican independence from Britain in 1962, further embedded sound system culture into the nation’s social and cultural landscape, offering a connection, and a sense of community as well as much needed employment. Sound systems were located outside in the streets, away from the measured indoor recitals of other musical forms. More than just a place to unwind, sound systems offered a physical space for Jamaica’s working classes to come together. Dancehall, as a genre, celebrated working-class communities and provided a forum to articulate concerns. Koffee is a rising Jamaican artist, recently signed to Columbia Records. Koffee cites dancehall as an influence for her conscious reggae output, and references

49 Hall, ‘New Ethnicities’. 50 Les Back, New Ethnicities and Urban Culture (London: UCL Press, 1996), available

at https://books.google.co.uk/books/about/New_Ethnicities_and_Urban_Culture.html? id=mW906f1B9zkC (accessed January 14, 2016).

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grime for potential future collaboration.51 Koffee said: ‘I like the grime scene a lot, too. I’ve heard a few names I like, including Ghetts and Giggs, and I’d like to collaborate with a few UK artists in the future’. Dancehall and grime both offer a communal practice of call and response and improvisation that is embodied in many black musical cultures.52 Grime as a cultural practice shares a sonic journey with reggae sound systems in the UK and in Jamaica. Sound systems in the UK and Jamaica echoed a sense of unity, both lyrically and in practice. Lyrically, however, both genres have been subject to scrutiny, and often found wanting. Two decades ago, Carolyn Cooper argued that the numerous references to guns in the lyrical wordplay of dancehall tracks had criminalised not just the music, but the culture as well.53 A view that dancehall music was, and continues to be, ‘murder music’ or a literal call to arms for gangsters and criminals, is illustrated by this question posed in the Jamaica Observer in 2017: ‘The critical question is: To what extent does dancehall music drive the culture or subculture of violence; or, to what extent is dancehall a mere reflection of the subculture of violence’?54 Like grime, dancehall has been positioned as an unruly subculture underpinned by an aesthetic that is steeped in violence. However, the dancehall oeuvre simultaneously embraces Popcaan’s graphic pleas for vengeance against rapists and murderers in ‘Jungle Justice’,55 his address to loyalty and struggle in ‘Family’,56 as well as Mr Vegas’ praises to God in his version of ‘I am Blessed’,57 a popular contemporary Gospel song. In ‘Between the Blues and the Blues Dance’, Paul Gilroy argues that dancehall gave us a militant spirit and it is this energy that I would suggest lays a foundation for grime. Dancehall’s militant spirit was disseminated 51 Meet Koffee, The New Gem in Jamaican Reggae’s Crown, https://www.complex. com/music/2019/03/koffee-interview (accessed March 18, 2019). 52 Kyra Gaunt, ‘“The Two O’clock Vibe”: Embodying the Jam of Musical Blackness In and Out of Its Everyday Context’, Musical Quarterly, 86: 3 (2002), 372–97. 53 Carolyn Cooper, ‘“Lyrical Gun”: Metaphor and Role Play in Jamaican Dancehall Culture’, Massachusetts Review, 35: 3/4 (1994), 429–47. 54 http://www.jamaicaobserver.com/news/reggae-dancehall-and-the-culture-of-vio lence_118636?profile=1096. 55 Popcaan, ‘Jungle Justice’, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uVumvRO526o. 56 Popcaan, ‘Family’, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7CJ1LGcsdYs. 57 Mr Vegas, ‘I am Blessed’, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gi0C-XAwmuk.

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through the black diaspora via tapes, vinyl and performance. Attendance at dances and club events by the parents of the grime generation further embedded the sonic and cultural influence. Both genres, through their performance and creative practice, offer a symbolic and community space—an outernational space where there is hope, freedom and possibility; or, as Paul Gilroy explains: music would now produce its own public world; a social corona that could nourish or host an alternative structure of feeling that might function to make wrongs or injustice more bearable in the short term but could also promote a sense of different possibilities, providing healing glimpses of an alternative moral, artistic and political order.58

Flowing through these ‘alternative structures of feeling’ are ways for black youth to talk about their everyday lives, struggles and aspirations. In the continuity of practice from dancehall via the sonic and cultural shift from UK garage to grime, music amplifies the voices of the marginalised and the dispossessed. Grime pushed back the juggernaut that was US hip-hop and rap and replaced it, in London at least, with a black-English aesthetic. Grime and dancehall are outernational spaces that offered black youth a voice, a sense of belonging and the opportunity to develop and demonstrate excellence as artists, performers and entrepreneurs. In a world that negates the lived experience and contributions of black youth, the importance of this cannot be underestimated.

Conclusion This chapter offers a moment to reflect on the influence of reggae on grime. From its east London origins in poor neighbourhoods, underpinned by pirate radio, technological advance, grime is now embedded in everyday popular culture. Moving from a genre that was feared to one that is lauded, grime has an international reach. How this genre developed against a backdrop of inequality juxtaposed alongside the wealth of the city has parallels with the development of sound system culture as the voice of the people—especially the marginalised people. Out of these

58 Paul Gilroy, ‘Between the Blues and the Blues Dance: Some Soundscapes of the Black Atlantic,’ in Bull and Back (eds), Auditory Culture Reader, Chapter 21.

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meagre opportunities, both communities made music that mattered to them and that ultimately resonated with a wider audience. Grime’s deep origins incorporate kinship networks and embeddedness in community. Grime links to the diaspora, linguistically, sonically and through performance. How grime is constituted is also influenced by reggae and sound system culture, through the creative clusters that form when artists and producers work in geographical proximity. We are able to appreciate the significance of pirate radio and understand how crews contribute to a convivial exchange of talent, resources and support. Enterprise is another key way in which the links are evident, and accessible technology, the rise of social media means that the enterprising aspect in both genres affords a wider reach of artistic practice. As examples of Black Atlantic creative expression, reggae and dancehall flow through the diaspora and through a UK black population that are the parents of the grime generation. As racialised subjects in the UK, the offspring of the Windrush generation experienced enduring high unemployment levels, social inequality and rising racism. At the same time, post-colonial decline in Jamaica and the political history of reggae in Jamaica mirrored the onset of independence. According to Sonjah Stanley Niaah, after Jamaican independence in 1962, the dance halls, reggae and then dancehall articulated the concerns of post-colonial Jamaica providing ‘physical, ideological, and spiritual shelter for generations of lower-class Jamaicans’.59 Grime emerged from East London boroughs that still contain some of the most deprived areas in the UK. Young people came together to make this music at a time when New Labour’s savage gentrification of the city created rich and poor communities that exist side by side but barely touching. In these alien spaces, with bounded territories that are border patrolled by private security, young people are living in proximity to these heavily guarded structures of wealth and privilege—in plain sight, but almost always out of reach. In the twenty-first century, the Internet has allowed artists in the grime music economy, to transcend distance and reach large audiences. From its underground beginnings, grime is now a commercial product. State of Play, the Ticketmaster report, revealed an increasing appetite for music and live events, for the year between 2016

59 Niaah, ‘Kingstons’s Dancehall’, 102–18.

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and 2017, album sales for grime grew faster than the total UK market.60 Nevertheless, while it was perceived to be a taste acquired by young black people from poor backgrounds, grime had little value as creative practice. Form 69661 may have been revoked, but increased surveillance, a hostile environment and new racisms mean that for many black youth, access to black cultural forms, such as grime, is restricted. A recent report from the Digital, Culture, Media and Sport Committee shows that it is still difficult to put on live performance or club events that include grime.62 The report says that ‘persisting prejudice’ against artists from grime, rap and hip-hop risks ‘the future of one of the UK’s most exciting musical exports’. Grime operates as an emancipatory disruption; like dancehall, it is a communal space that is simultaneously hyper-individual, collective and collaborative. In tracing the sonic genealogy of grime, I have shown how the similarities and differences, continuities and change within and between both genres offer a contemporary and historical engagement with black diaspora cultural forms. Like dancehall, grime operates at a local level, as an outernational space, and as a global enterprise.

60 Sophia Rawcliffe (2017), http://blog.ticketmaster.co.uk/stateofplay/Grime.pdf. 61 In 2005, the Metropolitan Police introduced the Promotion Event Risk Assessment

Form (or Form 696), ostensibly as a mechanism to reduce serious crime (Metropolitan Police SC9 Proactive Intelligence Unit, 2009). Event promoters were asked to provide the name, date of birth and contact details of every artist performing at an event. The Form was finally abolished in 2017. See: Form 696: ‘Racist police form’ to be scrapped in London, https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-41946915. 62 https://www.parliament.uk/business/committees/committees-a-z/commons-select/ digital-culture-media-and-sport-committee/news/live-music-report-published-17-19/.

CHAPTER 14

Sound Systems and the Christian Deviation Carl Tracey

Behold I will do a new thing saith the Lord and it shall spring forth in the earth … Yea man dis ah di new ting, Shekinah Ministry ah the new ting, man come fi save all di rough and tough ghetto yout them, hear dis one yah … ‘New Ting’ by Spanna (1998) But you see right now, His Majesty Sound System is going to juggle some tune throughout the night, we got artist, we’re gunna share throughout the night … that’s why we do this, to represent our Lord and saviour Jesus, simple, straight. What you’re seeing right now is the birth of a Christian sound system … ‘Redz’, HMSS Launch, London (2005)

C. Tracey (B) London, UK © The Author(s) 2021 W. ‘L’. Henry and M. Worley (eds.), Narratives from Beyond the UK Reggae Bassline, Palgrave Studies in the History of Subcultures and Popular Music, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-55161-2_14

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The epic biblical declaration in the opening line of the first extract is taken from Isaiah chapter 43 and verse 19. It is the preface of the debut single called ‘New Ting’ (thing) by UK gospel reggae1 artist ‘Spanna’. It was a song released on the Shekinah record label in 1998. The introduction of the track heralded the arrival of a new style of Christian ministry through the medium of gospel reggae music. The lyrics and message in the song aptly describe the new movement that had emerged out of Christianity and penetrated the sound system world in the late 1990s. This ‘new ting’ was an outfit called ‘Shekinah Sound Ministries’; a Christian sound system that played Christian reggae music. Spanna’s announcement challenges the perception that a reggae sound system is ‘of the world’ and operates in a totally separate sphere to the church. The sound system ministry passionately aimed to reach those outside the four walls of the church. This radical approach to urban ministry challenges the imagined ‘sacred/secular’ boundaries that have historically divided the two spaces. The Shekinah sound system was passionate about its mission to evangelise to the ‘rough and tough ghetto yout them’ in the dancehall environment and in doing so they redefined traditional preconceptions about Christianity, gospel music and indeed the ‘norms’ of a sound system. This ‘new ting’ caused a stir both in the church hall and the dancehall. In this chapter I intend to uncover the hidden history of the Christian sound system movement through first-hand accounts of members from two influential sound systems based in Britain; Shekinah Sound Ministries (Birmingham) and His Majesty Sound System (London). I will discuss the controversies involved in the appropriation of reggae as the driving force of the movement as well as the use of dubplates in the Christian sound system performance. I argue that the gospel reggae genre is a form of black British religious expression and a re-versioning of the usual understanding of UK sound system culture. I conclude the chapter by offering a religious cultural analysis and highlight theological themes present in the Christian sound system performance.

1 Gospel reggae is a genre of music that mixes reggae rhythms with Christian-themed lyrics.

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The terms ‘gospel sound system’ or ‘Christian sound system’2 has provoked interest, curiosity and in many cases outright shock from music fans and experts in the field who may already have a fixed concept about what a sound system is and what it represents. Traditionally the sound system space or ‘dancehall’ has been viewed as a separate space to the church or ‘church hall’.3 Historically both social spaces have played a significant role within the African-Caribbean community in Britain. In his book, Jesus Dub, theologian Robert Beckford suggests that there are three interfaces through which theology in African Caribbean Christianity is explored within urban cultures. They are: ‘mission’, ‘recognition’ and ‘praxis’. Mission is concerned with evangelism; communicating the Christian message in the cultural context of the audience. Recognition is concerned with discovering or recognising where God’s liberating message and practice is already at work in urban cultures. Praxis is the idea that Christian engagement and dialogue with black popular culture should be linked with social change.4 I will use these models as my tools to unravel this unique religious cultural phenomenon. Sound systems have contributed to the fabric of popular music and DJ culture in modern Britain so it is necessary to mention its influence in order to give context to our discussion on the Christian deviation. The sociocultural significance of British sound systems has been extensively documented through studies by Gilroy (2002), Hebdige (1987) and Jones (1988).5 Writers such as Henry (2006), Back (1996) and Partridge (2010) have highlighted the significance of the Rastafarian movement as well as the importance of the sound system Deejay as a voice for the

2 By the term ‘gospel sound system’ or ‘Christian sound system’, I am referring to a sound system that plays gospel music or songs that advocate a lifestyle and worldview that is in line with the Christian faith. Throughout this chapter, these terms will be used interchangeably. Sound systems are also referred to simply as ‘sounds’. 3 Robert Beckford, Jesus Dub: Theology, Music and Social Change (Abingdon: Routledge,

2006), p. 4. 4 Ibid., pp. 145–49. 5 Paul Gilroy, There Ain’t No Black in the Union Jack (Abingdon: Routledge, 2002);

Dick Hebdige, Cut ‘n’ Mix: Culture, Identity and Caribbean Music (Abingdon: Routledge, 1987); Simon Jones, Black Culture, White Youth: The Reggae Tradition from JA to UK (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 1988).

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oppressed black youth during the 1970s and 1980s.6 The cultural contribution of British sound systems is an area of significant current interest within academia and in recent years there has been a proliferation of research projects and events devoted to this aspect of black British music. Yet no serious study exists of the Christian inflection. Gospel sound systems are a direct bi product of reggae sound system history in Britain and I believe that the experiences of those involved in this unconventional Christian art form provides an important insight into the religious aspect of bassline culture. In navigating the contentious relationship between the church hall and the dancehall these endearing trailblazers helped to re-enforce a spiritual focus into the sound system space. The interweaving of Christianity with UK sound system culture may lead one to consider whether the common understanding and meaning of a sound system is altered as a result of this religious cultural appropriation. I will attempt to show how these notions and themes are contested in the history of the Christian sound system movement in Britain.

The Birth of the Christian Sound System The epoch of the movement began in 1996 with the inception of Shekinah Sound Ministries in Birmingham, UK. This dynamic group of musical ministers had a passion and desire to share the Christian message through the medium of a sound system. According to its founders the purpose and vision for the sound was two-fold. Firstly, it was to reach out to the unsaved, preaching the gospel in a language that the audience would understand. Secondly, they provided a service for Christians who needed a DJ and sound system for wedding receptions and other social celebrations. Just like their secular counterparts, Shekinah had a sound system ‘set’ complete with speaker boxes, amplifiers, equalisers, mixers and effects units. The selectors played the music to get the crowd moving and the MCs brought the musical ‘vibes’ on the microphone. Shekinah sound have played at various carnivals, gospel concerts and other church

6 William ‘Lez’ Henry, What the Deejay Said: A Critique from the Street! (London: Nu-Beyond Limited, 2006); Les Back, New Ethnicities and Urban Culture: Racisms and Multiculture in Young Lives (Abingdon: Routledge, 1996); Christopher Partridge, Dub in Babylon: The Emergence and Influence of Dub Reggae in Jamaica and Britain from King Tubby to Post Punk (London: Equinox Publishing, 2010).

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celebrations. Their strong evangelistic passions drove them to put on outreach events in their local community. As well as co-labouring with fellow gospel DJs from the UK, they also played alongside secular sound systems such as Stone Love from Jamaica and Luv Injection from their hometown. On one such occasion in the early 2000s, Rico, a founding member who had come from a sound system background, recalls bringing over Jamaican gospel artist Stichie who was a popular reggae DJ in the secular dancehall world before converting to Christianity: Shekinah and Injection was on that bill with some top radio DJs at the time in Birmingham. It was road block, we must have gave away about a thousand bibles. It was at that point if you’re talking about a turning point, it was at that point that Birmingham’s underground radio stations as of that day started playing gospel music. At that time the gun madness was hard. In fact when I called Luv Injection to that event it was the first time that a Christian had ever called Luv Injection to come to any event. So when I called him (the sound owner) at the time, I said ‘God has told me to tell you that he has use of your sound’ I said ‘it’s not your sound he wants, he wants the people who follow your sound because he has a message for them’.7

Shortly after starting the sound system the group set up the Shekinah record label and released a number of gospel reggae artists including: Michelle Christian, Singing D and Spanna. Despite the challenges they faced in the early years, their perseverance as ‘the original Christian sound’8 served as an encouragement for other gospel DJs and sound systems who subsequently started in later years. At the turn of the new millennium more gospel sound systems were established in cities such as London, Nottingham, Bristol, Coventry as well as Birmingham. One such outfit was a sound system based in south London called ‘His Majesty Sound System’ (or ‘HMSS’ for short). The sound was formed in 2001/2002 by Christian rap ministers M.O.D; ‘Pilgrim’ and ‘E. Minor’ (pastors Robert and Efrem) alongside ‘Redz’ (aka Redbeard). Redz, who was from a sound system background, started to travel with MOD as their main DJ and this was the beginnings of what would eventually become a fully fledged sound system. The mission

7 Rico (Rico Fogarty), author’s interview 6 December 2018, London, England. 8 As stated on their website: www.shekinahsoundministries.com.

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was to share the gospel message through the medium of reggae music. The sound system came under the wider ‘Urban Mission ministry’ which had been active in music-based evangelism for some years before HMSS formed. During the early 2000s HMSS produced gospel reggae mix CDs which were given out freely at their outreach events and posted worldwide. They co-laboured with many gospel artists and DJs at their outreach events at Notting Hill carnival, fittingly named ‘God corner’ as they set up their sound system on the corner of a street outside a church in the heart of the carnival during the August bank holiday weekend. HMSS have hosted a number of their own events such as ‘Dance Like David’ (a gospel party event) and ‘Gospel Reggae at the Golden Anchor’ (an outreach event at a pub). Both Shekinah and HMSS are respected by their secular peers in the sound system fraternity for their professionalism, quality of sound and Christian conviction. What made these sound systems different to their secular counterparts was their unashamed boldness in sharing the gospel message through the music and the ‘talk’ on the microphone. Today Christian sound systems can be found playing various styles of ‘urban gospel’9 at many different functions including: evangelistic outreaches, carnivals, festivals, gospel concerts, wedding receptions, birthday celebrations and christenings. At gospel party events selectors may play on their own sound system ‘set’ or plug their laptop or CD decks into a venue PA system. Some of the notable sound systems past and present include: Ambassador Sound, Brothers in Christ, Divine Influence, Divinity, Good News Movements, Gospel Light Sound, GX Squad, Kingdom Sound System, KINGZ, Messiah Sound, Radical Family, Revelation Sound, Shabach Ministry, Soulcure, Soul2Sole and Third Dimension. A major aspect of the sound system performance is the music played, which is the primary responsibility of the selector. Both Shekinah and HMSS set out to play predominately reggae in the early days of starting their sound system. Rico stated that there was not enough gospel reggae being released so they ventured into ‘voicing’ dubplates; recording worship songs on well-known reggae riddims as a way of building up their catalogue of gospel reggae. HMSS selectors also started to voice dubplates for the same reasons. By the late-1990s/early 2000s gospel artists such as Watchman, Witness, Spanna, Gyamma, Tendai, Ben Okafur and others 9 David Dabydeen, James Gilmore, and Cecily Jones (eds), The Oxford Companion to Black British History (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), p. 193.

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were using reggae to communicate their gospel message. As a result, there were more gospel reggae songs that a selector could add to their playlist. Redz (of HMSS) commented that over the years there has been an increase in the amount of gospel music available in different styles that can cater for a wider audience: Its testament to the fact the music can hold them because in the early days it was very difficult. But now we have enough good quality music that I can play anywhere now and the music can hold the people. We played in Malta, in a night club, pure gospel the whole night and the place was rocking.10

Within the Christian sound system performance there is also a strong emphasis placed on the spoken word and the role of the MC (mic chatter). Both sounds stressed the importance of the MC being able to use the Word of God (the Bible) to transmit a spiritual message to the audience. The sound system is viewed as a ‘pulpit’ that should be guarded like a preacher would guard his pulpit in church. An MC needed to be skilled in connecting with a crowd but also knowledgeable in the Bible in order to effectively communicate the gospel message. Spanna reflected on his early days as an MC on Shekinah sound: Them days we probably had more chat, we had to have more chat…when you do things as an early Christian the fire is blazing… you pick up the mic and start preach…now because the selection is bigger you can do less talking and let the music talk because there is a lot of artists around nowadays.11

Sound quality is also taken seriously within the context of the Christian sound system performance. When Shekinah sound was first established in 1996, they did not have a big ‘set’ of equipment at their disposal so Rico would hire a friend’s set to play out. Over time the Shekinah crew believed it was necessary to invest in more updated equipment such as equalisers, crossovers, amplifiers and scoop bin speakers. The HMSS team went through the same process of updating the quality of their sound and increasing its size. Miller explained that sound quality is an important 10 Redz (Jason O Shea), author’s interview, 30 November 2018, London, England. 11 Spanna (Barry Panton), author’s interview, 9 November 2018, Birmingham, England.

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aspect of the performance as it was crucial that the audience could clearly hear the music and the spoken word. He quotes Romans 10:17 from the Bible as the rationale for their perspective: ‘So then faith cometh by hearing, and hearing by the word of God’ (KVJ, The Holy Bible). Redz agreed that high quality audio output would cause non-Christians to pay attention to the sound system which would then create opportunity for them to listen to the messages in the songs. In their position as pioneers, Shekinah sound endured criticism from Christians who did not agree with the idea of the church mixing with the dancehall world. Some church leaders would discourage their congregants from attending Shekinah events. Rico felt that the concept of a gospel sound system was such a new phenomenon that many pastors were simply fearful as they didn’t understand it. From as early as the 1970s some critics have disowned the reggae genre believing that the medium could not be used to share the gospel (Smith 2009, p. 93).12 Rico commented on his surprise and disappointment during the 1990s: I was thinking to do some reggae gospel, so the first record I think we did and it was the first time I put it on the Shekinah label, was a tune called ‘Majesty’13 , we put it on what we call a rub-a-dub one drop beat. The tune was mad. That was the humble beginning of it but what surprised me was being black and being from a Caribbean root I thought the church would have welcomed the idea of reggae music in gospel. But that was quite the opposite, we come against a lot of fight but that didn’t deter us.14

Shekinah were being viewed as ‘worldly’ mainly because they looked and sounded just like a secular dancehall sound system. Some believed that sound systems, particularly in the 80s/90s raggamuffin15 era, represented self-glorification and pride. Shekinah members recall how during events when setting up the 18” speaker boxes it would cause concern and suspicion from Christians sceptical of this mixing of church with the 12 Steve Alexander Smith, British Black Gospel: The Foundations of This Vibrant UK Sound (Huddersfield: Monarch Books, 2009), p. 93. 13 ‘Majesty’ by Michelle Christian is a cover of a popular church hymn. It was released on the Shekinah label in 1998. 14 Rico, author’s interview, 2018. 15 This era was characterised by keyboard driven computerised reggae instrumental beats

from the mid-1980s into the 1990s. The genre became known as ‘reggae dancehall’ and was later termed as ‘raggamuffin’ or simply ‘ragga’ in the UK.

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‘world’. It was acknowledged that many Christians had simply not been exposed to sound system culture in such close proximity. Spanna describes a particular occasion when the team were called into a church to give their Christian testimony ahead of an event for which they were booked. Such was the suspicion and pressure from some congregants that the pastor felt it was necessary to make further enquiries and learn more about the ethos of the sound system before committing fully to the event: He (the pastor) summoned us to the church on a Sunday morning to give our testimonies. We gave our testimony…now again, if you shy away or run away from these requests you have to question why you’re doing it…we found that when we gave our testimonies and we were bouncing off each other, the people in the church were like ‘oh yes’. They were looking at us as if to say ‘oh so them a real Christian?’ kinda like with disbelief that we could look the way we looked and be giving the word of God.16

The Shekinah crew welcomed these opportunities and commented that those particular play outs were often the most memorable. There was a clear sense of mandate and mission among the team. They believed that God had prepared them for the challenge that lay ahead. They believed in the vision of the sound system and on occasion were called to defend it, not behind the decks, but through the word of their personal testimonies and biblical convictions. HMSS, who started roughly five or six years later, faced a somewhat different challenge on their journey. Members Efrem, Redz and Marky G commented that overall, they never encountered any explicit push back from Christians. By the time that HMSS started in the early 2000s there was generally more acceptance of contemporary gospel music as a tool for ministry. Interestingly, Efrem expressed that audiences outside of the church were more suspicious and uncertain about what they were doing: In the early days certain un-believers were trying to be like ‘what, gospel sound?’ confused, almost to say, ‘nah you man are infiltrating, you’re coming too close, you lot are supposed to be like gospel music, church choir’… they had preconceptions of Christianity, I tend to call it ‘churchianity’. It’s easy for them to feel comfortable with that because it’s removed from where they’re at. And so, it’s like ‘yea cool, if I want that, I know

16 Spanna, author’s interview, 2018.

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where to go for that but I feel safe over here in my corner in the shadows doing my ting and I don’t expect you to be coming over here to where I am’. So when we start going into them corners and environments, it’s like ‘why are you lot here? ain’t you supposed to stay in the church hall?’17

While Efrem and the rest of the HMSS crew felt compelled to reach out to those outside of the church, the reservations expressed by some within their target audience reveal some underlying challenges related to interpretation and appropriation. Inquisitive onlookers who would not usually associate sound systems with the church or gospel music may question the meaning and purpose behind groups such as HMSS. Consequently, the appropriation of certain elements of sound system culture may present some potential issues. If there are cultural codes which are perceived as negative, one may argue that this creates a contradiction when that same element is then ‘Christianised’. One such potential dilemma is the use of dubplates in the Christian sound system performance. Fans of sound clash competitions may understand a dubplate to represent selfglorification and ‘bigging up yourself’. According to Marky G, there were two phases of dubplates. The original format was a pre-released record, usually a test pressing on acetate. It was a unique recording where the instrumentation was re-arranged and given a unique mix. Sound systems would be recognised for their unique dubs and audiences would often follow the sound based on the uniqueness of their dub plate specials. Over time a second format developed whereby, sound systems then began to request artists to re-record their popular songs, often on a different riddim and call the name of the sound in the dub. Typically, dubplates in this second phase would make bold claims about the sound system, expressing how great the sound was and generally endorsing their credibility. Sound systems involved in the clash scene (also referred to as ‘clashing sounds’) would have a collection of ‘war dubs’ used in sound clash competitions to musically ‘kill’ the opposing sound and make a name for themselves as the ‘champion sound’. The fiercest dubplates in a selector’s arsenal would display a level of self-glorification, pride and competition which would seem to be at odds with the Christian attributes of love, forgiveness, meekness and kindness. It could be argued that in this sense the appropriation of the dubplate special by a Christian sound may seem like a contradiction of sorts and could be problematic for the selector 17 Efrem (Efrem Buckle), author’s interview, 30 November 2018, London, England.

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who desires to promote a message of humility. On this topic, Spanna concedes that there was no escaping being compared to the secular sounds as he states: ‘A dubplate has got to have your name in it, you can’t have a dubplate without your name in it’. In addressing this potential controversy, Marky G comments: The clash style of dubplates that people are used to nowadays, HMSS was not about that, their dubplates were to elevate not to put down and basically it was about IDing our sound. Just giving the sound an ID to the world so people can know that this is a sound system that plays a certain type of music and this is what we are about; we’re about the gospel and we’re not just about ourselves, we are about elevating the name of Christ. It’s just for ID purposes to let people know; this is what we’re about and this is what we do.18

Both Shekinah and HMSS selectors agreed that ‘war’ dubs had no place within the Christian sound system performance as there was never any intention or desire to clash any other sound. By its very nature, a gospel sound system would not be considered as a ‘clashing sound’. There was, however, agreement that having dubplate specials was important in giving the sound system a unique edge and originality. Selectors expressed that exclusivity and creativity were important factors in the Christian sound system performance as it was a way of attracting the attention of listeners and ensuring that they were captivating in their presentations. Dubplates hold a degree of aesthetic value which connects with both secular and Christian sound system listeners alike. Marky G shared that before he was a Christian, a friend (HMSS member ‘Fingers’) played him a HMSS dubplate mix CD which caught his ear: ‘we knew the riddim tracks of a lot of the songs he was playing but we didn’t know the lyrics…we clocked on that he was playing gospel … we liked it’. This may indicate part of the justification for the use of dubplates as Redz explains: If a man outta a road hears a mix CD, they hear the sound name, so they hear dubplates in it. They would automatically give you their ear to listen because they will say ‘bwoy, a big sound dat, dem have dubplate, a big sound’. So, they’re going to give you more attention … its authenticity.19

18 Marky G (Mark Henry), author’s interview, 24 November 2018, London, England. 19 Redz, author’s interview, 2018.

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Spanna suggested that MCs and selectors must exercise caution in deciding which cultural traits could be ‘switched’ (or in other words ‘Christianised’). Not every trait is worth switching. Practitioners have to decide which cultural codes they can effectively utilise when communicating their message to ensure that they do not cause confusion or offence. This task requires wisdom and skill to ensure that the audience bear witness to the spiritual message that the MC or selector is trying to convey in their performance. This concept of the Christian operating within the sound system space may lead one to question whether or not this then changes the Christian. Is there a potential for the Christian to ‘blackslide’ back to their old lifestyle? In addressing this predicament, Miller explains how Shekinah navigate the sound system space when asked to play at ‘community dances’ where the majority of the audience may not be Christian: We’re a gospel sound, we’ve only got gospel music in our box, we can’t change. If we go there and they say ‘Shekinah, ah your time’, we’re playing Jesus music. Spanna hold the mic and you might even hear a man in there say ‘yo Rastafari’. He can say what he wants. For the time they give us for twenty minutes or half hour we do our ting, we might lean up and take in a vibe or we might plug out and go because we’ve done what we went there to do.20

Appropriation of the Reggae Style as Black British Religious Expression When the first Christian sound systems emerged in the late 1990s it was mainly gospel reggae music that was played alongside gospel r ‘n’ b and gospel rap from America. I would suggest that the gospel sound system movement in this way reflects a black British religious expression which is influenced by Jamaican popular culture. It would appear that these sound systems continue the diasporan cycle and participate in the Black Atlantic cultural exchange.21 In recent years, one of the dominant music styles of choice among black British youths has been Afrobeats and many selectors spoke of the importance of having various styles of gospel (such as 20 Miller (Michael Miller), author’s interview, 9 November 2018, Birmingham, England. 21 Paul Gilroy, The Black Atlantic: Modernity and Double Consciousness (London: Verso,

1993).

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afro beats) as part of their music selection. The theory of ‘versioning’ as suggested by Hebdige offers a useful conceptual framework in which to place this aspect of the movement.22 Hebdige argues that sound systems in Britain are part of the process of ‘cut n mix’; a constant ‘versioning’ and ‘re-versioning’ of cultural identity, stylistic influences, language and technology. This process is evident in British sound systems like Saxon with their MCs who originated the cockney—patwa ‘fast chat style’ of reggae.23 The ‘fast chat style’ went on to influence music genres such as jungle, drum & bass and grime. I would argue that Christian sound systems represent the religious expression of the same ‘cut n mix’ process. To borrow a phrase from Beckford, I would suggest that sound systems like Shekinah and HMSS symbolise a ‘Christian dub version’ of sound system culture in the UK.24 Shekinah sometimes refers to themselves as the ‘God squad’ and equally members of HMSS have described their set up as the ‘Jesus Sound’.25 In this sense they view their existence as being a visible representation of Christianity in the sound system space. For this reason, Miller believes that even the audio equipment should be represented in the best way possible: It’s a Christian sound so we push excellence because we are seeking to promote Christ. We’re not promoting Miller or Spanna, this is a sound that is lifting up the name of Christ Jesus.26

Redz shares the same sentiments: If I’m going to do this for the glory of God, then I’ve got to do it properly, do you know what I’m saying. Doesn’t mean I have to be the biggest sound in the world.

22 Dick Hebdige, Cut’n’ Mix. 23 Lloyd Bradley, Sounds like London: 100 Years of Black Music in the Capital (London:

Profile Books, 2013); Paul Gilroy, There Ain’t No Black in the Union Jack (London: Routledge, 2002). 24 Beckford, Jesus Dub. 25 As stated on their website: www.hismajestysound.com. 26 Miller, author’s interview, 2018.

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It is to the glory of God. Culture is important. Christianity and culture.27

The ‘roots and culture’ era of the 1970s and early 1980s provided a safe alternative space where black youths were encouraged to be conscious and educated about their identity and history.28 Much of the music was bible based and the messages were driven by the philosophies of the Rastafarian religion. The sound system folk featured here expressed a desire to re-introduce bible-based spirituality into the dancehall space as an alternative to the negative messages of materialism and violence. Reflecting on this topic, Rico stated: It’s the message, that’s where I’m coming from, it’s about the message. I’m making them know that through the music we can educate, edify, build up our community just like we did during the Rasta era. Most of us, the reason that we are still here, we’re not dead is because the music we were listening to during that era were bible-based tunes anyway, ‘roots and culture’ we call it them times there … it was uplifting, it wasn’t talking about killing nobody and all that kinda nonsense. I understood then if we use the same principle now and use gospel music as the message but use the vehicle, which is the reggae to get their attention… it’s over and I’ve seen it to this day.29

The MCs and selectors acknowledged that while they aimed to reach non-believers within the dancehall space, in reality many of the people in that arena had grown up with some influence of spirituality and the bible. This connects back to the ‘recognition’ interface as suggested by Beckford.30 I would propose that the narrative of the Christian sound system MC and the explicit references to Jesus in the gospel music that is played by the selector, demonstrate that the sound systems featured here are interested in portraying a specifically Christian spirituality in their performances. Spanna felt that the responsibility of the MC and selector was much more than just entertainment:

27 Redz, author’s interview, 2018. 28 Henry, What the Deejay Said, p. 37. 29 Rico, author’s interview, 2018. 30 Beckford, Jesus Dub, p. 147.

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In the gospel it’s totally different because a lot of these people want to be fed spiritually and that’s why yes you can move a secular crowd but even if they wanna be fed spiritually… somebody might want to come into your outreach and be dying inside, and if all you want to do is play dubplate, chat mic, big up the dance and big up your name, they ain’t going to get nothing from that.31

The gospel sound systems feel that they offer a genuine alternative to the vulgarity and violence that at times can be found in some secular music, be it reggae dancehall or any other genres played on a sound system. They also provide a space where Christians can listen to contemporary gospel in styles such as reggae, dancehall, rap, r ‘n’ b etc. Shekinah and HMSS believe that they should be reaching people where they are located, Efrem described this as the ‘Church leaving the building’. Their faith drives them to go into those spaces outside of the church to connect with people in the community through the music. Redz states that this ethos propels their passion to engage with those within the sound system space: That’s why it’s so important that if you’re going to reach someone with the gospel, you do it in a palatable way. That’s all it is, that’s all that is has ever been. Communicating the gospel in a palatable way.32

Current literature shows that sound system culture also serves a socio-political function. Studies by Gilroy (1990), Chude-Sokei (1997) and Henry (2006 and 2012) suggest that the sound system is a site of counter culture and alternative learning.33 I would propose that Christian sound systems have the potential to develop a type of social gospel which links back to the ‘praxis’ interface.34 Both Shekinah and HMSS have

31 Spanna, author’s interview, 2018. 32 Redz, author’s interview, 2018. 33 Paul Gilroy, ‘One Nation Under a Groove: The Cultural Politics of “Race” and Racism in Britain’, in David Goldberg (ed.), Anatomy of Racism (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1990), pp. 263–82; Louis Chude-Sokei, ‘The Sound of Culture: Dread Discourse and Jamaican Sound Systems’, in Joseph K. Adjaye and Adrianne R. Andrews (eds), Language, Rhythm and Sound: Black Popular Cultures into the TwentyFirst Century (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1997), pp. 185–202; Henry, What the Deejay Said; idem, ‘Reggae, Rasta and the Role of the Deejay in the Black British Experience’, Contemporary British History, 26: 3 (2012), 355–73. 34 Beckford, Jesus Dub, p. 147.

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been involved in community engagements. Rico is the Founder of ‘Voice against Crime’, an organisation which attempts to tackle gun and knife crime. Efrem is a pastor who trains urban missionaries and is the director of an Independent School in south London. Redz runs an initiative called ‘Operation Forgiveness’, as a response to knife crime. Other members are actively involved in outreach, prison ministry and general social engagement in the wider community. Glimpses of political and topical sensibilities are present in some of the gospel reggae recordings. In Spanna’s 1998 release ‘Mr. Blair’, the Shekinah MC directs his explicit socio-political concerns to the Labour prime minister in office at the time: me ah tell Tony Blair from Shekinah, tek we advice pan law and order, put Jesus first pan the school agenda, employ decent religious teacher, fi teach the youth dem one one bout the holy scripture, build more church and train more minister, and stop build the jail fi put we yout dem inna.35

The themes that have emerged from the narrative show that those within the gospel movement have a depth of knowledge and a deep appreciation for sound systems. This intricate interweaving of Christianity with UK sound system culture is an intriguing phenomenon which up until now has been largely unknown. In digging a little deeper, I would suggest that there are five theological themes that characterise sound crews such as these who have dared to walk the tightrope between the ‘church hall’ and ‘dancehall’. Firstly, the etymology of the Christian sound system names reveals an indication of their function. In Judaism the word ‘shekhinah’ means the glory of the divine presence of God.36 The founders of Shekinah Sound Ministers stated that the name represents God’s presence in a sound system setting. They believe that if the sound system went to play out at a wedding, a party or an outreach it should carry the presence of God. The audience should experience an encounter with God through the words spoken on the microphone and the music played. The name 35 Spanna, ‘Mr Blair’ (Shekinah Music, 1998). 36 Margie Tolstoy, ‘Jewish-Christian Relations’, in Nicholas De Lange and Miri Frued-

Kandel (eds), Modern Judaism (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), p. 435.

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of the second sound system is ‘His Majesty Sound System’. The founders of HMSS affirm that the name is a statement of intent which declares that the sound belongs to God and ultimately all glory should go to His Majesty, King of Kings, Lord of Lords; Jesus Christ. Secondly, both sound systems share a passion for mission and evangelism. The desire to communicate the Christian message in the cultural context of the audience links back to the ‘mission’ interface suggested by Beckford.37 The function of the sound system is to lift up the name of Jesus Christ in the talk on the mic and the music played. By doing so, it is hoped that seeds would be sown in the hearts and minds of nonbelievers. Both sound systems describe what they do as ministry. Sharing the gospel message transcends the sound system but also extends out into prison ministry, church outreach, bible studies and various talks with youth groups. Thirdly, the sound system apparatus is set apart for the work of musical evangelism (as mentioned in the previous point). The sound system itself is viewed as a pulpit, with the MC assuming the role of a preacher in a church. Thus, it is necessary to guard the sound system to ensure that the message resonating from the speaker boxes is consistent with the Christian ethos of the sound system. The MC holds a great responsibility in delivering the Word of God over the microphone. In order to fulfil this role, an MC had to be skilled in the art of ‘chatting mic’ but also well versed in the Christian message of the gospel as found in the Holy Bible. Spanna stressed the seriousness of this particular job: They have to bring a word of clarity to the audience to let them know; ‘I know how it looks but this is what it is, it’s a Christian sound, we’re preaching the Word of God, there is prayer, there is salvation, there is deliverance and I’m in the pulpit. I’m behind the sound’. That means that as much as we have a bag of bredrin on street, nobody who wasn’t saved could touch our mic… we couldn’t afford for people to steer our ship.38

Fourthly, the gospel sound system practitioners expressed a reliance on the Holy Spirit for the ability to discern how to navigate the dancehall space and employ wisdom in their decision-making in all aspects of the performance. The Spirit is guiding the selector to choose the right songs, 37 Beckford, Jesus Dub, p. 147. 38 Spanna, author’s interview, 2018.

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the Spirit is inspiring the MC to speak appropriate words on the microphone and the Spirit does the work of conviction in the hearts and minds of the audience. Juliet Fletcher, founder of the Gospel Music Industry Alliance, suggests that the Spirit empowers gospel artists to fulfil the two-fold purpose of worshiping God and bearing witness in the world (Fletcher 2010, p. 74).39 I would argue that the same pneumatological process takes place within the setting of the Christian sound system performance. Lastly, the Christian sound systems appreciate sound as a reflection of God’s creation as Efrem declares: When I began to really appreciate the increase in quality (of the sound system) it just re-affirmed my conviction that God is the almighty creator and all that we experience in terms of sound and music is given by Him. So, even the frequencies within the spectrum of sound are all intentionally and purposefully placed by God. Nothing that man created, man just discover them. So to have the equipment that could reproduce that spectrum with clarity and quality is to the glory of the most high who has given them.40

The selectors, engineers and MCs believe that their Christianity encompasses all areas of life including their involvement in sound systems. Miller describes how this balance is navigated: I accepted Christ as my saviour and say I am a Christian…. If I was walking and I hear like a sound string up, even as a Christian I would always go and lean up and say ‘bwoy that sound sound heavy you know’ because it’s something that I knew … as a sound man, you know the parameters, you have the conviction from the Holy Spirit within you and the Word of God that you read and you study…the walk that we walk in our day to day life, whether it’s our job, whether it’s our family, whether it’s our church life or whether it’s our sound system life, we are still guided by the Word of God.41

39 Juliet Fletcher, ‘Gospel Music and the Black Church’, in Joe Aldred and Keno Ogbo, The Black Church in the Twenty-First Century (London: Darton, Longman and Todd, 2010), pp. 63–78. 40 Efrem, author’s interview, 2018. 41 Miller, author’s interview, 2018.

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This view of the Christian life resonates with the Caribbean Church tradition. Theologian and author, Kortright Davis, argues that life and religion is all together holistic within the Caribbean tradition.42 I would argue that gospel sound systems are culturally rooted in the context of a ‘Caribbean personality’ which is inherently religious.43 The gospel sound system practitioners are open to the possibility that within the dancehall there can be both good and bad. The stringent demarcation of sacred and secular is less apparent in this mixing of Christian theology with Jamaican popular culture.

Conclusion The central aim of this chapter was to explore the Christian sound system phenomenon which started in the Midlands during the late 1990s. The models of engagement between urban black culture and the church, as suggested by Beckford (2006), has provided the conceptual framework for this investigation.44 I focused on two influential Christian sound systems: Shekinah Sound Ministries and His Majesty Sound System. The interviews firstly provided an historical account of the movement and secondly, it generated rich qualitative data necessary to carry out meaningful and detailed analysis. Since its inception in the late 1990s, the gospel sound systems have had a close relationship with gospel artists in the UK. Shekinah & HMSS have used their sound system as a platform to support many gospel reggae singers and DJs down the years. The relationship is not as close as the traditional British sound system model from the 1970s/80s where deejaying on a sound system was the primary way to start out as a respected reggae artist. There is nonetheless clear evidence of a connection between the gospel reggae artist and the gospel reggae sound system. For many of the reggae artists in the 1990s/early 2000s, performing at a Shekinah event or a HMSS event was one of the few spaces where they could experience their style of gospel on a ‘big sound’. To this day, both Shekinah and HMSS still ‘voice’ Christian artists for their dub

42 Kortright Davis, Emancipation Still Comin’: Explorations in Caribbean Emancipatory Theology (New York: Orbis Books, 1990). 43 Ibid., p. 53. 44 Beckford, Jesus Dub.

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plate specials. They are constantly networking with new British gospel artists as well as established names, as they seek to promote new music on their specialist radio shows. While they play a number of different genres, reggae remains the primary passion and first love. Gospel reggae is still the primary driving force of the Christian sound system movement in Britain. Through the skill of the engineers, MCs and selectors these gospelbased sound aficionados effectively navigate the sound system cultural space. They entertain, encourage and safeguard the Christian spirituality of sound systems in Britain. It was a work started by Shekinah that was taken up by HMSS and a number of other sound systems up and down the country. With the decline of traditional reggae sound systems as the dominant cultural choice of black youth, discussions may be raised about the effectiveness of sound systems for future missionary work. If you attend a Christian sound system event today, you can hear the ‘cut n mix’ of African roots with Caribbean cultural influences in the gospel music ranging from gospel reggae to gospel afrobeats. As well as style, the cultural mix of people in the movement is also diverse with black and white selectors, MCs and engineers represented across different sound systems. The music played predominately reflects a black British Christian expression characterised by a continued hybridity in style. The Christian sound system will continue to reflect these stylistic changes as it is ‘re-versioned’ by new MCs and DJs/selectors who engage in this space. Christian sound systems have been largely ignored from the mainstream history on UK sound system culture. I have attempted to argue the reasons why their contribution should be acknowledged within the wider narrative of black British culture. The theological enquiry into this niche movement has raised important considerations surrounding cultural aesthetics, appropriation, performance practices, beliefs and convictions. The theological themes that have emerged from this dialogue provide important insights and a framework for similar exchanges in the future. The appropriation of reggae as a style of music raised conflicts and issues in what many may still consider a ‘culture clash’. These considerations have highlighted important questions regarding the dialogue between ‘secular’ and ‘sacred’ spaces. I would suggest that these pioneering sound system operators have drawn influences from the history and legacy of reggae in the UK to birth a unique Christian ‘re-versioning’ of sound system culture. This exchange between the ‘church hall’ and ‘dancehall’ offers an important spiritual perspective to our existing knowledge of sound systems and adds to the rich tapestry of bassline culture in modern Britain.

CHAPTER 15

Handsworth Revolution: Reggae Theomusicology, Gospel Borderlands and Delinking Black British Contemporary Gospel Music from Colonial Christianity Robert Beckford

Key to understanding the rich theopoetical tradition of black religious communities is the manner in which their theopoetic practices were used to inaugurate alternative worlds of anti-colonial, socio-political possibility; worlds that were often sequestered from them by the necropolitical forces surrounding them…. James Hill Hr.1

1 James Hill Jr., ‘What Do People Mean by “Theopoetics”’, on ARC Website (A Creative Collaboration for Theopoetics, https://artsreligionculture.org/definitions (accessed September 27, 2019).

R. Beckford (B) The Queen’s Ecumenical Foundation, Birmingham, UK © The Author(s) 2021 W. ‘L’. Henry and M. Worley (eds.), Narratives from Beyond the UK Reggae Bassline, Palgrave Studies in the History of Subcultures and Popular Music, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-55161-2_15

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This chapter contours the disconnect between black liberation theology and Caribbean diaspora contemporary gospel music and proffers a solution, that is, a new practice for contemporary gospel music inspired by reggae music’s decoloniality. A practice is necessary to move beyond the preoccupation with ‘theories’ of decolonisation of Caribbean theology, and the postcolonial British black theology.2 In other words, the development of a practical decolonial theology. Reggae decoloniality is derived from Rastafari inspired reggae music which comprises of numerous sonic features. However, centrepiece in this study is lyricism, that is, the wordsound-power of the genre.3 Through a case study of British Reggae band Steel Pulse, this chapter will parse a decoloniality from the band’s track, ‘Handsworth Revolution’ (1978). Reggae’s decoloniality is a resource for the delinking of contemporary gospel music from the pervasive influence of colonial Christianity. Colonial Christianity is the ‘slave master’s’ religion, a corruption of Christian doctrine, transmitted by violent settler colonialism in the Caribbean.4 Inside of Empire’s rapacious, avaricious intentions, colonial Christianity embodies the ‘great contradiction’ of Christian mission in the Caribbean—what seventeenth Century English missionary Morgan Godwyn coined as ‘Christian slavery’.5 Disclosed at the dawn of Christian mission in the Caribbean, the content of colonial Christianity continues to downpress the theological ways of knowing in African Caribbean diaspora churches, and concomitantly contemporary gospel music. Although, the other major British black church tradition, west African Christianity, is not immune from the influence of an African colonial Christianity, and therefore, has its own

2 Romney M. Moseley, ‘Decolonizing Theology in the Caribbean: Prospects for Hermeneutical Reconstruction’, Toronto Journal of Theology, 6: (2) (2019), 235–46; Noel Leo Erskine, Decolonizing Theology a Caribbean Perspective (Trenton, NJ: Africa World Press 1998): Michael N. Jagessar and Anthony Reddie, Postcolonial Black British Theology: New Textures and Themes (Epworth Press, Peterborough: England, 2007). 3 S. Porta and David Shulman, The Poetics of Grammar and the Metaphysics of Sound and Sign (Leiden: Brill, 2007). 4 Travis Glasson, Mastering Christianity: Missionary Anglicanism and Slavery in the Atlantic World (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017). 5 Godwyn, Morgan, The Negro’s & Indians Advocate, Suing for Their Admission to the Church (Montana, USA: Kessinger Publishing, 2010).

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history of coloniality to contend with.6 An unveiling of the content of colonial Christianity in the Caribbean takes place in a seminal sermon to enslaved peoples in Jamaica in 1739 by the father of the Moravian Church, Count Ludwig von Zinzendorf. Part of the sermon from February 15th reads: Be true to your husbands and wives, and obedient to your masters and bombas. The Lord has made all ranks – kings, masters, servants and slaves. God has punished the first Negroes by making them slaves, and your conversion will make you free, not from the control of your masters, but simply from your wicked habits and thoughts, and all that makes you dissatisfied with your lot.7

This reconfiguration of the Christian message in the sermon has three interlocking theological categories: soteriology, hermeneutics and ideology. Soteriology is collapsed into a racial and gender hierarchy (‘….be true to your masters….The Lord has made all ranks…’). In other words, salvation is equated with personal piety and acquiescence to the politics of the colonial system. Sin and salvation are individual rather than social.8 The hermeneutic or interpretive strategy is literalist, and white supremacist (‘God has punished the first Negroes by making them slaves’).9 Ideology of anti-blackness underpins the whole system. A symbiosis of black bodies and sinfulness underline the belief in blackness as pathology (‘your wicked habits and thoughts’). Collectively these categories perform as a hegemon and universal norm, that is, colonial Christianity.10 Colonial Christianity that is, its coloniality,11 continues to inform Caribbean diaspora Christianity and seeps into the 6 B. Adedibu, Coat of Many Colours: The Origin, Growth, Distinctiveness and Contributions of Black Majority Churches to British Christianity (Blackpool: Wisdom Summit, 2012). 7 J. E. Hutton, A History of Moravian Missions (London: Moravian Publications Office, 1922), p. 44. 8 S. Jones, Constructive Theology: A Contemporary Approach to Classical Themes (Minneapolis: Fortress Press 2008), p. 117ff. 9 David M. Goldenberg, The Curse of Ham: Race and Slavery in Early Judaism, Christianity and Islam (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2013). 10 Walter D. Mignolo, ‘Introduction’, Cultural Studies, 21: 2–3 (2007), 155–67. 11 See Anibal Quijano, ‘Coloniality of Power, Eurocentrism, and Latin America’,

Nepentla: Views From the South, 1: 3 (2000), 533–80.

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theology of gospel music. For instance, one of the few empirical studies of the content of black British music, Pauline Muir’s recent musicological study of worship music in diaspora, uncovers traces of the hegemon and universality of colonial Christianity. That is, a general inability for gospel musicality to venture beyond a personal faith, the use of a literalist, Eurocentric hermeneutic, and make little reference to black empowerment.12 To embellish reggae music’s delinking and provide decolonial options for contemporary gospel music, we turn to the borderland thinking of the gospel genre and the former gospel artist Jahaziel. His doubleconsciousness of gospel and secular music, Christianity and humanism. As we shall see, Jahaziel’s stinging criticism of colonial Christianity contours new options for contemporary gospel music. In sum, decoloniality as musicality comprises of a decolonial method from Rastafari inspired reggae and decolonial options from the borderlands of contemporary gospel music. A new musical practice informed by decoloniality breaches the gap between black theology and gospel music. This practice takes the form of gospel music production in the shape of a decolonial gospel album, the Jamaican Bible Remix (5 AM Records 2017) (Fig. 15.1). However, a fundamental question to consider is ‘can this approach work?’ That is, can it communicate decoloniality to gospel artists and contribute to a rise in consciousness? To briefly review the veracity of the practice, we end the chapter with a short reflection on the reception of the album from contemporary gospel artists at the ‘West Indian Front Room’ event in Birmingham (2018). We traverse the core themes of this chapter: (1) the disconnect between black theology and gospel music; (2) reggae theomusicology; and (3) decolonial options with three headings: the problem, the practice and the theopoetics.13 While a range of interpretive tools are brought to bear on

12 See Pauline Muir, ‘Sounds Mega: Musical Discourse in Black Majority Churches in London’ (PhD thesis, Birkbeck College, University of London, 2018). 13 The aesthetic as a way of experience the transcendent. See L. Callid Keefe-Perry, Way to Water: A Theopoetics Primer (Cascade, 2014); idem, ‘Editorial: Without Ceasing’, Theopoetics: A Journal of Theological Imagination, Literature, Embodiment, and Aesthetics, 1: 1 (2014), 1–4.

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Fig. 15.1 Robert Beckford, Jamaican Bible Remix

the task at hand, they are enframed by a rhizome theology.14 That is to say, an interpretive method which makes no claim to belong to one discipline or another but instead resides intermezzo.15 The conclusions and outcomes of this method, therefore, seek to forge new points of reflection within a broader matrix of thought and action.

Problem: The Distance Between Black Theology and Gospel Music The problem is the estrangement of black theology from contemporary gospel music. One expression of this disconnect is the paucity of research by the main academics of black church life in Britain, that is, black theologians, on the subject of black British gospel music. This evasion is palpable when we consider how much contemporary gospel music matters. It 14 R. Beckford, Jesus Dub: Theology, Music and Social Change (London: Routledge, 2006). 15 G. Deleuze and F. Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus (London: Athlone, 1998).

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is the most diffuse communicative network for transmitting theological ideas within African and Caribbean church traditions. Black Christians in Britian are more likely to produce knowlege about God derived from the hundreds of songs that they hear than the weekly sermons that are preached. Beyond the UK context, gospel music is at the heart of the black religious Atlantic—a black church communication network crisscrossing between North America, the Caribbean and Europe.16 Similarly, in this broader space, gospel music is more than background accompaniment to the expressive physicality and kinetic orality of Sunday morning worship. It has power. Not only in the Bridget Myer sense of ‘divine power’, but also a discursive force—that is, a cognitive and disciplining influence. The problem is ‘a two-way street’. Another expression of the disconnect is the gospel artist’s ignorance of the discipline of black theology. A recent conversation with one of Britain’s brightest gospel artists, Seth Pinnock, characterises the estrangement. Robert: Seth Pinnock: Robert: Seth:

Have you read any black liberation theology? No. Does it really matter? I think it matters for gospel music because all music is theological, right? I’ve not thought about it that way before.

The predicament is more depressing when we consider that Seth is a representative of the immensely talented, third generation, of AfricanCaribbean contemporary gospel artists. His disavowal sheds light on the depth of the disconnect—it registers an inability of two decades of black theology to gain a foothold in the black church and its worshipping traditions. Our collective failure as theologians to engage the gospel genre has serious consequences. Without dialogue, gospel soundscapes evade theological reflection on some of the most pressing issues of the day such as racism, sexism, homophobia, environmentalism and militarism, and remain captive to the soteriological myopia of colonial Christianity. Take, for instance, the opposing musical responses in the wake of the Grenfell

16 P. Gilroy, The Black Atlantic: Modernity and Double Consciousness (London: Verso, 2007).

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Tower tragedy of 2017. On the one hand, grime artist Stormzy directly confronts the failure of government policies in his iconic ‘Brits Awards’ performance in 2018. On the other, the Kingdom Choir, Britain’s leading gospel band, have no direct engagement with this tragic event in their release of fifteen songs of inspiration (‘Stand by Me’ 2018). Why has black theology failed to impress change on the genre? What are the barriers separating the discipline’s prophetic mandate from one of its primary audiences? We suggest three reasons. These are time, mission and numbers. However, none of these explanations, accounts for an underlying methodological issue. In terms of time, one may argue that black theology in Britain is a relatively young discipline. Like all academic discourse, it requires generations rather than decades to become ‘ordinary’ in the black church. Second, ‘speaking truth to power’ is neither popular nor prolific. It is a minority pursuit whose primary goal is to disrupt and disentangle unjust power relations through cogent and critical analyses rather than the organisation of a mass movement. Finally, the number of active theologians is a crucial variable. Despite the multitudes of black Christians swelling the ranks of churchgoers, and Christianity in Britain’s cities, a ‘black movement’, the British theological academy has resisted ethnic diversity. At the time of writing, only two full-time black theologians are in service in the University sector. We cannot burden the less than one per cent of the British theological academy in Higher Education with the transformation of contemporary gospel music. These explanations are relevant, but they do not fully account for the quandary. Instead, we propose a different evaluation which has implications for a resolution. The alternative assessment is that underlying this stand-off is an acute communication failure. The primary language of the black church is music. Music shapes its liturgy and communicates theological ideas. In contrast, British black theology with few exceptions is a logocentric discipline, and its ideas disseminated in books, journals and conference papers. In light of these differences, regarding engaging with the black church, black theology’s singular devotion to the ‘western logocentric rationalist hegemony’ is a weak theological ‘epistemicide’ (the suppression of diverse ways of knowing arising from dialogue with the black church).17 But this failure is not the last word on this matter. Redemption is possible, but only 17 The killing of knowledge from the location of the church. See, B. D. S. Santos, Epistemologies of the South: Justice Against Epistemicide (London: Routledge 2017).

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if black theologians shift to a heteroglossia. That is to say, the idea of using many types of communication to engage with diversity of black Christian experience. Michael Eric Dyson ‘pentecostalises’ this prospect by interpreting the significance of New Testament glossolalia as multilingual/modal speech in black life.18 To exchange ideas and produce knowlege about God, Dyson proposes that black scholars discover an appropriate language for each of the diverse contexts in which black identities and communities reside. For if as Foucault asserts, language is at the base of material and metaphysical transformation, then black theology must be multimodal, including musical. A sonic black theology requires a decolonial heuristic, and in this case, inspiration comes from Rastafari inspired reggae.

Practice: Rastafari Theomusicology How can Rastafari reggae provide contemporary gospel music with a method for decolonising gospel music? The answer is epistemic. Rastafari reggae decoloniality offers a way of knowing that relocates the loci of understanding from the universal and hegemonic to the local and experiential—and these new spacial and corporeal ways of knowing, we suggest, are a template for delinking gospel music from the continued influence of colonial Christianity. Decoloniality is a central theme in Rastafari inspired reggae theomusiking, —the inscribing of Rastafari belief into music performance. Decoloniality while a diverse and complex analytic and practice is essentially a commitment to departing from coloniality’s salvific (theo-logical) and rationalistic (ego-logical) totality of western thought.19 In relation to this exploration, however, decoloniality denotes an epistemic rebellion, a move away from colonial Christianity, and an epistemic/theological reconstruction based on alternative spaces (geopolitics) and bodies (body-politics).20 Regarding Rastafari reggae and decoloniality, the departure is nuanced. Borrowing Walter Mignolo’s terms, in Rastafari reggae Colonial Christianity’s totalising ‘theo and ego– logics’, are displaced by a contextual theological ‘geo and body-political’

18 M. E. Dyson, Between God and Gangsta Rap: Bearing Witness to Black Culture (New York: Oxford University Press 2007). 19 Walter D. Mignolo, ‘Delinking’, Cultural Studies, 21: 2–3 (2007), 449–514. 20 Ibid.

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knowledge. That is to say, a new way of knowing God is derived from the particular spaces and bodies of people racialised as black. Fundamentally, Rastafari’s delinking from colonial Christianity decenters the theological conversation. Take, for instance, the decolonial readings of Psalm 68:31: ‘Princes shall come out of Egypt; Ethiopia shall soon stretch out her hands unto God’ (KJV). As Robbie Shilliam notes, the colonial Christian interpretation of this text justifies black oppression such as in the form of the civilising mission of western imperialism. In contrast, the alternate Rastafarian vision, interpreted from within black history and experience, promotes black liberation. Rastafarian exegetes produce a meaning where Psalm 68:31 announces the coming of the black messiah.21 Arguably, the most crucial register for Rastafari inspired reggae’s delinking is the heuristic, ‘Babylon’. In Rastafari biblical hermeneutics, the Babylonian captivity of the Hebrews (608–538 BCE) signifies black suffering in the west—the diaspora experience of slavery, colonialism and neo-colonialism. However, the meaning of Babylon is neither singular nor fixed. As Anita Walters shows in her study of the appropriation of Rastafari symbols in Jamaican politics, Babylon has come to imply a range of meanings beyond Rastafari millennialism, including statecraft.22 Within Babylon’s semantic field one possible meaning is a metaphor for decolonial activity, that is to say it signals a delinking from the oppressive system and its ways of knowing. For example, songs which reference Babylon, inadvertently, gesture towards decoloniality. ‘Move out of Babylon’ (Johnny Clarke), ‘Chant down Babylon’ (Bob Marley), ‘Babylon the Bandit’ (Steel Pulse) and ‘Moving Out A Babylon’ (Luciano) all express modalities for delinking. In other words, to be against Babylon is in addition to physical emancipation, and political liberation, epistemic evolution.23 Babylon as a heuristic for delinking from colonial Christianity is evident in the theomusicology of one of Britain’s longest performing Rastafari inspired reggae bands, Steel Pulse. Steel Pulse was founded in the early 1970s, by the end of the decade, the group achieved international fame upon the release and positive reception of their first two studio albums,

21 R Shilliam, ‘A Global Story of Psalm 68:31’, Wordpress.Com, November 7, 2012. 22 A. M. Waters, Race, Class and Political Symbols: Rastafari and Reggae in Jamaican

Politics (London: Routledge, 2017), p. 134. 23 Walter D. Mignolo, ‘Introduction’, pp. 455–59.

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Handsworth Revolution (1978) and Tribute to the Martyrs (1979). While the line-up of the group has changed over their four decades in the music industry, the lead singer, David Hinds, remains the spearhead and driving force behind the bands sixteen studio albums.24 The thematic range of the band’s discography traverses a variety of topics including, black history, pan-African politics, Rastafari religion, anti-racism, environmental degradation, human trafficking and social media manipulation. Decoloniality through the auspices of Babylon is featured in the lyricism of the song ‘Handsworth Revolution’ from their same titled debut album. There are two moves in the song that underscore epistemic emancipation from colonial Christianity. The first move is the displacing of the ‘myth’ of colonial Christian hegemon and universality. These categories are replaced with a local, contextuality or a geo-political focus. That is to say, the cartography of ‘Handsworth Revolution’ is the domestic urban neo-colonial situation of black British subjects, described as “The people of Handsworth”. The second move is to assert a body-political episteme by distinguishing black bodies as the locus of knowing. Hinds, however, fails to de-essentialise blackness. He identifies blackness as homogeneous: They are brothers in south of Africa One Black represent all, all over the world.25

The message from black space and body is a prophetic criticism.26 BABYLON IS FALLING BABYLON IS FALLING It was foolish to build It on the sand Handsworth shall stand, firm - like Jah rock - Fighting back We once beggars are now choosers No intention to be losers Striving forward with ambition.

24 Robert Beckford, Documentary as Exorcism: Resisting the Bewitchment of Colonial Christianity (London: Bloomsbury 2014). 25 Steel Pulse, ‘Handsworth Revolution’ from Album Handsworth Revolution (Island Records, 1978). 26 Cornel West, Prophetic Thought in Postmodern Times (Monroe, ME: Common Courage Press, 1993).

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These categories matter for contemporary gospel music because, with few exceptions, the local space or history and the body-politics of ‘racial’ identity in Britain are rarely explored in British contemporary gospel music.27

Poetics: Options for Gospel Music Rastafari decoloniality, its place and corporeal epistemes, set us on a pathway to new options for contemporary gospel music lyricism. To arrive at decolonial opportunities for contemporary gospel music lyricism, that is, ways of thinking about God delinked from colonial Christianity, we travel to the borderlands of gospel music. As Gloria Anzaldúa makes clear, border epistemology is where decolonial thinking is most potent.28 In this case, the border epistemology is the testimony of former gospel rap artist Jahaziel. A former gospel artist turned black humanist, Jahaziel is cognisant of the limitations and potential of the genre. His critique appears in testimony—a black church way of knowing that combines epistemes of experience and dialogue.29 As a momentary displacing of hierarchy, especially gendered power relations, (testimony time in the black church is a voice for otherwise silent black women) testimony is a subversive flicker fecund with transformative possibilities. There are two parts to Jahaziel’s testimony. His comments upon leaving the Christian tradition and his first non-Christian single release. Together they reveal the contents of his departure from mainstream Christianity and into black humanism.30 We will parse this testimony (read against, collapse and reject, respectively) to locate concepts which gesture towards options for a decoloniality of contemporary gospel music. To demonstrate how these decolonial options translate into new ways of thinking about gospel music lyricism, we will show how these options

27 The only UK gospel band to explore ‘race’ politics is Out of Darkness in The Celebration Club Session (Plankton 1972). See track ‘Worldpool’. 28 Gloria Anzaldua, ´ Borderlands/La Frontera (San Francisco, CA: Aunt Lute Books,

1987); W. D Mignolo and M. V. Tlostanova, ‘Theorizing from the Borders: Shifting to Geo- and Body-Politics of Knowledge’, European Journal of Social Theory, 9: 2 (2006), 205–21. 29 P. H. Collins, Black Feminist Thought: Knowledge, Consciousness, and the Politics of Empowerment (London: Routledge, 2008). 30 Informal conversation with Jahaziel (July 2019).

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are inscribed into the gospel music of The Jamaican Bible Remix (2017). The Jamaican Bible Remix is a conceptual gospel album written and produced by the author. Taking as a centrepiece, three songs (‘Magnificat’, ‘Incarnation: no blacks, no Irish no dogs’, and ‘Pay Back’) we will identify the options in relation to Jahaziel’s categories of womanist soteriology, resistant readings and loving blackness, respectively. Jahaziel’s leaving statement is this: Now, after 20 years of being vocal about the positives of the Christian faith, I would like to take some time to be equally vocal about the negatives I have found. i.e. Christianity and its controlling dictatorship, its historic blood trail, its plagiarized Bible stories, characters and concepts, the many human errors of the Bible and its contradictions, the brutal nature of its God, its involvement in the slave trade, the crusades, the inquisition, the witch hunts, its second-class view of women, its masculinization of God, its emasculation of men, its financial corruption … you get the drift.31

This statement was a shock to his gospel rap fans. Nothing in his award-winning albums prepared for this. No sign of his woke consciousness in the song titles such as ‘I Said Yes’, and ‘Jesus’. Yet, amidst the rubble of the disappointment, lay the material for decolonising the genre.

Decolonial Option 1: Womanist Soteriology The first option is womanist soteriology. It is derived from ‘reading against’ the soteriology of colonial Christianity. We parse a womanist soteriology from two contentions raised in Jahaziel’s leaving statement. The first is, the Christian collusion with slavery’s racial terror: ‘Christianity and its controlling dictatorship, its historic blood trail….its God, its involvement in the slave trade, the crusades’. The statement underscores a salvation history which implicates God in a negative soteriology.32 The second issue is derived from Jahaziel’s

31 David Daniels, ‘Legendary UK Rapper Jahaziel Renounces Christian Faith’, Rapzilla, December 23, 2015, http://www.rapzilla.com/rz/news/38-backstage/12223-legendaryuk-rapper-jahaziel-renounces-christian-faith. 32 William R. Jones, Is God a White Racist? A Preamble to Black Theology (Boston: Beacon Press, 1998); Anthony B. Pinn, Why, Lord? Suffering and Evil in Black Theology (New York: Continuum, 1999).

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identification of its victims: ‘Christianity’s … second-class view of women its masculinization of God’. The second contention has resonance with intersectionality in womanist theology, that is, the jeopardy of ‘race’ class and gender in Christian experience.33 In fact, both of the contentions identified by Jahaziel, the collusion of colonial Christian soteriology and its implications for black women are sites of contestation within womanist soteriology.34 In response, womanist soteriology, reads against the race, class and gender oppression of colonial Christianity by affirming a broader salvific praxis: As a form of liberation theology, womanist theologies aim for the freedom of oppressed peoples and creatures. More specifically, womanist theologies add the goals of survival, quality of life, and wholeness to black theology’s goals of liberation and justice.35

A womanist soteriology is the centrepiece of the track ‘Magnificat’ on the Jamaican Bible Remix album.36 The Magnificat or Mary’s song is found in the New Testament, the first chapter of Luke’s Gospel. Upon discovering she is pregnant, Mary, sings a song of praise to God. While there is some debate as to whether or not Mary actually sang the song, Luke is certain that she is. A womanist soteriological option is evident in the lyricism. The lyrics consist of the words of two black women reflecting on salvation as black women’s liberation. The main reflection comes from Birmingham hip hop artists Justice Williams. Justice’s words signify on the great reversal tradition of Luke 1 through a decentring which places black women in history 33 Delores S. Williams, Sisters in the Wilderness: The Challenge of Womanist God-Talk (New York: Orbis, 2013); Keri Day, Religious Resistance to Neoliberalism: Womanist and Black Feminist Perspectives (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2016). 34 Charles B. Copher, Randall C. Bailey, and Jacquelyn Grant, The Recovery of Black Presence: An Interdisciplinary Exploration: Essays in Honor of Dr. Charles B. Copher (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1995). 35 Monica A Coleman, Making a Way Out of No Way: A Womanist Theology (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2008), p. 11. 36 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pPcgsrPQt30. See https://www.canterbury.ac. uk/arts-and-humanities/school-of-humanities/religion-philosophy-and-ethics/research/ jamaican-bible-remix.aspx.

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as participants and agents in God’s plan of redemption. Salvation as a political project is signified in a sample at the start and finish of the track by the first black female Bishop in the Church of England, the Bishop of Dover, the Rev Rose Hudson-Wilkin, and this is the second reflection. Finally, although genre is not foregrounded here, it is important to note that in this song, the musical accompaniment is the ‘Lover’s Rock’ reggae genre. As Lisa Palmer suggests, this genre has affinity with the black political consciousness of black women in Britain.37 Magnificat Rev. Rose Hudson-Wilkin: I believe we need to hear more women’s voices in public life, in particular for the next generation. If we are going to change the dynamics of what we have today, where it is still sort of a man’s world, then women today need to step forward, to enable their children and their grandchildren, in particular girls and actually boys, too. Boys need to see that their counterparts can be equally respected in terms of the contribution that they bring to the table. JNT (Jamaican New Testament) sample: ‘Luuk 1’ […] mi a Gad-bles uman, kaaz di Muos Powaful Gad du da mirikl ya fi mi — im uoli! Gad gud kyaahn don’. Chorus (Justice): Oh hear me ladies, oh hear me girls, ‘cause God has chosen you to save the world. All black women of the earth, skin like dirt, you need to know your worth. JNT: Im tek im an du som powaful sitn; im skyata skyata buosi piipl. Gad aal dong ruula aafa dem ai chuon an lif op piipl we nobadi neva tingk se mata. Justice: I said its time for action, them slavery chains have a chain reaction, oh yes. I am a fighter resister, a daughter, a sister, I am a fraction of progress. Some don’t lift a finger, but I ride the storm like the queen

37 Lisa Palmer, ‘“Ladies A Your Time Now!”: Erotic Politics, Lovers’ Rock and Resistance in the UK’, in Ifeona Fulani (ed.), Archipelagos of Sound Transnational Caribbeanities, Women and Music (Kingston: University of the West Indies Press, 2012).

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Nzinga. Because all through the process, trust me its mommy that knows best. Yo, we need justice and equal rights, want to rest in peace when we sleep at night. Fight for the children, they use and abuse them, world of confusion enough so we lose them to the streets. Ain’t no one to keep eyes out for them, no one to protect or vouch for them, let’s reach out to them mothers of the earth, we do more than give birth, lets show what we worth’. JNT: Im gi onggri piipl uol iip a gud sitn, bot rich piipl im sen we wid dem tuu lang an. Gad elp im sorvant dem, Izrel. Im memba fi bi gud an kain tu dem. Chorus (Justice): Oh hear me ladies, oh hear me girls, ‘cause God has chosen you to save the world. All black women of the earth, skin like dirt, you need to know your worth. Justice: Armed with a pen and a paper and strong mind. I read for those who couldn’t, and there was a long line. I’m too tall, the sky ain’t the limit, a jungle sometimes, I got a panther spirit. With or without a husband, I am freeing minds like Harriet Tubman. The fact is, they deported and killed the activists, but they are a part of us, so we are attached to this. Teacher, go teach the youth. Ananci, defend our people like the queens of Ashanti, bridge the gap for future generations, download our history and make our own stations. So many sayings left to be said, and so many books left to be read, we need to wake up the mentally dead, we need to lead so we won’t be led, ‘nough said. Rev. Rose Hudson-Wilkin: For young women today who say that politics is rather boring and not for them, I would like them to think of politics, as something that is going to impact on their lives, whether they like it or not. So, in other words, they will need to ask themselves: ‘Do I want to just sit and have something done to me, or do I want to be right there, at the cutting edge, making decisions, contributing to the decisions that are going to impact on society of which they are a part?’

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Justice: I want to shout-out all my womanists: Valentina Alexander Caroline Redfern Dulcie McKenzie Maxine Howell Lynette Mullings Let’s go Let’s go Let’s go …

Option 2: Resistant Readings Jahaziel’s leaving statement also casts doubt on the authority of the Bible. That is to say, he questions the accuracy of Scripture: ‘… it’s plagiarised Bible stories, characters and concepts, the many human errors of the Bible and its contradictions’. Questioning biblical authenticity is not new. Modern western, biblical studies, foregrounds doubt as a central feature of the historical-critical method of the late nineteenth Century. Unencumbered by ecclesiastical constraints, historical criticism set out to identify the constructed-ness of the Bible: how the compiling of books reflects ancient theological decision making, rather than objective, otherworldly designs.38 However, not all theologians succumb to the analytical vortex of historical criticism. Black biblical scholars for instance, while invested in criticising sacred texts, question the discipline’s preoccupation with the ancient world, literary analyses and original meanings, because these trajectories neglect the role of bias in academic training, and consequently, the power relations underlying scholarship.39 To rectify these perceived deficiencies, black biblical scholars develop resistant readings of Scripture.40 In other words, they not only identify critical issues in the world of the ancient writers but also seek to find ways of reading these texts that engage with the history and experience of the African diaspora. Take, for instance, Randall Bailey’s critical 38 Michael Joseph Brown, Blackening of the Bible: The Aims of African American Biblical Scholarship (Harrisburg: Trinity Press International, 2004). 39 Ibid. 40 Oral A. Thomas, Biblical Resistance Hermeneutics Within a Caribbean Context (London: Routledge, 2014), p. 8.

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reading of the conquest narratives in the Hebrew Bible.41 For Bailey, the historicity of the text raises the question about the ‘lies’ people will tell about God to justify the oppression of others. In terms of the contemporary significance, Bailey considers how ideas about God continue to oppress minorities in America. In other words, resistant readings of Scripture challenge oppressive practices in the ancient and contemporary worlds. But this academic war of position is opaque. It takes place behind the ‘ebony towers’ of academia.42 Jahaziel, like most contemporary gospel artists, is oblivious to the black theological academy, and, devoid of intellectual support, he unwittingly aligns himself to the western historical criticism. To arrive at a second option, and delink from colonial Christianity’s hermeneutic, I suggest, we ‘blacken’ Jahaziel’s critique. That is to say, ‘collapse’ his academic concerns into the black biblical studies’ tradition of resistant readings. This approach takes all critical historical questions seriously but seeks to address them from the critical contextual concerns raised by black biblical studies rather than rejecting Scripture outright. Resistant reading is a position adopted by the emerging black British biblical studies in Britain. As black British biblical scholar Gifford Rhamie asserts, resistant readings aspire to ‘out’ the traces of colonial Christianity in the biblical text and contemporary contexts.43 Reading the Bible politically and co-contextually. We explore resistant readings in the song ‘Incarnation’.44 The song is a reinterpretation/recontextualization of St. John 1:14: The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us. We have seen his glory, the glory of the one and only Son, who came from the Father,

41 R. Bailey, ‘They’re Nothing but Incestuous Bastards: The Polemical Use of Sex and Sexuality in Hebrew Canon Narratives’ Vol 1, in Social Location and Biblical Interpretation in the United States (Nashville, TN, 1995), pp. 121–38; F. F. Segovia and M. A. Tolbert, Reading from This Place (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1995). 42 Mitzi J. Smith, Womanist Sass and Talk Back: Social (In)Justice, Intersectionality, and Biblical Interpretation (Eugene, OR: Cascade Books, 2018). 43 G. Rhamie, ‘Whiteness, Conviviality and Agency: The Ethiopian Eunuch and Conceptuality in the Imperial Imagination of Biblical Studies’ (Unpublished PhD Dissertation, Christ Church University, Canterbury, 2019). 44 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aF2TNt0E9oA.

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full of grace and truth’. … We observed his glory, the glory as the one and only Son from the Father, full of grace and truth. (NIV)

Traditionally this text is read soteriologically. Jesus came to save humanity. However, the divine missiology belies a more complex history related to divine enfleshment. The incarnation underlines the two-natures of Christ (divine and human), a theological question resolved in church history at the great councils of Nicaea and Chalcedon.45 Underpinning the song is the presupposition that the incarnation has both anthropological and social implications. The incarnation directly impacts Christian anthropology; namely, it affirms the regenerative potential of all humanity.46 That is to say, all sarx or flesh is redeemable. It is important to note that this viewpoint has some resonance with traditional African religion, where the idea of an original fleshly corruption is an anathema.47 The incarnation also has a social implication, that is, if all flesh is redeemable or good, we cannot privilege one body over another. Yet, Eboni Marshall Turman in her study of incarnational theology, reminds us of the adverse history associated with the incarnation and racial hierarchies: ‘Peculiar optics of morality have situated embodied difference to consistently aggravate the social and psychic formulations of human selves and society’. 48 The resistant reading takes place on two levels in the song. First, the song questions the interpretation of the incarnation in history. In the particularity of the song, the first verse challenges the preoccupation with the ‘rationality’ of the incarnation. Theory rather than practice. The second aspect of resistant readings concerns the present context. In this case, the main verses of the song performed by soul artist Darren Ellison, address the terrible post-war history of the Windrush generation and their struggle for full acceptance in British society. In concluding, the song’s narrator (Robert Beckford) suggests that the preoccupation with the rationality of the incarnation plays a role in producing the discourse 45 Gerald O’Collins, Incarnation (London: Continuum, 2002). 46 Andrew Robinson and Christopher Southgate, ‘Incarnation and Semiotics: A Theo-

logical and Anthropological Hypothesis Part 1: Incarnation and Peirce’s Taxonomy of Signs’, Theology and Science, 8: 3 (2010), 265–82. 47 J. Clark, Indigenous Black Theology: Toward an African-Centered Theology of the African-American… Religious Experience (NY: Palgrave Macmillan 2016). 48 E. M. Turman, Toward a Womanist Ethic of Incarnation: Black Bodies, the Black Church, and the Council of Chalcedon (NY: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013).

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of the hostile environment in British post war history. An abstract interpretation of the incarnation fails to take seriously God’s enfleshing as a material reality that demands acceptance of all flesh. The song ends with the appropriation of a popular Pentecostal church chorus, which signals a decolonial incarnational theology where divine enfleshment connotes the potential for the Spirit to reside in all flesh, including black flesh (‘I can feel him [sic] all over me). Incarnation: No Blacks, No Irish, No Dogs BBC News archive: In 1954 about 10,000 West Indians came to Britain. In 1955, it is believed another 15,000 will make the long journey. Already their coming has caused a national controversy. But one point must always be borne in mind. Whatever our feelings, we cannot deny them entry, for all are British citizens, and as such, are entitled to the identical rights of any member of the (British) Empire. JNT: Jan 1 Nou, di wan we a di Wod ton man, im kom kom liv mongks wi, kom liv mongks wi. (x2) Robert Beckford: John 1:14 tells the story of Jesus’ incarnation. That the Word becomes flesh and lives amongst us. It means that God who is fully God and fully man, takes on human form. The incarnation means that unequivocally, all creation is good and that all flesh, no matter what colour, no matter what tone is good. My parents believed in this meaning of the incarnation, that their flesh was good. They were immigrants from Jamaica who came to work in Britain after the Second World War. But they soon came to realise that not everybody thought the same. When they went to look for places to live, they were greeted with signs that said, ‘No blacks, no Irish and no dogs’. Darren Ellison: Sailed 5000 miles with the sun way off behind me. They said it’s gonna be a while till I feel that warm again. Staring at the grey skies as the cold rain starts to soak me. Faces that I recognize but no one I’d call a friend. Just one class above how my fathers sailed before me. Still no wiser ‘bout the days that lay ahead. Hands and feet are free but shackled by economy. Just a possibility of a better life instead. Maybe if you give me time just to let me tell my story. ‘Bout how I came to be in

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the land of hope and glory. Moment that I touched the ground all I see is consternation. You never let me explain that I’m here by invitation. Chorus: Came expecting arms to open wide. No blacks, no Irish, and no dogs inside. The sign is plain and you don’t try to hide. No blacks, no Irish, and no dogs inside. BBC News: Much of the outcry against the immigrants arises from the Colour-Bar, which legally does not exist in Britain, does not exist in Britain. JNT: im kom kom liv mongks wi, kom iiv mongks wi. Darren Ellison: 5 years 3 days to go till I get back to my family. Got to find a place to stay with a people playing games. There’s a lot of empty rooms and I know I’ve got the money. Funny how my currency doesn’t seem to be the same. Working from 5-to-5 and the guys are always on me. Now the fight to stay alive, never figured in my plans. Tried to find the house of God, only made the people angry. Sadly, realised that I’m seen as less than just a man. Maybe if you give me time just to let me tell my story. ‘Bout how I came to be in the land of hope and glory. Moment that I touched the ground all I see is consternation. You never let me explain that I’m here by invitation. Robert Beckford: The strange thing is that in church history the brilliant minds of the church have spent a great deal of time trying to explain the doctrine of the incarnation, that Jesus had to be fully God and had to be fully man, and use that as a way of countering heresy. But less time has been spent on the meaning of the incarnation, what it means to practice the equality of all humanity. If the church had spent more time on the meaning and the practice of the incarnation, we wouldn’t have this terrible post-war story: No blacks, no Irish and no dogs. Chorus: Came expecting arms to open wide. No blacks, no Irish, and no dogs inside. The sign is plain, and you don’t try to hide. No blacks, no Irish, and no dogs inside. Darren Ellison: - God is not dead, He’s still alive. (x2) I can feel him in my hands, I can feel him in my feet, I can feel him all over, Feel him all over me…. (x3)

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Option 3: Loving Blackness The third decolonial option arises from Jahaziel’s first post-Christian single ‘Armen Ra’ (2016). The song is a personal testimony, a confession of his new faith, ancient Kemitic religion: Hail up nature Hail up Armen Hail up the ancestors who taught us nature Using the netra You get me?49

Underlining the the song is a dialectic of loving blackness (a critical solidarity with black experience and culture) and Christian identity, that is, ‘can one be black and be Christian?’ In Jahaziel’s case, loving blackness is against the Christian faith: I was in the church baptising, When I went back to black writers Said I’m backsliding.50

Resolving the identity/faith nexus is a centuries-old contention in African Caribbean diaspora history. In short, some have sought a both/and proposition in addition to Jahaziel’s either/or proposition. Regarding the former, in the twentieth Century,51 Ethiopianism in the Caribbean and Africa, the Nation of Islam in America and Rastafari in Jamaica, all fold a love of blackness into Abrahamic faiths so that both categories are mutually affirming. Similarly, in black liberation theology, James Cone’s exclamation, ‘God is Black’ locates divine presence in blackness, in all its forms.52 So, accepting that blackness is not separate from Christianity, and this is our ‘point of departure’ from Jahaziel, then, we can propose loving blackness is an option. Loving blackness is the subject of the pro-reparations, gospel song, ‘Pay Back’. The track’s relationship to loving blackness is this: If the 49 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R5KW1ZFopyo. 50 Ibid. 51 Clement Gayle, George Liele: Pioneer Missionary to Jamaica (Nashville: Bethlehem Book Publishers, 2002). 52 Vincent Lloyd, ‘Remembering James Cone’, Political Theology, 19: 3 (2018), 169–71.

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pursuit of justice is what love looks like in the public sphere, then pursuing justice in the form of reparations is loving blackness. The track, ‘Pay Back’ revolves around a sample from the JNT from Paul’s letter to Philemon, where the apostle offers to repay Philemon for damage done.53 As Dwight Allen Callahan demonstrates, this New Testament books’ anti-slavery subplot has resonance with the black compensation narrative in the 1960s Civil Rights Struggle.54 Loving blackness as social justice; that is, as a case for reparations is played out in a conversation between BBC broadcaster, Andrew Marr and theologian Robert Beckford. Originally aired on the ‘Start of the Week’ show on BBC Radio 4 before the broadcast of the reparations film ‘Empire Pays Back’ in 2005. Embellishing the reparations claim by Beckford are two verses reflecting on the politics of the memory of slavery in Britain, by former reggae DJ and professor of sociology, Lez Henry.

Payback Lez Henry: Introducing Dr Lesley Henry lyrics, on the Jamaican Bible Remix. JNT: Paal leta tu Failiiman Andrew Marr: Should Britain pay reparations and make a formal apology to the descendants of slaves? Much of our imperial and business strength has its origins in the Slave Trade of the eighteenth and early nineteenth Century and the academic Robert Beckford, argues in a new television programme that the Empire should pay back. Chorus (JNT): Ef im did du notn rang tu byu ar im uo yu […] wi pie yu bak, pie yu bak. (x2) Andrew Marr: Let’s start with the scale of slavery, you compare it in the programme to the Nazi Holocaust.

53 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N1qK68qzNQc. 54 Allen Dwight Callahan, Embassy of Onesimus: The Letter of Paul to Philemon (Valley Forge: Trinity Press International, 1997).

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Robert Beckford: For several decades of the Slave Trade it was cheaper to bring in Africans, work them to death and then replace them. So, we are looking at genocidal conditions on the Caribbean plantations. Lez Henry: The complexity of our condition is what you fail to comprehend, historically turned into chattels, beasts of burden less than men, thinking the only way to survive is to pretend to be you, mocking our very existence, animals in your human zoo. Chorus (JNT): Ef im did du notn rang tu yu ar im uo yu, mi […] wi pie yu bak pie yu bak. (x2) Andrew Marr: There are two almost instant default defences made by a lot of British people when this is raised. The first is, that actually, the Slave Trade was something that was driven from Africa itself, that it was Muslim, Arab slave traders moving down south and that people in the centre ground of West Africa in particular were behind the Slave Trade. Robert Beckford: What we focus on is what the British did. I am not that concerned with what one ethic group did to another ethnic group in Africa. I am interested in how the British participated in it, the huge profits that were made, and the incredible economic benefit to this country, and also the underdevelopment of Africa. And more so, the brutalization of African people in the Caribbean. Lez Henry: Wearing your names in our brains, African cultures disrespected, educated against ourselves is why we wind up disaffected. The saddest case, in the saddest place, even these words leave a bitter taste in my mouth cos as an African to you I’m human waste. Chorus (JNT): Ef im did du notn rang tu yu ar im uo yu […] wi pie yu bak pie yu bak. (x2) Andrew Marr: The second defence mechanism people say is, well, it was Britain which ended the Slave Trade, it was Wilberforce and then it was the Royal Navy and that Britain’s got a lot be proud of in stopping the Slave Trade. Robert Beckford: When I was taught history, I was always told to approach it from a multi-dimensional perspective to look at what happened in the subjugated histories, and not just read history like TV history from the

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good and the great. In the Caribbean, they talk about the slaves who ended slavery, the fact that there were rebellions across the Caribbean in the 1830s that made slavery economically impossible and just not viable. So, we know that Britain ended the trade in 1807, we know that slavery was ended in 1834/38 - took a little bit of a while for it to work through. But we cannot discount the influence and the work of Africans in the Caribbean who helped to undermine slavery. So, it’s a much more complex picture. Lez Henry: You try to confuse telling the world you set us free. Good old England, don’t you know, we were anti-slavery. The Clapham sect should get respect because they showed a lot of class, another historical distortion like your William ‘Wilber farce’. Chorus (JNT): Ef im did du notn rang tu yu ar im uo yu, mi […] wi pie yu bak pie yu bak. (x2) Andrew Marr: and probably most controversially, you say that there should be payback, there should be reparation. Robert Beckford: I believe that as a mature, sophisticated postindustrialized nation, that we are in a very strong and dynamic position, and to be able to apologies for the past is not a sign of weakness but a sign of strength. And I also believe that things like compensation and an apology are psychosocial in their impact; they help to heal the nation and enable people to move on. Lez Henry: We’ve seen through your deception, and speak our truth in redemption songs, reparations transcends money it’s about repairing historical wrongs. Britain as a nation needs to face one brutal fact, we need more than just a band aid to put the African on the map. Chorus (JNT): Ef im did du notn rang tu yu ar im uo yu, mi […] wi pie yu bak pie yu bak. (x2) Rev. Jesse Jackson: There must be repay for damage done, repair for damage done. It’s not a foreign concept: Israel is a state of reparations for damage done, justifiably so. The African victims of the Slave Trade, we must demand repay for damage done. It may take many forms, but the concept is legitimate and the need is great.

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Chorus (JNT): Ef im did du notn rang tu yu ar im uo yu, mi […] wi pie yu bak pie yu bak. (x2) We’ve got to know if we never touch this. We don’t have a faith if we don’t have social justice. (x4).

To recap the argument so far. We have suggested that black theology neglects contemporary gospel music and concomitantly, contemporary gospel music is immune to the theological imperatives of black theology. At the heart of this predicament is methodology. I suggest a new sonic communicative strategy mediated by Rastafari reggae decoloniality. The outcome of this appropriation is a ‘Handsworth Revolution’, a template for delinking gospel music from colonial Christianity. Additionally, the testimony of the former gospel artist, Jahaziel proffers new options for gospel music. These options, are inscribed into contemporary gospel musicality, and exhibited in three tracks, (‘Magnificat’, ‘Incarnation’ and ‘Pay Back’) from The Jamaican Bible Remix album (Fig. 15.2). The final question to consider is whether or not this approach has traction beyond the theological academy? In other words, can these ideas impact contemporary gospel music circles in Britain? Is there evidence of reducing the musical space between black theology and gospel musicians

Fig. 15.2 The West Indian Front Room

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in and through this new praxis? To test the decoloniality hypothesis, in 2018, we initiated a dialogue between black theologians and contemporary gospel artists, called, ‘The West Indian Front Room’. The reason for the event’s title is the importance of the West Indian front room as creative space in diaspora experience.55 The public event took place in Birmingham in the summer of 2018. The ensuing discussion arrived at three conclusions. First, the artists accepted Rastafari reggae decoloniality as a legitimate subject and necessity for contemporary gospel music. This was the dominant mode of reception. However, there were negotiated responses, because some demanded a more detailed theological, and musicological rationale for the colonial theology thesis. Finally, self-critical, the assembled gospel artists acknowledge that the present commercial needs of the market (‘Praise and Worship genre’) militates against a decolonisation of the genre. Therefore, despite their immediate conscientisation, they were also resigned to the economic reality—the market does not want decoloniality.56 So, while decoloniality has potential for gospel music, it is only possible at the non-market fringes of the genre. In conclusion, the contemporary gospel music scene in Britain is ‘captive to Babylon’, and must be emancipated! We have demonstrated how the Rastafari inspired reggae of Steel Pulse provides a heuristic for the decoloniality for gospel music. However, as it stands, the praxis alone, is not enough to inspire a new sub-genre, it must be accompanied by a transformation of the politics of the contemporary gospel music industry and its audiences.

55 M. McMillan, The West Indian Front Room (Manchester, UK: Black Arts Alliance, 2003). 56 Roy N. Francis, How to Make Gospel Music Work for You: A Guide for Gospel Music Makers and Marketers (London: Filament Publishing, 2019).

Index

A Africa, 8, 10, 21, 27, 30, 62, 63, 73, 74, 77, 92, 99, 103–105, 109, 116, 118, 125, 128, 129, 131, 133–136, 139, 142, 152, 153, 166, 172, 173, 177, 178, 180, 187, 188, 197, 210, 212, 226, 233, 235, 236, 238, 243, 249, 254, 261, 262, 264, 271, 288, 290, 294, 298, 304, 306, 309, 311, 312 African diaspora, 166, 304

Black culture, 48, 134, 163, 214, 217, 287 Black identity, 2, 5, 134, 215, 217 Black music, 2, 8, 10, 21, 23, 26–28, 85, 110, 121, 133, 163–167, 169, 175, 176, 178, 179, 183, 220, 225, 226, 247, 265 Black musicians, 111 Blackness, 31–33, 51, 179, 212, 214–216, 291, 298, 300, 309, 310 Black survival, 61

B Babylon, 11, 13, 14, 16, 17, 25, 26, 41, 95, 96, 153, 160, 185, 297, 298, 314 Bass culture, 2, 18, 19, 29, 32, 38, 140, 245, 247 Black arts, 23, 134 Black Atlantic, 10, 21, 28, 41, 136, 164, 249, 261, 262, 267, 280

Black theology, 4, 290, 292, 296, 301, 313 Black youth, 3, 50, 51, 102, 110, 153, 225, 252, 253, 266, 268, 272, 282, 288 British culture, 3, 29, 56, 144, 215, 233, 288 British reggae, 1–4, 52, 107, 143, 159, 209, 210, 241, 243, 290

© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 W. ‘L’. Henry and M. Worley (eds.), Narratives from Beyond the UK Reggae Bassline, Palgrave Studies in the History of Subcultures and Popular Music, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-55161-2

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316

INDEX

C Calypso, 12, 62, 87, 129, 152, 169, 183 Caribbean, 1, 11–13, 16, 23–25, 30, 31, 33, 37–40, 56, 61, 87, 90, 99, 115, 116, 119, 128, 131, 136, 139, 151–153, 165, 166, 169, 171, 177–179, 187, 188, 190, 192–197, 200, 203, 205, 206, 210, 212, 215–218, 222–226, 233–237, 241–243, 246, 247, 249, 254, 260–262, 264, 271, 276, 287, 288, 290, 291, 294, 309, 311, 312 Caribbean diaspora, 222, 290, 291, 309 Carnival, 103, 119, 139, 140, 178, 223, 225, 226, 237–239, 272, 274 Cassette culture, 143–146, 150, 158, 162 Christianity, 4, 14, 15, 270–273, 277, 281, 282, 284, 286, 289–291, 294–297, 299, 300, 305, 309, 313 Christian ministry, 270 Churchianity, 277 Clash, 42, 45, 140, 150, 151, 157, 166, 178, 205, 244, 257, 258, 261, 262, 278, 279, 288 Clubs, 1, 3, 31, 46, 49, 56, 85, 166, 216, 239–241, 244, 245, 255–257 Colonial Christianity, 289–291, 294, 296, 297, 299–301, 305, 313 Commonwealth, 101–106, 113, 114, 116–118, 121, 264 Community, 1–4, 9, 25, 37, 43, 44, 46, 48, 49, 54–56, 61, 68, 73, 75, 78, 81, 97, 99, 101–106, 108, 109, 111, 112, 114, 122, 125, 126, 132, 134,

135, 138, 155, 164–166, 174, 176, 178–183, 187, 188, 190, 191, 193, 196, 197, 200, 201, 206, 209, 216, 217, 219, 224, 225, 230, 231, 236, 241, 244, 260, 264, 266, 267, 271, 273, 280, 282–284 Community radio, 125, 164, 179 Consciousness, 22–24, 30, 42, 49, 60, 61, 63, 65, 66, 78, 83, 92, 93, 98, 154, 173, 194, 231, 253, 300, 302 Counter culture, 283 Counter narratives, 71, 102 Cultural exchange, 154, 191, 280 Cultural expression, 191, 195–197, 201, 206 Cultural transmission, 4, 143, 144, 161 Culture, 2–5, 9, 10, 16, 18, 20–22, 25, 28, 31, 33, 36, 38, 41, 44, 48, 55, 56, 60, 74, 87, 90, 91, 99, 102, 106–109, 112, 116, 117, 119, 122, 123, 126, 140, 141, 144, 146, 147, 149–151, 156, 162, 166, 168–171, 173, 175, 179, 182, 183, 187, 189, 190, 192, 197–200, 202, 204, 205, 207, 213, 225, 234–239, 242, 247, 264–268, 270, 271, 282–284, 288 D Dance, 20, 27, 43, 44, 49, 52, 108, 116, 119, 136–138, 149, 150, 170, 174, 177, 186, 187, 190–193, 196–198, 200, 202, 204–206, 230, 241, 254, 261, 265–267 Dancehall, 3–5, 14, 18, 41, 98, 108, 130, 136, 143, 149, 151, 154, 160, 164, 165, 167, 169–174,

INDEX

178, 179, 183, 185, 190, 192, 193, 195–197, 201–206, 243, 247, 250, 256, 258, 260–268, 270–273, 276, 282–285, 287, 288 Decoloniality, 290, 292, 296–299, 313, 314 Deejays, 3, 38, 41, 54, 93, 148, 151, 154, 161, 164, 169, 170, 173, 174, 178, 180, 181 Diaspora, 10, 12, 28, 56, 164, 166, 169, 170, 183, 195, 209, 212, 216, 222, 249, 250, 254, 255, 262, 266–268, 280, 290, 292, 297, 304, 309, 314 Dread, 12, 15, 18, 41, 42, 94, 95, 110, 130, 133, 154, 161, 206, 212, 238, 247 Dread locks, 54, 97, 210, 227 Dub, 3, 5, 18, 19, 29, 34, 42, 48, 59–61, 64–66, 68, 71, 73, 74, 76, 77, 83, 85, 86, 91–94, 98, 112, 133, 150, 159, 189, 244, 247, 262, 271, 276, 278, 279, 281 Dub poetry, 48, 60, 61, 63–66, 68, 71, 73, 74, 76, 77, 83, 85, 91–94, 99, 100

E Education, 18, 37, 57, 65, 94, 111–121, 131, 136, 147, 163, 180, 295 Empire Windrush, 234 Ethiopianism, 19, 25, 309

F False consciousness, 63, 65, 78, 83 Female operators, 126, 139

317

G Gospel reggae, 3, 270, 273, 274, 280, 284, 287, 288 Grime, 2–4, 61, 85, 144, 175, 247, 249–268, 281

H Hearticality, 11 Heritage, 24, 61, 121, 122, 131, 177, 185, 189, 196, 197, 212, 229, 246, 254, 257, 264 Hip hop, 4, 8, 144, 175, 243, 245, 247, 250, 266, 301 Historical knowledge, 9 History, 1, 2, 7, 10, 12–14, 17, 22, 26–28, 31, 32, 34, 36, 38–40, 44, 52, 56, 60, 66, 85, 90, 92, 101, 102, 106, 110, 116, 126, 134, 142, 152, 153, 162, 165, 175, 182, 188, 200, 204, 211, 212, 226, 227, 229, 233–235, 241, 242, 247, 254, 256, 259, 267, 270, 272, 282, 288, 291, 297, 298, 303, 304, 306, 308, 309, 311 Hybrid, 11, 18, 61, 110, 122, 145, 262, 288

I Immigration, 31, 87, 102–105 Intergenerational, 5, 9, 30, 54

J Jah music, 17 Jamaica, 1, 2, 5, 12, 15, 16, 24, 26, 37, 39–42, 51–53, 61, 66, 83, 85, 86, 91–94, 97, 106, 108, 116, 119, 120, 126, 127, 129, 136, 140, 142, 144, 147, 149,

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151, 152, 154, 159, 165, 167– 170, 172, 173, 176, 178, 183, 185–187, 190–194, 196–199, 201, 202, 207, 215, 217–219, 221–223, 231, 233, 234, 236, 237, 240, 241, 243–247, 250, 254, 256, 258, 260–265, 267, 273, 280, 291, 292, 297, 300, 301, 307, 309, 310, 313 Jamaican culture, 5, 108, 150, 199, 247, 264, 280, 287 Jazz, 11, 23, 24, 62–64, 77, 78, 81, 127, 129, 139, 174, 238, 244 Jungle, 3, 61, 144, 175, 250, 264, 265, 281, 303 K Knowledge, 29–31, 33, 35, 36, 38, 56, 57, 81, 113, 126, 133, 136, 137, 142, 143, 145, 152–154, 174, 187, 195, 217, 259, 275, 284, 288, 297 L Lovers Rock, 52, 53, 61 Lyrics, 15, 21, 34, 38, 81, 98, 106, 108, 112, 122, 138, 149, 151, 153–155, 161, 171, 172, 212, 233, 238, 250, 254, 257, 258, 270, 279, 301, 310 M Mic chatter (MC), 106, 111, 112, 122, 151, 174, 251, 253, 256, 258, 262, 275, 280, 282, 284–286 Moral panics, 102 O Operators, 126, 139, 142, 168, 288

Outernational, 12, 15, 52, 56, 153, 162, 166, 167, 169, 263, 266, 268

P Parties, 1, 4, 31, 43, 121, 125–127, 129, 131, 166, 178, 192, 201, 202, 204, 206, 218, 234, 236, 237, 239, 243–245 Performance, 4, 99, 112, 116, 119, 157, 185, 187, 190, 191, 195, 197, 198, 206, 216, 254, 255, 257, 258, 261, 266, 268, 274–276, 279, 288, 295 Performers, 18, 20, 30, 31, 41, 52–54, 111, 139, 151, 169, 170, 252, 254, 256–259, 262, 266 Pirate radio, 139, 158, 164–170, 173–177, 179, 182, 183, 251, 255, 258, 266, 267 Poetry, 3, 15, 20, 23, 60, 61, 63, 64, 66, 81, 83, 86–94, 96, 98, 99, 106, 116, 117, 134 Popular culture, 13, 70, 101, 104, 108, 167, 173, 175, 182, 253, 266, 271, 280, 287

R Racial, 5, 8, 10, 13, 14, 17, 23, 25, 27, 28, 34, 36, 46, 55, 63, 64, 66, 70, 73, 74, 103, 116, 131, 132, 164, 193, 196, 213, 214, 216, 236, 237, 263, 267, 291, 299, 300, 306 Racial subordination, 66, 71 Radical poetry, 91 Raggamuffin, 179, 276 Rap, 98, 102, 108, 116, 246, 250, 254, 256, 260, 266, 268, 273, 280, 283, 299, 300

INDEX

Rastafari, 4, 11, 12, 15, 42, 147, 149, 173, 176, 179, 204, 212, 215, 221, 237, 239, 242, 244, 263, 271, 280, 282, 290, 292, 296–299, 309, 314 Rastaman, 237 Reasoning, 14, 15, 42, 43, 63, 170 Rebellion, 4, 19, 92, 183, 185–191, 194–196, 200, 201, 203, 206, 296, 312 Rebel music, 16, 20, 185–188, 199, 201 Record shops, 1, 4, 20, 31, 56, 133, 136, 166, 210, 217, 218, 220, 223, 226, 227, 231, 241, 255 Reggae, 1–5, 8, 10–13, 19, 20, 23, 29–34, 36, 38, 40, 41, 43–45, 48, 51–57, 59–61, 78, 85, 86, 88, 91–93, 96, 98, 102, 107– 112, 122, 125, 129, 130, 133, 136, 139, 140–144, 146, 147, 154–156, 158, 159, 162, 163, 165, 167–174, 176–179, 183, 185–187, 191, 195, 198–200, 204, 206, 209–212, 214–218, 220–223, 226, 228–232, 233, 234, 236–247, 250, 256, 257, 259–267, 270, 272–276, 280–284, 287, 288, 290, 292, 296, 297, 302, 310, 313, 314 Reggae dancehall, 169–171, 173, 283 Reggae walk, 34, 38, 40, 41, 48, 56 Remix, 246, 262, 263, 292, 300, 301, 310, 313 Resistance, 4, 9, 48, 64, 102, 110, 114, 122, 167, 170, 171, 181–183, 194, 203, 206, 215, 236, 263 Rhythm and Blues, 11, 23 Riddim, 152, 167, 169, 274, 278, 279

319

Roots and culture, 11, 26, 140, 167, 174, 260, 282 S Sacred, 8, 42, 270, 287, 288, 304 Sankofa, 71 Secular, 8, 270, 272–274, 276, 279, 283, 287, 288 Selectors, 17, 272, 274, 279, 280, 282, 286, 288 Social, 3–5, 9, 13, 16–19, 22, 25, 30, 44, 56, 63, 65, 66, 87–90, 94, 97, 98, 108, 112, 113, 126, 127, 129, 132, 134, 139, 144, 154, 164, 166, 170, 171, 173, 175, 180, 181, 186, 189, 190, 192, 193, 195, 197, 200–202, 210, 212, 217, 218, 224, 225, 231, 235, 237, 243, 255, 262, 264, 266, 267, 271, 272, 283, 291, 298, 306, 310, 313 Soul, 20, 23, 51, 53, 62, 73–75, 85, 94, 111, 119, 125, 128–130, 136, 138, 163, 174, 183, 195, 220, 221, 223, 230, 240, 243, 245, 258, 306 Sound clash, 178, 257, 258, 261, 278 Sound man, 19, 286 Sound Systems, 1, 3, 14, 16, 20, 31, 36, 38, 41–43, 45, 49, 54, 108, 125, 126, 128, 142, 144, 147, 153, 161, 162, 164, 177–179, 183, 191, 192, 203, 204, 207, 216, 217, 219, 236, 237, 241, 244, 247, 250, 257, 258, 260, 261, 264, 265, 270–274, 276, 278, 280–288 Spoken word, 70, 71, 98, 275, 276 T Transnational reggae, 167

320

INDEX

U UK Garage, 175, 250, 251, 253–258, 264, 266

W Windrush Generation, 106, 127, 234, 267, 306

V Version, 8, 20, 38, 41, 53, 114, 160, 170, 212, 244, 251, 260, 265, 281, 288, 291 Vibes, 139, 192, 197, 206, 272

Y Yard tapes, 108 Youth, 3, 15, 34, 49, 51, 91, 112, 130, 147, 153, 171, 213, 215, 216, 224, 237, 239, 264, 266, 285, 303 Youth clubs, 31, 34, 46, 49, 56, 85, 241, 255, 257