Level Up: Live Performance and Creative Process in Grime Music 2022051333, 2022051334, 9781032282183, 9781032282190, 9781003295792

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Level Up: Live Performance and Creative Process in Grime Music

Grime music has been central to British youth culture since the beginning of the 21st century. Performed by MCs and DJs, it is an Afrodiasporic form that developed on street corners, on pirate radio and at raves. Level Up: Live Performance and Creative Process in Grime Music offers the first long-form ethnographic study of grime practice; it questions how and why artists do what they do; and it asks what this can tell us about creative process and improvisation more widely. Based on research conducted in London’s grime scene—facilitated by the author’s long-standing role as a DJ and broadcaster—this book explores the form’s emergence before taking a magnifying glass to the contemporary scene and its performance protocol, exploring the practice of key artists and their crews living and working in the city. The resultant model of creative interaction provides a comprehensive mapping of collective social learning in London’s informal cityscape, offering new ways to conceptualise improvisatory practice within ensembles. Alex de Lacey is Assistant Professor of Popular Music at the University of Groningen, The Netherlands. He is also a practicing DJ and live performer with the grime collective Over the Edge.

Ashgate Popular and Folk Music Series Series Editors:

Lori Burns, Professor, University of Ottawa, Canada Justin Williams, Associate Professor of Music, University of Bristol, UK

Popular musicology embraces the field of musicological study that engages with popular forms of music, especially music associated with commerce, entertainment and leisure activities. The Ashgate Popular and Folk Music Series aims to present the best research in this field. Authors are concerned with criticism and analysis of the music itself, as well as locating musical practices, values and meanings in cultural context. The focus of the series is on popular music of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, with a remit to encompass the entirety of the world’s popular music. Critical and analytical tools employed in the study of popular music are being continually developed and refined in the twenty-first century. Perspectives on the transcultural and intercultural uses of popular music have enriched understanding of social context, reception and subject position. Popular genres as distinct as reggae, township, bhangra, and flamenco are features of a shrinking, transnational world. The series recognizes and addresses the emergence of mixed genres and new global fusions, and utilizes a wide range of theoretical models drawn from anthropology, sociology, psychoanalysis, media studies, semiotics, postcolonial studies, feminism, gender studies and queer studies. Paul Weller and Popular Music: Identity, Idiolect and Image Andrew West Electro Swing: Resurrection, Recontextualisation, and Remix Chris Inglis Level Up: Live Performance and Creative Process in Grime Music Alex de Lacey The Evolution of Chinese Popular Music: Modernization and Globalization, 1927 to the Present Ya-Hui Cheng For more information about this series, please visit: www.routledge.com/ music/series/APFM

Level Up: Live Performance and Creative Process in Grime Music

Alex de Lacey

Designed cover image: © Amelia de Lacey First published 2023 by Routledge 4 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 605 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10158 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2023 Alex de Lacey The right of Alex de Lacey to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: De Lacey, Alex, author. Title: Level up : live performance and creative process in grime music / Alex de Lacey. Description: [1.] | Abingdon, Oxon ; New York : Routledge, 2023. | Series: Ashgate popular and folk music series | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2022051333 (print) | LCCN 2022051334 (ebook) | ISBN 9781032282183 (hardback) | ISBN 9781032282190 (paperback) | ISBN 9781003295792 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Grime (Music)--England--London--History and criticism. | Black people--England--London--Music--History and criticism. Classification: LCC ML3527.9 .D44 2023 (print) | LCC ML3527.9 (ebook) | DDC 782.42164909421--dc23/eng/20231213 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022051333 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022051334 ISBN: 9781032282183 (hbk) ISBN: 9781032282190 (pbk) ISBN: 9781003295792 (ebk) DOI: 10.4324/9781003295792 Typeset in Times by KnowledgeWorks Global Ltd. Access the Support Material: www.routledgemusicresearch.co.uk

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Over the Edge to the world

Contents

List of Figuresviii List of Tablesx List of Audiovisual Examplesxi Acknowledgementsxiii Introduction1 1 ‘It’s a 140 BPM Way of Life’

11

2 Foundations

45

3 Improvisation and Group Process

79

4 The Through Ball

110

5 Pirate Mentality: Grime’s Radio Performance Network

130

6 Levelling Up: Collective Creativity in Two Grime Crews

147

Conclusion172 Bibliography Discography Filmography Radio Broadcasts Appendix—Glossary of Terms Index

179 186 190 193 197 200

Figures

1.1 Over the Edge outside Don City, East London. Photograph taken by the author 27 2.1 Eskimo Dance flyer from January 14, 2012 49 2.2 Transcription of an excerpt from ‘Forearm’ by Swarvo 50 2.3 Transcription of an excerpt from ‘DJ Masta freestyle’ by Swarvo 51 2.4 Transcription of Reece West ‘bounce’ bars 59 2.5 Transcription of Saint P’s ‘bounce’ bars 59 2.6 Transcription of Krucial’s ‘transition lyric’ 66 2.7 Transcription of Krucial’s lyrical development 67 3.1 The reload in the live domain 84 3.2 MTM’s MC line-up, June 2017 100 4.1 Transcription of Shorty Smalls’ usage of rhythmic units, audiovisual example 4a 0:55–1:20 113 4.2 Transcription of the DJ’s through ball: Magnifier and DJ Eastwood 116 4.3 The DJ’s through ball: C.A.P.S and DJ Eastwood 118 4.4 Transcription of Saint P’s flow, bars 9–12 [excerpt] 123 4.5 Transcription of Saint P’s flow, bars 33–36 [excerpt] 123 4.6 Through ball interaction chart: Saint P and Travis-T 124 5.1 Rinse FM schedule, October 2002. From RWD Mag, 14: 37137 6.1 Transcription of Rudie Rudez’s flow. Westside Radio, October 2017 152 6.2 Transcription of J Smart’s flow. Westside Radio, October 2017153 6.3 J River, Razor and Reaps. Photograph taken by the author in December 2017 155 6.4 Flyer for Keep Hush, Peckham, December 2017 165 6.5 Transcription of Kabz’s syncopated flow at Subtle FM, March 22, 2018 166 6.6 Transcription of Razor’s triplet flow at Subtle FM, March 22, 2018 166 6.7 Transcription of AJ Tracey’s signature flow, from ‘Swerve n Skid’167

Figures ix 6.8 Transcription of Kabz’s adaptation of AJ Tracey’s signature flow at Subtle FM, March 22, 2018167 6.9 Transcription of Kabz’s refix of his AJ Tracey Flow. Subtle FM, March 22, 2018168 6.10 Transcription of Razor’s refix of Kabz’s flow. Subtle FM, March 22, 2018168

Tables

3.1 Rally structure. Time markers relate to audiovisual example 3i. Created by author102 5.1 London radio schedule, July 10–16, 2017138

Audiovisual Examples

Example 2a Hype lyrics: excerpt from Swarvo’s track ‘Forearm’ 77 Example 2b Technical Bars: excerpt from Swarvo’s track ‘DJ Masta Freestyle’ 77 Example 2c Home Turf: clash between Krucial and members of Yunga SLK 77 Example 2d Crossed wires: exchange between MCs Jammer and J2K 77 Example 2e ‘Bounce!’: clash between MCs Saint P and Reece West 77 Example 2f Transition lyrics: MC Krucial, performing on Westside Radio 77 Example 2g Crossed wires 2: exchange between MC Trim and DJ Logan Sama 77 Example 2h Chopping and Punching: MC Hitman Tiga and DJ Eastwood77 Example 2i Variation in Production (VIP): MC Purple and DJ Eastwood77 Example 2j ‘Good MCs’: MC Marcie Phonix and DJ Eastwood 77 Example 3a Opening Example: MCs Voltage, Shiesty and DJ de Lacey107 Example 3b The Drop Wheel: MC Kraze and DJ Spooky 107 Example 3c The MC’s Wheel: MC Dot Rotten and DJ Sir Spyro 107 Example 3d The DJ’s Wheel: MC C Cane and DJ Kaylee Kay 107 Example 3e Forcing the Reload: MC Gripper and DJ Logan Sama 108 Example 3f Forcing the Reload 2: MC Nitro and DJ Logan Sama 108 Example 3g Clash: MCs Saint P and Faultsz 108 Example 3h The 8-bar rally: DJ Argue on Radar Radio 108 Example 3i The rally phase: Sir Spyro and MTM on Rinse FM 108 Example 4a The through ball: MC Shorty Smalls and DJ Spooky 128 Example 4b The through ball: MC Magnifier and DJ Eastwood 128 Example 4c The through ball: MC C.A.P.S and DJ Eastwood 128 Example 4d The stylised reload: DJ Oblig and Scrufizzer 128 Example 4e The through ball: MC Saint P and DJ Travis-T 128 Example 4f The through ball: MC Big Zuu and DJ Travis-T 128

xii  Audiovisual Examples Example 5a Proto-taxonomisation: Charlie Trees and Blessed with DJ Aidan Example 5b Constructive enterprise: MC Spitz and DJ Charisma Example 6a Modular Lyrical Units: Shiesty and Glorz on Rinse FM Example 6b Modular Lyrical Units 2: Voltage and Shiesty on Don City Radio Example 6c Modular Lyrical Units 3: Shellyvnne MCs and DJ Argue Example 6d Intra-crew flows 1: MC J Smart Example 6e Intra-crew flows 2: MC Rudie Rudez Example 6f Early interactions: Reaps and de Lacey on Don City Example 6g Back-to-backs: Razor and J River Example 6h Early interactions 2: Reaps and de Lacey on Don City Example 6i OTE Showcase: Razor and de Lacey 1 Example 6j OTE Showcase: Razor and de Lacey 2 Example 6k OTE Showcase: Reaps and Intermusicality Example 6l OTE Showcase: J River and Kabz over Sorrow’s ‘Mandolin Man’ Example 6m Kabz live at Keep Hush Example 6n OTE Showcase: Kabz and Razor’s flow patterns Example 6o OTE Showcase: Kabz and Razor’s flow patterns 2 Example 6p OTE Showcase: Kabz and Razor’s flow patterns 3

146 146 170 170 170 170 170 170 170 170 170 170 170 170 170 170 170 170

The audio visual examples can be accessed via the online Routledge Music Research Portal: www.routledgemusicresearch.co.uk. Please enter the activation word RRMusic and your email address when prompted. You will immediately be sent an automated email containing an access token and instructions, which will allow you to log in to the site.

Acknowledgements

While I can’t possibly begin to thank everyone who has helped this book come to fruition without an interminable fear of missing someone out, I am going to do my best to try. Every piece of work starts with a spark, and my first encounter with grime on the bus to school was as good as any. Since my teens, this music has been my passion, and I have been so fortunate to have a played small part in its documentation over the past decade. First and foremost, I have to big up DJ Dlux. When I landed in London as a fresh-faced undergrad back in 2011, he welcomed me into the fold, took me to events and gave me my first ever regular show on the radio. Always investing in the future, he continues to do so to this day. Sincere thanks are due to Professor Kyle Devine and Professor Miguel Mera for the support they generously offered in my early forays into writing about grime academically, at Undergraduate and Master’s level, respectively. Similarly, to Dana Droppo and Alex Gardner for hosting my early journalistic work at Complex and Pigeons and Planes. The idea for this wider analysis of the nuts and bolts of grime performance was floated in 2015 and received immediate support from Professor Tom Perchard and Professor Keith Negus at Goldsmiths, University of London. While I doubted myself many times on this journey, their unwavering enthusiasm reminded me that this is something worth doing. I also received feedback and ideas from many great people in the Goldsmiths Music department over my years studying and consequently teaching in South London. Thanks to my peers at Goldsmiths who were also undertaking doctoral work at the same time as me: Maria Perevedentseva, Ben Assiter, Emma Winston and Chris Cook. Thanks also to Henry Balme for proofreading my work, and to Oliver Perrott-Webb for being there from day dot. I am very grateful to Dr Barley Norton for poring over my proposals, Dr Stephen Graham for providing new angles, Dr Lauren Redhead and Simon Deacon for always giving me the time and support I need, and Dr Rachel McCarthy, Dr Corey Mwamba, Dr Naomi Matsumoto and Dr Alexis Bennett for being such good office mates.

xiv  Acknowledgements I feel forever indebted to Professor J. Griffith Rollefson and Professor Julian Henriques for a rigorous and robust PhD viva, and for their continued support in the years since. And to Dr Justin Williams, who showed so much support for my work early on. I feel especially privileged to have my work published in this prestigious Ashgate Popular and Folk series co-­ edited by Justin with Lori Burns, under the stewardship of Heidi Bishop, Kaushikee Sharma and Samynathan Mani. This book wouldn’t have been possible without the blueprint being set by writers before me. I grew up reading Chantelle Fiddy, Hyperfrank, Joseph ‘JP’ Patterson, Dan Hancox and Hattie Collins. I remain inspired by the words of my contemporaries: Joy White, Jesse Bernard, Son Raw, Aniefiok Ekpoudom, Monique Charles, Cheraine Donalea-Scott, Parise CarmichaelMurphy, Richard Bramwell and Ryan Moss. Serious writers. Fundamentally, though, I want to shout out all the DJs, producers, promoters and MCs I’ve met on this journey. Specifically, this project wouldn’t have been possible without the insight and contributions from a number of individuals who generously gave up their time in interview. Thanks to Aidan, DJ BPM, DJ Eastwood, Paul Gibbins, Marco Grey, Dan Hancox, Jabz, Kaylee Kay, Kraze, Krucial, Kwam, Novelist, Pakin, Will Pritchard, Ellie Ramsden, Swarvo, Trim and Vader. Special thanks to Joe Walker and RWD Magazine for allowing me access to their valuable archive. Thanks, too, to all the team at Mode FM, and to the MCs who would turn up week in week out to shell: Tintz, Joe Fire, Dutchie Limao, Rolla, TCDAGENIUS, Luciferian to name a few. To Shellyvnne and Selecta Impact, thanks for letting me sit in on your crazy sets on Don City. Inspirational stuff. Most importantly, I have to large up my crew Over the Edge. When I first met Razor on a cold winter night at Don City, I didn’t realise the magnitude of the meeting. Five years later and we’ve gone from graveyard radio sets to BBC Radio 1 plays, headline sets, and international bookings (shout out my Japan and South Korea crew). Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, to some of the best to ever do it. Family. Finally, I would like to thank my parents, brothers, sister, and my partner, Laura, for their care and support during this long and arduous process. I would also like to extend thanks to John Hall, Stuart Goodall, Leslie Taylor and David Green for everything they did for me in my early years. I wasn’t the easiest student to deal with, but they helped me channel my energy in the right way. And to my dog Hector, who is unknowingly the best therapist anyone could wish for.

Introduction

Prologue / ‘Large Up Everyone Locked In!’ Thursday August 8, 2017, 8:30 pm. Don City Radio, Hackney. Today is a big day. I’ve been out of the scene for a while now, but this is my chance to get back on the airwaves. Last week I called up the manager of Don City Radio after a tip-off from Kraze—an MC from East London’s Slew Dem Crew—who said that they were looking for new DJs. ‘Can you do Thursday at 11?’, the manager asked. Of course I could. Any time would have been fine for me. I was desperate to get mixing again. I’ve spent the past seven days refining my tracklist, chasing down artists for new and exclusive music and annoying the neighbours mixing records till 4 in the morning. I arrived early, and now I’m waiting for the studio manager to let me in. The unit in Hackney sits opposite the old Bagel Factory, which is currently being torn down for a new housing development that the locals don’t want. The Olympic Park looms over my right shoulder across the canal, the promise of London’s 2012 games a distant memory. A blacked-out car pulls up and the manager, Stripe,1 steps out. Both his cap and bomber jacket are emblazoned with the radio station’s logo. He beckons to the door and we head upstairs. The space is small but functional, with a double door and improvised soundproofing. On the table is a phone for listeners to call in. A studio number is printed out on a sheet next to the turntables. Stripe lays down the rules: ‘Strictly no drinks by the decks. No smoking in the studio. You have to bun your zoots outside’. He shows me how to lock up—as I’ll be packing down at 1 am—then leaves. Now I’m left in the studio, waiting for the next DJ to arrive. I’m shadowing Selecta Impact’s show before taking the reins at 11. After ten minutes he arrives and sets up. I’m nervous. Impact is a stalwart of the radio circuit and has been DJing since the early 2000s. My thoughts are racing. Is he going to be distracted by my presence? Are any MCs going to turn up? If so how will they react to me sitting in the corner? What if they stay after and see me mix badly? I try to stay calm and composed, nodding my head to the music. DOI: 10.4324/9781003295792-1

2  Introduction The show starts just after 9, and within 10 minutes two MCs walk through the door and fist bump me. By 10 o’clock the room is rammed. One of the MCs turns to me and asks ‘do you spray? [perform lyrics]’ ‘No, I’m just the next DJ’. Watching this unfold in front of my eyes takes me back to listening to radio performances, or ‘sets’, in my adolescent bedroom. I grew up on grime music. Recordings from London pirate radio stations Rinse FM and Deja Vu FM defined my teenage years. Monday nights on commercial station Kiss FM were a rite of passage. Every week DJ Logan Sama would hold it down from 11–1 am. Being tired for school didn’t matter. Quick interplay, unassailable energy levels, tight camaraderie with an edge of uncertainty. Anything could happen, and you had to be ‘locked in’ to hear it unfold. This is why I got into grime. The next few hours were a blur. Although I can’t remember how my show went, I received a lot of interaction from producers and MCs who were listening to the show. At 1 am I close up, my head still spinning, head out to the car and drift down the A12 motorway towards Lewisham, South East London. Thursday September 21, 2017, 6 pm. Lewisham. Six weeks have passed and things are starting to take off. My next few shows had gone well, and I had a number of MCs ‘pass through’ to spray. No longer riding solo, I am starting to make acquaintances, building up a roster of artists who are happy to spend their Thursday night ‘spitting’ lyrics in a sweaty room on the outskirts of Hackney. Last time two artists, Growly2 and Razor, came along for the show. Razor had a new song out called ‘Act Like You Know’, produced by Growly, which was great. This week Growly’s going to host, which in itself is a big deal. Hosts have to act as a communicator with the audience, informing them of track names and new releases. Razor is going to pass through with some more MCs from his crew, known as Over the Edge (OTE), and I’ve also lined up some guest DJs to spin exclusives. It’s going to be a big show. Now to prepare for the night ahead. Thursday September 21, 2017, 10:30 pm. Don City Radio, Hackney. I’ve just touched down in Hackney, and Impact’s show is fully underway. There are four MCs going back-to-back. Again, I’m asked if I’m spitting on the set. I don’t think they’ve all quite understood why I’m here. Growly calls my phone and I head downstairs to let him in. We’ve got 15 minutes to run over the setlist and plan how the night is going to go down. I tell him about the new tracks I’ve got: a fresh one from East London MC Trim, South London’s Faultsz and a handful of instrumentals to hold back for when the MCs arrive. It’s 11 and we’re getting started. Growly is reeling off the names of the tracks, shouting out his ‘dons locked in’, and bigging up all the people interacting through social media. He sets the agenda over the

Introduction 3 microphone: ‘We’ll run vocals till midnight onwards. From then, straight instrumentals. Don City Radio Dot Com. We’re inside.’ After 15 minutes, an MC I don’t know called Reaper arrives with Razor. He says that he’s been ‘practicing spitting for a while now and feels ready to go on a set’. I can see that he’s feeling my selections, and he starts to recite lyrics under his breath to the beats. At the top of the hour, Razor takes the microphone and announces himself and the crew. His first 16-bar lyric cuts through the instrumental with clarity and purpose. Growly and Razor go bar-for-bar, before Reaper starts to make his voice heard. Growly sits down shattered, but I’m excited as Razor and Reaper are really coming into their own. Apparently, they’ve known each other since school and you can hear it in their voices. I try to play instrumentals that suit their style, but really it’s about letting them flow and take charge. My phone continues to ring off with notifications that people are locked in, the worries of my first show are now a distant memory. The clock strikes 1 am and there’s no way we’re slowing down. The show keeps going and the momentum continues to surge, with Razor and Reaps in full flow. We manage an extra few minutes before the adverts automatically come in and drown out the MCs. Realising we have to stop, Razor grabs the mic to address our listeners: ‘Don City Radio, Thursdays 11-1. Lock the fuck in. Hold tight de Lacey each and every time. Big up man like Reaps. Large up Growly. Are we even on air anymore? Large up everyone locked in.’ As the set draws to a close, I can feel something brewing. It wasn’t like my other radio shows. It felt like we were working in unison. We go downstairs and take a photo for social media, and I thank all the MCs and DJs for coming. Most have work in the morning, and they aren’t paid to be here. Razor and Reaper are staying locally so they head off to grab a bus, but I had already agreed to take Growly and the guest DJs back home. Passing through Westminster, Central London at 2 am with a Volkswagen Polo full up with MCs and DJs, Growly asks me the question that I had been waiting to hear. ‘Do you want to join Over The Edge?’. Inside, my heart starts thumping. I’d been wanting to join a crew for years, but never found the right dynamic. Here, it feels different. Rather than come across eager I know I’ve got to remain calm. ‘I’ve just got to check my work commitments, but I’ll let you know’. After dropping everyone off, I crawl in at 5 am, exhausted but excited. The next morning I woke up and let Growly know that I was interested. He chatted to Razor and got the green light. From that point onwards I was officially OTE’s DJ. Next Thursday couldn’t come soon enough.

Introduction / ‘The Levels Are Very High’ Grime music has been a vital component of British youth culture since the beginning of the 21st century. Influenced by hip-hop and rap, reggae music and electronic dance cultures including jungle and UK garage, it is an

4  Introduction intricate and highly demanding musical form with MCs performing lyrics at frenetic speed atop a constantly changing musical canvas provided by the DJ. At its outset, grime was grassroots and entrepreneurial. Its practitioner base of MCs, DJs and producers came from modest beginnings, where the form was developed on street corners, on pirate radio and at raves. These spaces were formative for its practice and remain profoundly important for the everyday functionality of its performance circuit. When I moved to London in 2010, though, the genre was starting to permeate the mainstream: North London MC Tinie Tempah was at the height of his powers, having just released crossover hit ‘Pass Out’; a few months earlier East London’s Tinchy Stryder topped the charts with ‘Number One’, a single that prophesied its own destiny. This commercial acclaim continued throughout the 2010s, and grime’s impact on British popular culture at large is now substantial and enduring. In 2012, East London MC Dizzee Rascal performed at the London Olympics’ Opening Ceremony, just a stone’s throw from Don City’s makeshift studio. The period following this saw the genre reach more ears and eyes than ever before, with popular artists pivoting towards even more mainstream channels: Tinchy Stryder was a contestant on national broadcaster ITV’s reality show ‘I’m a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here’ in 2014; Tinie Tempah released collaborative singles with popstars Ellie Goulding, Rita Ora, superstar DJ Calvin Harris and former-Girls Aloud singer Cheryl Cole. This pacification of the form was quickly tempered, though, by a new wave of young MCs and DJs who enlivened the genre through radio sets and YouTube freestyles. Dubbed the ‘second coming’ by journalist Hattie Collins in 2014, these artists from across London and the Midlands, such as Lewisham’s The Square, North-West London’s YGG and Birmingham’s Invasion,3 recaptured the form’s rudiments and galvanised the next generation of listeners and MCs (Collins 2014). By far and away the most significant figure during this period was Stormzy, a young rapper from Thornton Heath, South London. Following the huge success with his YouTube freestyle series Wicked Skengman—part 1 aired in 2013—the rapper went on to release a Number One album Gang Signs and Prayer in 2017, before headlining Glastonbury two years later.4 But despite grime’s prevalence as a cultural phenomenon across multiple strata of society, its performance remains under-examined and misunderstood by journalists, academics and the wider populace. As a form principally performed by Black working-class artists, its representation in media outlets readily aligns with racialised stereotyping that has befallen previous iterations of Afrodiasporic practice in London, such as reggae, soul and jungle (Christodoulou 2015: 3; Melville 2019). In 2004, The Guardian journalist Chris Campion was shocked at what he saw. His report from a grime show in South London referred to its ‘alien’ sound. Rather than performing, these artists bared their teeth to air ‘lyrical threats

Introduction 5 of extreme violence’ (Campion 2004). This overly somatic reading rendered grime as a carnal, almost primitive, form of music. It couldn’t possibly be nuanced and complex. For Barbara Browning, there is a tendency for white ‘western account[s] of African Diasporic [practice to be laden with] figure[s] of disease and contagion’, and this is profoundly in action through Campion’s piece (Browning 2013: 15). Fears surrounding the form resulted in event cancellations, almost stifling its performance completely during the late 2000s. Prominent artists, such as South London rapper Giggs, had entire tours cancelled under guidance from the Metropolitan Police, who used a risk assessment document known as Form 696 to shut down events based on the ethnicity of performers and likely attendees (Jonze 2010; Riley 2017). While its mainstream break in the early 2010s allayed many of these unfounded fears, an unwillingness to engage with grime’s practice continued to result in misreadings and scaremongering in the British press. In 2016, a senior writer from the Evening Standard attended Tottenham MC Skepta’s headline show at Alexandra Palace, a landmark moment for an artist whose career started over a decade earlier mixing vinyls on the Meridian Estate alongside his brother JME and co-performers Bossman Birdie and Big H. Rather than commend Skepta on his performance, though, the Standard’s John Aizlewood mistook a key tenet of grime practice for a technical malfunction. He reported that ‘frustratingly not everything went to plan: songs were restarted’ (Aizlewood 2016). This technical malfunction is in fact the ‘reload’ or ‘pull-up’, a foundational element of grime performance—and sound system culture more widely—where the DJ halts the song and restarts it from the top owing to the energy in the room. Aizlewood thought that Skepta was faltering not flourishing. In his eyes, it had to be a mistake. This incident of mistaken attribution was rightfully a source of substantial outrage, and discontent rippled through social media from a wide roster of grime’s practitioner base and listenership. And while this reporter’s fauxpas was evidential of this wider attentive lack towards grime’s performance practice—with newspapers preferring to castigate its lyrical content and artists’ social role5 —it also showed that a fervent community surrounds the genre, a community that understands its conventions and holds them dear. I decided to write Level Up as a means to address this critical lack and offer a practitioner’s perspective on the grounded performance networks of London’s grime scene. I was nervous when I stepped into the studio at Don City, but I knew what to do. Even though I hadn’t performed with some of the MCs before, I was confident we could hit it off and successfully improvise together. I had spent years practicing the craft, listening to recordings of radio sets and attending live shows. So had the MCs who turned up that night to spray their heart out: Growly was front and centre from the moment I started broadcasting; Razor was on remarkable form; Reaper diligently spent the first hour going over his lyrics again and again so he could be on point for when the sparks started to fly.

6  Introduction Grime music, like most other musical forms, has an extensive performance schema that is adhered to and understood by its body of practitioners. This schema allows for real-time extemporisation that can bring forth scintillating results. The Guardian had one thing right in 2004; grime is remarkably energetic. But this isn’t simply down to hypermasculine posturing. Rather, its intricate rules of engagement afford levels of interactional creativity between multiple MCs and DJs that push performances close to the edge of collapse, without ever quite falling apart. This book, then, is about learning to balance on a precipice. It’s about how musicians do what they do, what happens when they step into a radio studio or take the microphone handed to them on stage. It’s also about how balancing on this precipice can stimulate the new practice and offer fresh creative approaches to performance. Through examining these possibilities, and the ways in which grime artists collectively negotiate performances week-in week-out, this book will augment wider understandings of interactivity in musical practice, by developing a model for how artists Level Up through engaging in acts of group improvisation in a live setting. Levelling Up / Theoretical Framework Level Up is used as an umbrella term throughout this book to describe these states of heightened creativity that are achieved as part of the live creative process. This term has been chosen for a number of reasons, which will become more apparent as the book progresses. Firstly, it captures the essence of grime performance as a system of learning and progression, something that is harnessed by the crew and realised on stage and over the radio airwaves. While you have to learn and prepare for a performance—I spent hours getting my tracks together and listening to MCs’ styles before heading down to Don City—the real training takes place when the needle sets into the groove, the MC picks up the mic, and the transmitter goes live. Secondly, the phrase ‘level up’ comes from within the tradition of grime music performance: MCs speak of ‘levelling up’ for a stage show; YouTube platform JDZ Media features a freestyle series called Level Up; and there are multiple allusions to being ‘levels’ in recorded output.6 It is therefore used in a way that is faithful to the craft, rather than a theoretical imposition. Artists’ ways of knowing bring us closer to an accurate model of grime performance, and it’s important that the name of its overall framework makes sense to the community of practitioners, without sullying or simplifying the intricacies of their creative process. Levelling Up also aligns with, and builds upon, notions of skill acquisition in hip-hop where MCs—most notably in ciphers (rhyme battles)—ascend to ‘da next level’, described by Marcyliena Morgan as a ‘state of pleasure, limbo and complete immersion the performance’ (Alim 2006: 101; Morgan 2009: 83). And while many studies of hip-hop are concerned with individual MC prowess, this prowess is asserted in a collective and very often

Introduction 7 competitive setting. Because of this, resonances between the two forms will appear throughout. Most importantly, levelling up offers ways to think about the creative practice that moves beyond simplistic understandings of what is achievable in a live setting, particularly for Afrodiasporic artistry. When The Guardian asserted in 2004 that D Double E was ‘baring his teeth’ to air ‘lyrical threats of extreme violence’, it was not an isolated piece of voyeurism. Rather, it was entirely complicit with ways in which Black music has been written about throughout history. Even in more recent writings, we find an appeal to ‘essence’—usually located in the body—repeated time and time again. For Nina Sun Eidsheim, these assumptions, particularly surrounding the Black voice, are ‘unexamined truisms’ that delimit the capabilities and potential of Black artists: Marian Anderson’s voice, for example, was consistently written about in relation to minstrel shows and spirituals, at the expense of her operatic prowess (2019: 24). For grime music, there are a number of issues that this book—and its Level Up schema—aims to address. It seeks to offer a counterbalance to overly somatic readings of MC practice that essentialise their utterances. These are not simply ‘threats of extreme violence’. Rather, MCs recite, react, create and curate as part of a cognisant, complex and situated engagement with their craft. A grime MC has more to offer than simply an ‘open throat’ (Fuller 2004: 25). This book therefore argues for a more nuanced grounding that resists a tired dialectic between overly cognitive readings of (white) creative practice, and Neoprimitivist assertions that demand a militant foregrounding of the somatic in Black performance: the ‘old mind-body blues’ (Perchard 2015: 322). In line with Justin aDams Burton’s writing on Posthuman Rap this book argues for—and offers insight into—grime artists’ creative use of technology, particularly within the pirate radio studio (2017: 16). Blackness is often ascribed with a ‘pre-technological orality’, a tension captured by Alondra Nelson who locates an ‘ostensible oppositionality of race (primitive past) and technology (modern future)’ (Nelson, 2002: 5; Weheliye 2005: 6). A more complex intermeshing is demonstrated, particularly within the pirate radio studio. This sphere, in which many grime artists (including myself) operate, is an inventive space of fast-paced interaction between turntables, transmitters, MCs, DJs and listeners. Finally, levelling up is typically achieved through heightened interactions between multiple individuals. This creative becoming as part of an ‘active, fostering milieu’ is multidirectional, with lyrical affronts, bold DJ gestures and listener shout-outs arriving from all angles (Stengers 2010). Of course, antiphony is a staple of Afrodiasporic practice. For Paul Gilroy, it is ‘the principal formal feature of these musical traditions’; for Guthrie P. Ramsey, a recognisable through-line from Bebop to Hip-Hop exists, while Richard Bramwell tracks a teleology from ring shout to radio studio (Bramwell 2015: 32; Gilroy 1993: 78; Ramsey 2004). Elsewhere, Monique Charles has rightfully noted how call and response is a crucial element in generating

8  Introduction and maintaining energy in a live performance setting’ (Charles 2016: 311). However, it is but one aspect of these artists’ variegated creative palates. An over-reliance on antiphony has restricted understandings of Black music’s irruptive potential. This book therefore aligns with Eidsheim in acknowledging the ‘dynamism and instability of meaning making’ and how denotations affect our conceptualisations of practice (2019: 23) There is far more going on than a simple back and forth. And in order to level up we need to move beyond a ‘dialogic relationship between the crowd and the performers’ towards a complex, improvisatory and iterative, emergent process articulated in collective acts of creativity (Butler, 2014: 102) In short, Levelling Up in grime music is both an individual and group endeavour. To level up personally, much like the hip-hop context, means to acquire skills that enable you to reach your maximum, individualised potential. Levelling Up as a crew means to move beyond what is achievable in isolation and expectations laid out by reductive representations of antecedent Afrodiasporic practice. Levelling Up incorporates, and allows for, a continuous communicative channel between MCs, DJs, producers and audience members (both those physically present at raves and via radio phone-ins). Rather than seeing performance as merely individualised or an exchange between MC and crowd, its intrinsically multidirectional character sustains, excites and typifies grime practice. It’s never just a DJ and their records, or an MC and a crowd. Rather, it is the interwoven nature of these artists’ practice and their listeners that enables the new practice to take hold. As the infamous East London grime collective Roll Deep7 asserted on wax in 2007: ‘If I Roll Deep, I roll deep with my crew … How about you? How about your crew?’

Book Structure In the chapters that follow, I offer an insight into the lived experience and creative protocol of grime artists operating in London since the turn of the millennium. It is split into six chapters, which start from the basics and progressively build towards a fuller picture of this musical form and its performance. Chapter 1 introduces grime music and situates it within wider Afrodiasporic practice. Entitled ‘It’s a 140 BPM Way of Life’, the chapter locates grime’s origins in the cultural production of the Windrush generation and the British African diaspora, before tracing how influences from US hip-hop and UK contemporary club culture have affected its sonic constitution. The chapter also positions myself as a researcher and raises issues of academic reflexivity that arise from such an enquiry, before more clearly defining the book’s methodological gaze. Chapter 2 is entitled ‘Foundations’ and builds from the ground up. Before you can ‘level up’ you need to know your rudiments. Accordingly, this chapter outlines grime’s code of conduct and its macro-rules and regulations,

Introduction 9 which were quasi-formalised in its infancy from 2001 to around 2006. It is important to stress that these rules are not fixed in aeternum. Grime artists work with a catalogue of techniques and tricks that constantly shifts and develops. However, there are certain ‘dos and don’ts’, and it’s wholly apparent if you’re seen to be ‘violating’ them during a performance. Chapters 3 and 4 take a magnifying glass to grime’s group processes, providing a close-up view on how the constitution of the crew enables particular modes of exchange to take place. Chapter 3 focuses on two techniques, the ‘reload’ (mentioned above) and the ‘rally’, a quick-fire exchange between MCs that roughly maps onto its sporting correlate in Tennis and Squash. This chapter starts to hone in on grime’s multidirectionality, and how these techniques can mount an affront to readings of Afrodiasporic practice that see it as simply antiphonal. It also looks more closely at tensions between individuals and the wider collective, and how acts of divergent individualism can stimulate group practice. Chapter 4 offers a case study of grime’s most complex performance technique: the through ball. Based on practice from football (soccer), this technique involves artists anticipating the projected position of their fellow performers. It demonstrates how the through ball works, how its codification has affected practice and argues for artists’ ways of knowing as legitimate descriptors for the creative process. As mentioned above, grime artists know so much, yet have their technical cachet relegated to ‘technical malfunctions’. The ‘through ball’ is both a fitting analogy and ferociously engaged technique, which requires attuned improvisation and acute group dynamics to successfully pull it off. Chapter 5 returns to the radio studio. For many, radio is the space where they can perfect their craft. But it’s also a live performance arena. This dual functionality is explored with reference to radio stations’ fundamental role in sustaining the scene’s performance community. It focuses on the practice of two DJs with weekly residencies across this interconnected network of stations, demonstrating how radio acts as the lifeblood and creative fulcrum for grime performance. Its final chapter, ‘Levelling Up’, comes full circle to focus on the group practice of East London collective Shellyvnne, whose show preceded mine each week on Don City and my own crew OTE. Shellyvnne’s crew of 11 MCs and their DJ Selecta Impact built up a substantial reputation through employing group flow patterns and lyrical units that both ‘signify’ upon each other and provide innumerable permutations and ways to build energy in performance. This reached its apex during my time at Don City, where I watched it develop first-hand. And while mostly a passive observer of Shellyvnne’s process, I was actively involved in curating and crafting OTE’s practice as it developed during the late 2010s. The chapter’s second section maps the refinement of an OTE ‘sound’: how each MC adopted a particular role; how my radio show acted as a space for weekly practice; and how difficulties at early live shows helped us repurpose our live routine. This chapter’s focus on the day-to-day activity of grime crews offers the first extended

10  Introduction ethnographic engagement with grime performance and its multidirectional process, providing on-the-ground examples of how artists are able to ‘level up’ through collaborative enterprise. Grime is fast-paced, ferocious and fiery. Yet its performance is predicated on a complex array of rules, rituals and schema that afford improvisation and exploration. As J River from OTE said to me in our early days as a collective, it’s about ‘sharpening steel against steel’ and ‘levelling up’ to new realms of possibility. Grime has transcended the radio studio and entered the public consciousness, but its roots lie in a potent mix of collaboration and confrontation. This book takes you to the place where it all started, documents how grime evolved and unpacks the reasoning behind why grime changed the United Kingdom’s musical landscape forever.

Notes





1 Name anonymised. 2 Name anonymised. 3 It is worth noting that while grime was not as prominent during the late 2000s, and early 2010s, a lot of energy and new ideas were coming from the Midlands. Music from Birmingham and Nottingham, particularly the instrumental tracks of artists like S-X and Preditah, kept the form alive. So, while Invasion had been around for a number of years before this so-called ‘second coming’, the collective merits inclusion. In particular, their BBC Radio 1Xtra set with fellow Birmingham collective StayFresh was a landmark moment in the genre’s return (see Radio Broadcasts). 4 Glastonbury is one of the UK’s largest music festivals, attended annually by over 200,000 people. 5 Stormzy is regularly misquoted and criticised by popular media outlets in the United Kingdom. Examples include Joel Adams’ 2019 piece for the Daily Mail: https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-7818917/Stormzy-­launchesvile-Twitter-attack-UK-media-reports-branding-Britain-racist.html. Accessed June 20, 2020. 6 JDZ Media, “Mez [Level UP] JDZmedia”, June 27, 2014, https://www.youtube. com/watch?v=uJ8dibi58_g. Accessed February 5, 2020. 7 Roll Deep are a grime crew founded by East London MC Wiley in 2001. Its line-up has varied over the years, but its core collective consisted of three DJs (Target, Bionics and Karnage), the producer Danny Weed, and MCs Riko Dan, Flow Dan, Scratchy, Breeze, Brazen and Manga. Other notable former members include Dizzee Rascal, Skepta and JME.

1

‘It’s a 140 BPM Way of Life’

Introducing Grime Music In order to understand grime music, you need to get to grips with London’s spatial, sonic and social geography. Its vast amalgam of boroughs accounts for nearly 15% of the United Kingdom’s entire population, with creative communities at the core of each area. From the hustle and bustle of Ridley Road market in Dalston, East London to the undulating bass resonating from basement clubs off of Peckham’s Rye Lane, these spaces have a distinctive character, fashioned by what Caspar Melville has termed as a ‘London multiculture’ of artists coalescing, interacting and creating within the cityscape (2019: 3). Grime music developed and thrived in these marginal, yet animated neighbourhoods with local schools, youth clubs and community centres acting as formative grounds for its production. While grime’s origins are typically located within Bow, East London— the home of its two main proponents Dizzee Rascal and Wiley—its sonic make-up is informed by a London-wide community of practitioners from across the African-Caribbean and African diaspora. Its immediate predecessor, UK Garage, was catapulted into the mainstream by Battersea’s So Solid Crew. The 19-strong collective hit Number One with the track ‘21 Seconds’ in 2001,1 suggesting that—to paraphrase the famous words of André 3000—‘the south got something to say’. And in West London, low-end ambassadors Musical Mobb and Sublow Records were crafting their own bass-heavy compositions. Each area has something to offer, and stories and contesting narratives abound over the grime’s ‘originary moment’ (Collins and Rose 2016; Hancox 2018a). But these musical endeavours are united by a common experience of London’s frenetic cityscape and a shared understanding—and often lived experience—of diasporic currents that soak through its sonic tapestry. To contextualise these flows, this section traces migratory paths and musical innovation in London from the early 20th century to the turn of the millennium, making light of the critical routes and roots that characterise grime musical practice. DOI: 10.4324/9781003295792-2

12  ‘It’s a 140 BPM Way of Life’ Selectors Assemble / Critical Routes through the African Diaspora Jamaican music has been a prevailing influence on artistry in the United Kingdom ever since the arrival of Empire Windrush into Tilbury Docks on June 22, 1948. Although Jamaican immigrants—and people from other West Indian islands such as Trinidad, Barbados, St Lucia—had been living in Britain since the early 20th century, the docking of Windrush signalled a trend in passenger migration that had the most profound musical impact on the British Isles since the post-war jazz boom of the 1920s. At this time, Jamaica was experiencing substantial unemployment. A survey in 1946 indicated that ‘15.8% of the population over the age of 14’ couldn’t find work. Britain, however, was in distinct need of manpower following the fallout from World War II. The SS Orbita arrived the following September and by 1951 rates of migration, spearheaded by reduced travel rates offered in Jamaican newspapers, were approximated at just under 2000 per annum (Banton 1953: 10). This burgeoning West Indian population soon started to make musical in-roads, with ska, rocksteady and reggae entering into the British mainstream consciousness in the late-1950s and 1960s. By the decade’s end, this music was hugely popular. This popularity saw Desmond Dekker achieve a UK Number One in April 1969 for his single ‘Israelites’, the first reggae song to receive this accolade.2 Reggae and dancehall have since become further infused and identifiably associated with Black British creative practice. Stores such as Peckings on the Askew Road in Shepherd’s Bush, West London, were vital in strengthening this transatlantic link throughout the 1970s. Its founder George ‘Peckings’ Price had a direct line to Kingston, mailing in the latest tracks from Jamrock. He eventually set up his infamous store in 1973 as demand continued to grow and grow. While Central London acted as a cosmopolitan hotspot for dancing and hearing these sounds— Count Suckle ruled the roost at the Roaring Twenties since its opening in 1962, until his natural successor was found in Lloyd Blackford, whose Coxsone Sound System occupied 50 Carnaby Street for much of the 1970s— most of the listening and congregating happened away from the prying eyes of the authorities at local shabeens and dances. These dances acted as a communal safe haven from tacit—and oftentimes very overt—segregation and anti-miscegenation tactics enforced by white-owned pubs and bars. Clubs such as the Roaring Twenties, and much earlier the Bouillabaisse Club on New Compton Street, were often raided by police under the auspices of drug violation and anti-social behaviour (Kinsella 2020). These shabeens weren’t free from an authoritative gaze, but local Sounds began to flourish: from the Jah Shaka and Saxon Sound Systems in Lewisham to Kenneth Gordon’s Fatman Sound in Tottenham, North London and East London’s Channel One, started by Mikey Dread and Jah T in 1979. And while this coming together of sound system traditions and British society is deeply complex and tainted by a history of systemic oppression towards British citizens of

‘It’s a 140 BPM Way of Life’ 13 African Caribbean descent, Jamaican music’s enduring impact—and, of course, the music of other West Indian Islands—is perhaps best evidenced by the Notting Hill Carnival, attended annually by over one million people. For North West London grime Swarvo, who grew up just a few miles from Notting Hill, reggae has always been a part of everyday life: ‘When I was young I was constantly listening to music. My parents are from Jamaica. I come from listening to reggae. [I was] just going along spitting with the Yardie people, making up my own stuff for a joke and what not’. East London MC Riko Dan, of Roll Deep, also recalled Jamaica’s influence in interview: ‘My parents used to go to a lot of shoobs, shabeen dances. It was also the music that was played at home. That was the first time I heard Bounty Killer and Capleton’.3 This familiarity is often deeply familial, with many grime MCs having direct links to Sound System culture in both the United Kingdom and across the West Indies: producer and DJ Sir Spyro’s father is St Lucian singer Nereus Joseph; Newham-based MC Footsie’s father was a member of the King Original Sound. These familial and diasporic ties to sound system culture run deep, and many of its stylistic tenets resonate strongly with grime practice. Sound systems are presided over by the selector, who is responsible for song choice and often ‘toasts’ (performs lyrics) over the recorded tracks. And more often than not, a Sound has a dedicated MC (or deejay).4 These artists’ rose to prominence as dub and low-end pressure innovations started to populate the selector’s crates: ‘Dub serves that moment in the dancehall when excess ornamentation is stripped away to emphasise the elemental power of the rhythm pattern to … give the improviser [the MC] the free rein to excite the crowd’ (Veal 2007: 63). For East London grime producer Terror Danjah— interviewed by the BBC for a documentary entitled ‘East is East’—these qualities of Sound System culture are crucial for understanding grime (BBC Radio 1, 2004: 12:00). Grime is also MC-led, with artists’ recitations made permissible by carefully tailored ‘instrumentals’ that offer them space to spray their bars uninterrupted. The freedom afforded to both toasters and grime MCs has resulted in a number of similarities between their oratory styles. But this freedom by no means negates the tracks themselves. ‘Dubplate’ culture was huge in Jamaica and grime musicians similarly cherish these unique test pressings or acetate plates of unreleased tracks. According to North West London’s DJ Eastwood ‘everybody wanted the instrumental in them days’ and unreleased dubs—and dubplate specials, where a DJ or Sound’s name is inserted into the track—strengthen both a Sound’s claim to pre-eminence and the legitimacy of a grime DJ and their respective crew.5 Through striving for supremacy, crews and Sounds inevitably fall into rivalries with other collectives. Clashing is an important part of both genres, and groups collect and collate the finest dubplates in advance of a battle, often featuring lyrical content defaming the rival Sound. According to sound system ethnographer and filmmaker Julian Henriques, these ‘competitions

14  ‘It’s a 140 BPM Way of Life’ between rival Sounds are the most highly wrought, and indeed sometimes overwrought and occasionally violent, of dancehall sessions. The single night of a clash can literally make or break a Sound’s entire career’ (2011: 182). The stakes are high, and you simply have to perform. Sting, a prestigious dancehall event held annually in Portmore, is lauded by grime MCs. Formative for artists’ approaches to clashing, it acted as the blueprint for the grime rave Eskimo Dance, founded by Wiley in 2002: ‘Eskimo [Dance]. That’s a Soundman Jamaican thing’, says Swarvo. ‘Everybody is just spitting bars and someone goes in and the crowd goes mad … it comes from the Jamaican Yardie stage show’. These resonances were made further apparent 12 years down the line when Kingston’s legendary Stone Love Sound System clashed with the North London grime crew Boy Better Know (BBK) at Earls Court in West London.6 BBK emerged victorious on the night, but the success was shared: a metaphorical passing of the baton to the next generation. BBK’s rosters are also conspicuous for their representation of grime’s African diaspora, of which there is a sizable contingent of artists in the United Kingdom, most notably from Ghana and Nigeria. While Jammer, Wiley and Frisco have ties to the Caribbean, BBK’s de facto leader Skepta and his brother JME are second-generation British Nigerians. In Dan Hancox’s book Inner City Pressure, he explores the pioneering ways in which Skepta foregrounded his heritage, amidst a general sense that being Black African was uncool: ‘when I was a yute, to be called African was a diss’, says Skepta in an interview. ‘[A]t school the African kids used to lie and say they were Jamaican’ (Hancox 2015). Skepta’s assertion of his identity is most abundantly apparent on the 2007 track ‘Intensive Snare’ with South London producer Plastician, where he proudly recites his full name Joseph Junior Adenuga, and indicates that he’s from ‘Nigeria not St Lucia’. There are also allusions to this heritage in the names of instrumental tracks: JME’s ‘African Zulu Warrior’ being a prime example. What is important to note here is that while Jamaican culture was the most dominant— Skepta, JME and others would all watch Sting—this does not by any means negate the influence of artists whose families moved from the African continent to the UK. Indeed, while Skepta mentioned the unpopularity of his heritage at school, musical genres like grime afforded greater conviviality between diaspora communities. Jesse Bernard, for example, asserts that ‘grime is one of the spaces where Africans and Caribbean people were coming together … it was the one generation that was growing up in the same space’ (Joseph 2019). Indeed, by the 2010s this interwoven nature was much more apparent in UK music through the rise of Afrobeats and Afroswing. Artists like East London rapper J Hus speak proudly of their Gambian heritage, while Sneakbo was a pioneer for incorporating ‘Nigerian accents over dancehall productions’, most notably on the street anthem ‘Touch Ah Button’ from 2011 (Adofo 2022; Joseph 2019). While Jamaica afforded grime some its most foundational principles, with respect

‘It’s a 140 BPM Way of Life’ 15 to stagecraft, consequent iterations of Black diasporic practice in the UK are now more fluid in their influences.7 In terms of BBK’s success, when squaring off against Stone Love, though, this was down both to an indebtedness to Jamaican stagecraft, combined with the verve and vitality of the MCs who came out to represent from across both the African Caribbean and African diaspora. Indeed, a considered emphasis is placed on the MC’s clashing capabilities in grime, and competing in Lord of the Mics—a clashing platform set up by BBK’s Jammer and filmmaker Ratty—is a rite of passage for all MCs who want to show their worth. Set up in 2004, Lord of the Mics takes place in the basement of Jammer’s parents’ house in Leytonstone, East London, with artists only a few metres apart on a crumbling staircase in the death of night. This ‘ritualised verbal form of combat’ still principally takes its influence from Jamaica—Jammer’s father worked with Sounds throughout his life—but it also shares substantial affinity with hip-hop, a genre similarly engaged in musical dialogue with the Caribbean island and wider African diaspora (Marshall 2006: 49). Hip-hop and battle rap looms large over grime music, perhaps even more so than reggae. Although Caribbean and African creative practice is generationally rooted in the United Kingdom, any form involving a microphone and DJ decks gets traced back—rightly or wrongly—to the genre birthed in the South Bronx in 1973. This is in no small part due to the sheer hegemonic power of the United States. Hip-hop’s influence is widely regarded as one-way traffic from the stars and stripes to its ‘elsewheres’ (Bramwell and Butterworth, 2019: 2510). There also exists a rich history of professional name-calling. Derived from the African American homosocial game of the ‘dozens’, hip-hop ‘battle rapping’ is an elite sport, and its protocol colour the way in which Lord of the Mics functions (Abrahams 1993: 295). Furthermore, the form’s immediacy, coupled with the potentiality of satellite transmission, meant hip-hop travelled fast across the globe. For hiphop historian Dart Adams, 1981 was the ‘year hip-hop broke’ in the United States: Blondie and Funky 4 + 1 joined forces for a Valentine’s Day Saturday Night Live; the Village Voice published its first article on B-boy culture; and the infamous breakers Rock Steady Crew and Dynamic Rockers had a showdown at the Lincoln Centre (Adams 2019: 22). Within a year budding breakdancers and MCs were lighting up the UK’s major cities and rural heartlands in equal measure, as documented by Adam de Paor-Evans in his book Provincial Headz (2020). The pervasiveness of US culture initially saw crews and MCs trying to emulate their US counterparts, but a move towards rapping in an English accent—widely attributed to the London Posse and Bristolian collective 3PM—resulted in a vibrant UK hip-hop tradition that persists to this day. Nonetheless, grime artists’ frame of reference for their practice—­ particularly for battle rapping—is seen through an American lens, rather than located in the bars and beats of UK hip-hop luminaries Blak Twang,

16  ‘It’s a 140 BPM Way of Life’ Hijack, Pharma G and Roots Manuva. This is particularly the case for East London grime MC Trim, famed for his disses and brutal takedowns of rival artists: I found that any rapper that was anybody had a stream of mixtapes. But they were all battle rappers before that. I felt like I needed to have that part if I wanted to be whole. You don’t really need that to be an artist, but I felt that if I didn’t train in battling then I wouldn’t be a better rapper. There’s always people trying to tell you about yourself and if you don’t know how to defend yourself then people use it against you. All the best rappers are those that battle. Busta Rhymes, Eminem. They were all battling before. On the street and in the clash. Geography aside, what’s apparent from the former Roll Deep member is the legitimacy inferred upon rappers who have made their name battling. There is, however, a twist when it comes to grime MCs. Rather than battle ‘off the dome’—a practice foregrounded by UK battle rap platform Don’t Flop—these freestyles are rarely completely improvised. Instead, pre-­ composed lyrics—known as ‘writtens’ in hip-hop—are chosen depending on the circumstance, and creatively reworked to suit the occasion. The heightened pace of grime, anywhere from around 135–150 beats per minute, means the rapidity with which lyrics are spat demands a level of preparation. Trim continues: Sets are kind of pre-meditated, you’ve got your lyrics ready. You need loads of lyrics so you can cover certain topics …. If someone did try and clash you and you didn’t have bars [lyrics] for them, you would probably set a date. Tell them it’s on. Then come back to them with a diss track. Outside of battling, the sonority of particular hip-hop styles has impacted grime production. While the boom-bap aesthetic is rarely encountered on a grime track, subgenres developing concomitantly to grime seeped into the soundworld of its beat makers. In an interview with Hot 97’s Peter Rosenberg, Dizzee Rascal spoke to the influence of Dirty South and Southern Hip-Hop on his production: ‘When it came to making beats, [it was] Three 6 Mafia [a group from Memphis, Tennessee]. I used to love Project Pat [one of their MCs] and the whole Crunk [Southern HipHop] thing. Timbaland and Neptunes [too]’. While UK hip-hop artists tended to align unabashedly with the ‘transnational hip-hop nation’ by signifying on its core principles, Dizzee and his peers took influence from whatever was around them at that moment in time (Maxwell 2003: 20) And it made sense too. Timbaland’s ‘double time’ approach was particularly important for grime, as it more closely overlapped with the typical tempo of the grimy garage tracks being made at the turn of the millennium. Both 50 Cent’s ‘Ayo Technology’ and Ludacris’ ‘What’s Your Fantasy’ operate

‘It’s a 140 BPM Way of Life’ 17 around 140bpm, with the latter seamlessly incorporated into grime sets by DJs.8 Later in the same interview, Dizzee mentioned that the lyrics to his debut single ‘I Luv U’ (2002), were written to Timbo’s ‘Is That Your Chick’.9 The Hardcore Continuum? / UK Garage, Jungle, Rave and Hardcore These familial ties to sound system culture, the African continent, and hip-hop’s very pervasiveness in popular culture meant that the majority of grime artists are familiar with, and influenced by, the sounds of the African diaspora. But there was also something special happening at ground level in London’s boroughs throughout the 1980s and 1990s. The insatiable rise of rare groove remapped the dancefloor onto warehouse spaces, liberating individuals from different class and racial backgrounds to interact in ways that were perhaps more porous than the shabeens and Soho parties of generations past. By 1987, acid house had arrived ‘sweep[ing] the city, the shires and eventually the whole of the country in the guise of the “rave” phenomenon’ which culminated in the ‘second summer of love’ in 1988 (Melville 2019: 139). This led to an explosion of British dance music styles, most notably hardcore, drum‘n’bass and jungle, and garage. The interweaving of these forms was similarly fluid and generally tied to a shared spatial dynamic. Simon Reynolds famously located these forms (and grime) within a ‘hardcore continuum’, united by a socioeconomic infrastructure of ‘pirate radio stations, independent record shops, white labels and dubplates, specific rave promoters and clubs’ that sustained and excited creative practice across the capital and beyond (Reynolds 2013). Prior to grime’s emergence, many of its practitioners were already actively working in this arena. This is captured well by DJ Slimzee of East London radio station Rinse FM: ‘When I first come into the scene, I’ve been DJing since 1992. So I was playing hardcore them times then. Then jungle. Into garage. Then grime’ (Pritchard 2019). Riko Dan’s first performances were also at hardcore parties. It was simply a natural progression for artists in and around the live circuit. I was say about 12, 13 and the white boys on the ends (from the local area) used to play hardcore. And there was something in there. I wouldn’t say reggae but there was something there. That’s why it formed into jungle. It wasn’t just a bag of noise. That was my first experience MCing over music. I wouldn’t necessarily listen to hardcore, but in the house parties when it used to get played, I would get on mic and dun the dance.10 Riko Dan and Slimzee were old enough to remember hardcore raves and parties in the early 1990s. But it was jungle and UK garage that provided the basis for most grime MCs and DJs. Hardcore anthem ‘We are I.E.’—characterised by its anthemic vocal loop (sampled from Algerian

18  ‘It’s a 140 BPM Way of Life’ raï musician Cheb Sahraoui), incessant breakbeat and metallic bell line— was released in 1991 when Dizzee Rascal was only seven years old.11 But many of the form’s stylistic features, notably the amen break and sub-heavy basslines, found their way into jungle production. For North West London’s DJ Eastwood, both jungle and garage (and the scenes’ wider infrastructure) were part of his musical palate from a young age: I started DJing first. A lot of my friends were MCs. So, out of our collective four of us were DJs and most of the guys were MCs. At first, it was literally playing jungle, drum ‘n’ bass in the youth club. When it progressed we took it a bit more seriously. Getting a few bookings. We got on radio and we called ourselves 2 Good 2 Be True. And pretty much from then I wanted something different than what the other DJs were playing …. In terms of the musical influence specifically, grime takes much of its MCing style from the jungle. Jungle’s quickened pace, typically around 160bpm–180bpm, is well suited to the ‘fast chat’ style pioneered by a number of UK dancehall artists in the 1980s, such as Peter Kind, Smiley Culture and Tippa Irie (Hebdige 1987: 141). Jungle MCs, such as Stevie Hyper D, MC Moose, Skibadee and DET, built strong partnerships with their respective DJs and would typically perform lyrics that juxtaposed social commentary with provocation and assertions of supremacy.12 Great skill was required to react in the moment to pirate radio callers, and to audience participation at raves, consequently drawing substantial influence from the reggae toasters of their youth.13 Following his early experiences at hardcore raves, Riko Dan became a regular on jungle station Pressure FM in the late 1990s. Tape Crackers, a documentary on jungle’s pirate radio scene, pointed to this station’s importance for grime music, acting as a pivot point between jungle sensibilities and a more pointed MCing style. Riko gets very dark on this next track. Today people are used to grime MCs talking about guns, but that never used to really happen in jungle. Certainly not happy hardcore. But these guys were doing it. They were the forefathers of that. At least on this sort of London scene …. That’s Riko Dan. Almost sounding a bit like [jungle MC] Moose there. Really lowering his voice and putting an edge on it. And it suits that bassline, really dark bassline. Kool FM [jungle’s longest running London radio station] wouldn’t play this sort of track …. That’s Pressure FM. Big station with big MCs, coming across much more aggressive than any other station.14 The urgency and space afforded to MCs by jungle’s production, particularly on Pressure FM, was a natural precursor for grime. For East London

‘It’s a 140 BPM Way of Life’ 19 MC D Double E: ‘we had to create grime, because we needed it for our spirits as spitters. We’re coming from drum’n’bass, which is so open, like ‘Spray your heart out G, spray your lungs out!’ (Hancox 2018b). This move towards a more abrasive, MC-led style was not just happening in jungle but symptomatic of a wider trend. This influence was particularly felt in UK garage, a popular dance music style from the late 1990s. UK garage initially featured the ‘gospelly piano riffs’ and ‘soulful lead vocals’ of its US counterpart, taking its name from Larry Levan’s infamous New York City nightclub Paradise Garage (Boakye 2017: 50). During this period, its biggest UK exponents included MJ Cole, Craig David and DJ trio—the Dreem Teem. However, an adjustment in sonority and lyrical content at the turn of the millennium signalled a turn away from this sound, towards darker, more crew-led garage tracks. These new tracks foregrounded the MC and their performance, acting as a distinct precursor to grime. So Solid Crew were the first group to make waves in the mainstream. ‘21 Seconds’—mentioned above—was followed swiftly by a Top 10 UK album They Don’t Know in November 2001. North London’s Heartless Crew were insatiable. Their mix of dancehall swagger and playful opulence was a hit in the clubs, later making commercial in-roads with the ‘Heartless Crew Theme’. But it was East London’s Pay As U Go Cartel, featuring both Wiley and DJ Slimzee, who were seen to be indicating a new direction.15 LETHAL BIZZLE: Pay

As U Go made such a big impact. Their style was proper raw. Talking about what was going on the roads. They kicked it off. They were like the big boys. The So Solid of East London.

Their track ‘Know We’, also from 2001, perhaps best encapsulates the complex ‘sonic geography’ of grime music that has been outlined so far (Hancox 2013: 173). Its hook is laced in battle rap provocation with a dancehall flavour, MC God’s Gift asserting in patois (Jamaican slang) that ‘dem nuh know we’ (they do not know us).16 Both MCs Major Ace and Wiley exhibit double-time fast chat flows for their verses, while MC Maxwell D references reggae deejay Sweetie Irie in his lyrics. Operating at 135bpm, it has a two-step skip (characterised by syncopated hi-hats and snare pattern), with synth stabs redolent of Todd Edwards’ garage productions. Its cutting violin loop also offers an insight into the stripped-back instrumental style that grime production became prized for. In the years following, these elements held within ‘Know We’ began to spread and solidify. The year 2002 saw a proliferation of crew-led tracks: from More Fire Crew’s ‘Oi’ to End Productions’ ‘Are You Really From The Ends?’. In 2003, Dizzee Rascal was awarded with the Mercury Prize17 for his debut album Boy In Da Corner. And by the mid-2000s these elements had fully congealed and become recognised as grime music. This genre’s rootedness in Britain’s cities, their dynamic underground scenes, and its critical

20  ‘It’s a 140 BPM Way of Life’ routes across the Black Atlantic, are perhaps best captured by two releases from this period: ‘Forward Riddim’ and ‘Ina Di Ghetto’. East London MC Lethal Bizzle’s breakthrough single ‘Forward Riddim (Pow!)’ is one of grime’s most successful tracks, having reached No.11 in the UK charts in 2004.18 The track features nine MCs across the track, each spitting eight bar verses. Three incorporate patois as part of their delivery, and Jamakabi of Roll Deep articulates an air of supremacy, lyrically laying down the gauntlet for any MC foolish enough to test his talents: jamakabi: Rude boy fi jus sekkle (calm down), don’t let Jamakabi nah draw for the mekkle (metal), not di gun me draw for the belt buckle, I make a bigga boy fi seem likkle …. Following the track’s powerful and pugnacious refrain from Lethal Bizzle, diminutive white MC Fumin spits a lyric that is similarly pregnant with braggadocio, imploring his enemies to ‘stop barking up the wrong tree’ because the ‘spotlight’s on me’. Throughout the track, there is continual code-switching, with phrases featuring cockney swagger, patois, and Black British slang, representing the range of identities and affiliations associated with the form. The legacy of Jamaican dancehall and reggae clashing and hip-hop battling renders loud and clear, while the grounded-ness of the UK’s underground scenes is manifest through jungle flows and the crew-led performance style. North London MC Wretch 32’s single ‘Ina Di Ghetto’ offers a similarly full spectrum of influences. The single’s video and Wretch 32’s lyrical content offer a stark juxtaposition of London’s streets and a slum district, likening Tottenham to an imagined ghetto (the location of the slum filmed for the video is not made apparent). Meanwhile its chorus, performed by Birmingham MC Badness, is sung in patois, alluding heavily to the sung performance style of a number of dancehall MCs. badness: Life is more than rough, see you haffi be more than tough, yo you haffi can hold it up, woah ina di ghetto, ina di ghetto. The instrumental, however, is decidedly influenced by hip-hop. The sustained sub-bass line and 16th-note hi-hat pattern have the hallmarks of the Southern sound mentioned by Dizzee Rascal above, with both Three 6 Mafia’s ‘Stay Fly’ and Timbaland’s ‘Bounce’ sharing a substantial number of characteristics. When grime music first entered into wider public consciousness, it was quickly positioned against anything that had come before it. Sentiments contained in The Guardian’s 2004 report that referred to grime’s ‘alien’ nature

‘It’s a 140 BPM Way of Life’ 21 were bolstered by the then manager of BBC Radio 1Xtra George Ergatoudis who called grime an ‘exciting new sound’, whereas Wiley referred to its unquantifiable ‘raw energy’ (Radio 1 2004: 15:30). But while many aspects of grime practice were fresh and exciting, grime is substantially indebted to the antecedent creative practice of Black musical origin. Grime is both resolutely transatlantic in its horizons, yet reflective of the UK dance music scene from which it was birthed. And it also captures a level of inter-relation between all of these musical forms, made apparent in the overlap between Jamaican Sound System Culture and contemporary US hip-hop, but also the fluidity with which MCs such as Riko Dan performed over hardcore, jungle and UK garage. For Dan Hancox, these ‘second or third-generation black Britons were … far enough along the lineage of unique British dance styles—acid house, jungle, drum’n’ bass, UK garage—that they could draw from them all, while never being too in thrall to any of them’ (Hancox 2018a: 38). This shared ancestry evokes a collective performance of values, within forms that nonetheless have their own quirks and idiosyncrasies. Grime is both Black British, and an example of wider Black Atlantic expression, connected to ‘the stereophonic, bilingual or bifocal cultural [practices]’ across the globe located by Paul Gilroy in the early 1990s (1993: 3). These ‘structures of feeling, producing, communicating and remembering’ resonated strongly through Britain throughout the 20th century and beyond. From Count Suckle to Lloyd Coxsone, Janet Kay to Stevie Hyper D, its local and global roots—brought forth in the dance, and made manifest over the airwaves—have resulted in a multifaceted musical form that is at once resolutely British, but globally resonating.

Grime Music and the Academy Having addressed grime’s deep indebtedness to antecedent forms of Black musical practice, it’s important to examine my position as a researcher and practitioner and how this has affected both my creative endeavours and the approach of the book itself. The lack of extended ethnographic reportage on grime music’s performance practice is arguably owing to the spaces and places in which it is principally enacted, with accessibility typically reserved for practitioners. Pirate radio stations and raves are energetic and contested. Shabeens were deliberately hosted away from the prying eye of discriminatory authority figures; radio stations, often broadcasting illegally, harboured similar concerns well into the 21st century. Furthermore, crews function as tight-knit units, resistant to outside pressure and interference. For Patrick Turner, an outsider researching UK hip-hop and rap practice, performances were simply impenetrable: ‘those surrounding the emcee form a sort of pulsing enchanted shield or perimeter, underscoring the sense of exclusivity, separation and group solidarity. The focussed energy and attention is directed toward the core of the cipher—a fixed

22  ‘It’s a 140 BPM Way of Life’ point on the ground in the middle of the circle—serving to repel uninvited onlookers or at least ensure they maintain a respectful distance’ (Turner 2010: 141). I was fully aware of these issues when joining Over the Edge (OTE). While I had already spent a number of years on the radio circuit, I was still an outsider, entering into a creative partnership that could last a lifetime. And there are many ethical considerations that come to the fore, particularly regarding the overt racial and implicit economic affordances that I possess in this domain. Grime is a genre built upon working-class Black creative practice that flourished in spite of adversity throughout the early 2000s. Any academic engagement requires care and consideration. But I knew that in order to understand the form, ‘respectful distance’ wasn’t an option. I needed to get up close. This embedded approach is echoed by Benjamin Brinner—a theorist of gamelan and inter-performer relationships—who wrote that ‘an interpretative, ethnographic approach based on observed conduct and musicians’ concepts and concerns is far more likely to produce an understanding of musical competence that is rooted in human experience’ (Brinner 1995: 33; Schloss 2004: 56), and rendered true in a variety of ethnographic studies of hip-hop, a genre which often works on tacit knowledge and learned protocol that might otherwise evade the listener from afar. This section is split into three parts. Firstly, it explores how I ‘fit in’, detailing my entry into grime music, and my role as a DJ for London crew OTE. Secondly, it explores my autoethnographic approach and the ways in which I have tried to instil a level of analytical reflexivity in my work. I draw parallels with Anthony Kwame Harrison’s work as a practicing MC and hip-hop ethnographer in San Francisco’s Bay Area, while also making distinctions about the particularities of my own situation as a DJ, rather than a master of ceremonies. It then turns to these very important ethical considerations—regarding race, class and gender—and how my interstitial role within and outside the academy has impacted my place in the London grime scene. My Entry into Grime: 2005–2017 Flashback to 2005. I was 14. Dizzee Rascal was in the ascendancy, Roll Deep’s In at the Deep End was nearing release. Something exciting was happening, but I wasn’t aware of it. The first grime tune I heard was Lethal Bizzle’s ‘Forward Riddim’. It was shown to me on the bus to school that I took every day from my housing estate in Ashford, Kent, a predominantly white working-class market town situated 50 miles south of London. I hadn’t heard anything like it. Jamakabi’s vocal immediately cut through, Bizzle’s defiant chorus line was etched into my brain. Grime soon became a constant on these journeys, with tracks shared via InfraRed on a mobile phone. Budding MCs would spit lyrics over a tinny beat blasting out of a

‘It’s a 140 BPM Way of Life’ 23 Nokia 5510, while Essex-based MC Devlin’s infamous diss track for Wiley was almost never out of rotation. ‘You’ll love this one, Alex’, said my mate Rowan. ‘It’s got strings in it’. He played it to me every day, while I sat there listening in both awe and bewilderment, trying to compute the apparent cacophony between the rising violin arpeggios, descending sub bass and lightning-fast lyrical lacerations inflicted on Wiley, the scene’s ‘godfather’. Some months later I finally ‘got it’ and haven’t looked back since. My principal point of exposure soon became the radio. Logan Sama’s show, mentioned in the Introduction, became a mainstay. London’s pirate stations did not broadcast into Kent, but mixes were accessible through sites such as RWD Forum, and latterly Grime Forum. This meant I could listen back to Croydon’s Plasticman (now Plastician), Newham Generals’ DJ Tubby on Rinse, and East London crew Slew Dem on DejaVu FM. After a few years, visuals became easier to access. Grime videographer Risky Roadz had his videos uploaded to MySpace, and I picked up Lord of the Mics 2 on DVD. And while this period was fanatical, it is important to stress that my first contact with the form was from a distance. For the first four or five years of engaging with grime, it was almost entirely mediated and sustained through listening to pirate radio sets, purchasing CDs and making weekend trips to the capital to watch live shows and attend Under 18 Raves. Although Ashford had a small scene, it wasn’t something that I engaged with on a regular basis. I didn’t have the confidence as an MC, didn’t have turntables, and spent most of my time musically trying to nail the ‘rhythm changes’ and sweep pick on the guitar. This changed when I moved to London in 2010 to study music. I bought a set of Technics 1210s and learned to mix jungle in my university halls in Bethnal Green, East London, just a short walk from the infamous Roman Road: a historic thoroughfare with a bustling market, nominally ascribed as one of grime’s key sites of liminal conviviality. I went along to every event advertised but spent most of my time at FWD≫’s Thursday sessions in Plastic People, located just a short walk from my halls in the (already heavily) gentrified surroundings of Shoreditch. Its dubstep-leaning offerings saw bold collaborations between grime MCs and sub-heavy producers, but its audience was markedly different from the established East London community that frequented the pubs, grocers and market stalls that stretched from Bethnal out into Bow, Hackney and Newham. I realised something was lacking, so reached out to the London pirates to try and get a foot in the door. I knew that radio was the key. Eventually DJ Supreme19 from DejaVu FM picked up the phone, and I went down to a meeting at the station. By this point, grime in London20 was in a bad way— particularly on the club circuit—so my entry was perhaps facilitated by this. The success of commercial crossover hits such as Tinie Tempah’s ‘Pass Out’ did little to reinvigorate its core listenership, with UK Funky and deep house’s resurgence dominating the airwaves and large venues like Ministry of Sound and Fabric throughout the early 2010s.

24  ‘It’s a 140 BPM Way of Life’ Importantly, though, the team at Deja were fully committed to keeping the sound alive. It was a proper pirate station, broadcasting illegally on FM, and proud of its heritage. This meant it was highly localised and ‘culture vultures’—artists who jump on a scene when it’s popping to make commercial gain—were nowhere to be seen (Mook and Miyakawa 2014). Whereas FWD≫’s crowd was mostly middle class and/or university students by this point,21 Deja was an altogether different prospect. I was one of three white DJs in the meeting, with the remainder of its DJs of Black African or African Caribbean heritage. Most were from working-class backgrounds, and everyone was equally committed to the cause. The station itself was located on an industrial state, seven miles East of London’s centre in the borough of Waltham Forest. You weren’t able to give out the details to anyone, and the block’s entrance was manned by a security guard. This was serious business. Following a few months volunteering at their events series, I started DJing the ‘graveyard shift’ from midnight until 2 am on Tuesdays. This enabled me to cut my teeth away from prime-time pressure. I began to get familiar with the phone line and the station’s social media channels and started to have guests down to perform. After a few years on Deja, I started to work journalistically in the scene. This gave me another perspective on the process and also afforded me access to artists of a much higher stature: these MCs certainly weren’t up for trekking to Leytonstone in the early hours for my show but were more accommodating when I was tied to a major youth publication. I re-entered the radio circuit when I started a postgraduate programme at Goldsmiths, University of London, and within the first year of doctoral study, I had joined Don City Radio. Despite my concerns, when I arrived in Hackney for my first show—after a few years away from radio—Stripe was always reassuring, and the station had a proper community surrounding it. It was easy to get to by car from South East London—where Goldsmiths is based—and many elements were similar to Deja Vu FM, such as the phone line and deck setup. Unlike Deja, though, the station broadcast purely online. As a result, the dynamic and audience relationship also changed. Listeners were encouraged to use Twitter to communicate with stations, and radio flyers were posted online in advance of transmission. Its legal status also altered practice. When working for DejaVu FM, I was made acutely aware of the risks we were undertaking. At any time, the station could be raided by the Department of Trade and Industry (DTI) and my equipment could be seized. This move online made the situation more relaxed. In spite of this, though, Don City primarily functioned like a pirate. I paid my subs (subscription fee) to keep the station running, and we relied on adverts for raves and dances around the area for income. Over the following few months, I started to gain some real momentum and by October 2017 I was the official DJ for OTE, a grime crew consisting of MCs Razor, Reaper (or Reaps), Kabz, J River and Geo, and in-house

‘It’s a 140 BPM Way of Life’ 25 producer/DJs IndexOnDecks and Raheim. This affiliation would become critical with respect to my wider legitimacy in the scene. I was both a Don City DJ and the DJ for OTE. The following subsection introduces OTE more fully—expanding on the snapshot offered in the book’s introduction— before outlining what my position means for this research. Over the Edge / ‘Over the Wot Mate?’ RAZOR:  At

the time, my school didn’t really seem like a place where grime music would be made. The school choir made the soundtrack for Lord of the Rings, they’ve got a chamber orchestra and shit. You get taught Latin up to Year 9. At the time, it was a very serious Catholic school: all-boys, chapel once a week, prayer every morning. ‘We don’t play football here, we play rugby’ was the vibe. We were on a resistance flex like ‘I don’t wanna do this, you know. I don’t wanna conform to this sort of thing’. And that’s what it was. We had clashes on the playground and in the toilets, little alleyways around the school and stuff.

OTE was formed in 2006 by classmates Razor, Reaps and Tempest at a school in West London. A Catholic school in leafy West London isn’t necessarily the first place that comes to mind when you think of grime, but neither is Ashford in Kent. The grime scene—and pretty much all musical movements—relies upon contributions from a wide variety of people, with some taking unconventional routes. Nonetheless, Christian education is quite a common grounding for grime artists. Particularly for those with African Caribbean and West African heritage, the predominant demographics for grime MCs (Razor is British-Nigerian). Joy White has written about the importance of St Bonaventure’s Roman Catholic School for grime artists in Newham, East London, while Monique Charles’ doctoral thesis extensively explores Grime’s spirituality and religious grounding with respect to the Black Atlantic (Charles 2016: 46; White 2017: 230). Both Reaps and Razor travelled from afar to attend this school, and despite its dislocation from grime’s epicentre—widely regarded as Bow, East London—Razor was born and bred in East. What is clear from Razor’s quote above, though, is a marked animosity towards the schooling he received. During this period, Razor and Reaps developed their craft in interstitial spaces, escaping the formalised expectations imposed upon them. This practice is coherent with grime theorist Richard Bramwell’s writing on the importance of buses and corners for the formation and development of an MCs’ craft and speaks to the ways in which the spaces that grime is performed in become central for an understanding of grime performance as a whole (Bramwell 2015: 18; Wheatley 2010: 40). Razor and Reaps left the school in Year 11,22 and Reaps met J River in college in South West London, where their friendship and barring capabilities

26  ‘It’s a 140 BPM Way of Life’ developed in tandem. The group of MCs would develop their style through exchanges and sparring sessions whenever they had a spare moment. J RIVER: 

I met Reaper in college. At that time, I wasn’t even spitting but had an admiration for the culture. I’d always been into poetry so I had an affinity for wordplay, but after I met Reaps it was actually his rapping that inspired me to start myself. I met Razor through him. I definitely felt a need to bring my lyricism up to the level of the people around me. When I started those guys were leagues ahead of me. I’d have bars (lyrics), I’d write them, but when we go back-to-back I would just get spun. Then we’d be on the bus and man would be looking at my notepad and be like ‘yeah this bar’s kind of sick’ and start spitting my bars and they’d be spitting it better than me and it was a pisstake! It was just that really competitive element of sharpening steel against steel, rallying every single day, linking up every single day and just barring repeatedly until that level came up and I started to be able to bar at the same level as the people around me.

This fervent quotidian collaboration was critical for developing the core of the crew. MC interactivity is highly prized, and their sparring sessions fostered an affinity that could be brought out in performance. Their first public appearance under the OTE moniker was a radio set that took place in the latter half of 2016 at Mode FM in Enfield, North London. This transition from playground practice hours to performing in the ‘dojo’ was a major concern for River. When we first went to radio obviously there’s elements of spitting that are specific to radio. You’re spitting in front of people. That gives you a different type of nervousness when you’re performing if you’re not used to it. So even though I was very confident in my levels and abilities— cause we’ve obviously been barring for ages—it was an experience that we had to adapt to. We did it as much as we could and we got good quickly. The first set that me and Razor were ever on, AJ Tracey, Big Zuu, PK [MCs from a famous collective named MTM, covered in Chapter 4] were all there. We were thrown in at the deep end. Being thrown in at the deep end is a shrewd analogy for the situation Razor and River entered, and how they responded to it. You simply have to swim to keep yourself above water. Upon listening back to the set, though, it’s audible that they acclimatised to the setting. Although flanked by artists who were well known in the scene at the time, dealing with the matter at hand was the primary objective. Following on from this point, the crew started to make more radio appearances, released individual EPs and enlisted a producer called Growly from North West London. Within a few months, I was part of the click.

‘It’s a 140 BPM Way of Life’ 27

Figure 1.1  Over the Edge outside Don City, East London. Photograph taken by the author. Picture of Over the Edge, a London grime collective.

Research or ‘Me’Search? / Autoethnography, PerformanceCentred Research and Critical Analysis A crew born out of childhood friendships and developed over the best part of a decade holds within it strong bonds and relationships. Becoming involved with anything that far down the line will always result in a level of distance, missing out on experiences and camaraderie developed over time. I was immediately tentative when Growly asked me to join OTE. There were some real concerns about how the affiliation to a crew might curtail some of the wider collaboration I had been engaging with, and— more simply—how I might fit into a group that had been working together for so long. Nonetheless, I was excited at the opportunity to work with some promising MCs over an extended period of time. In the words of Harrison, I needed to wade through the ‘rapid waters of [being] a participant’ and try my best to keep afloat in a high-pressure crew-focused environment (Harrison 2009: 5). Over the next few years, I was granted with unfettered access to, and was able to actively perform with, an improvising group of grime artists, often on a daily basis. This enabled me to document creative practice at ground level, collect field notes, analyse performances and actually inhabit the

28  ‘It’s a 140 BPM Way of Life’ performance field fully. This autoethnographic approach is critical for providing a comprehensive understanding of a musical genre and its protocol. As a living, breathing form that is based on collaborative practice, there are decided limitations through examining from afar. For Deborah Wong, an ethnomusicologist who specialises in Asian American practice, there is a real need to address the ‘crisis of representation’ in the ethnographic study, and a performance-centred approach does much to mitigate perceived distance between ethnographer and practitioners: ‘we cannot remain mired in the unidirectional quandary of How Do I Represent Them?’ she writes. ‘Performance-centred research has the potential to create new intersubjective relationships, but this will happen only if we urge it to overrun our expectations’ (2019: 23). There needs no longer to be a dichotomy of ‘us and them’, or a stultifying distance enforced by the pulsating cipher that Turner was unable to penetrate. Instead, by occupying a role as both a member of the community and a DJ for OTE, I could get inside the form and actively participate over an extended period. There is, however, a prevailing tension between the way in which studies are typically written up, and the resolute group nature of creative practice: inscribing a collaborative enterprise and restricting it to mere words on a page often does a disservice to the collaborative enterprise. This dynamic is captured well by Stephen Cottrell, in his pioneering study of ensemble practice in Orchestras. Here, he noted how ‘the collective view is still elucidated and edited and interpreted by a single ethnographer, and scaffolded by the framework of his or her own theorizing’ (2017: 4). As a consequence, the shift from performer to documentarian requires thought, notwithstanding the difficulties processing work that you yourself are involved in. A few months into my journey with OTE, we performed as a crew at a venue in North London. My diary entry from the evening, scrawled into a notepad on the tube home in the early hours, captures this tension between individual vantage and the collective nature of group improvisation: It’s 3am in late-December and I am waiting for a train from Seven Sisters, North London, in bitterly cold conditions. While many people are nestled up at home in post-Christmas slumber, I am making the trip back to South London having just performed as part of Over The Edge’s official debut show. From my position on stage, Five Miles—a former fabric warehouse newly kitted out with a state-of-the-art soundsystem—was jumping. Eight MCs were going back-to-back, while myself and our two other DJs were pushing out instrumentals. Largely pleased with the performance, I left the booth and entered the outside courtyard to break down what had occurred with the team. One of the MCs was in high spirits, gassed (excited) off of the performance, one of his first in public. Another MC, however, was angry. ‘There are levels to this’, he kept saying. Our subsequent discussion lasted nearly an hour going over how the transitions between tracks weren’t fast enough, how

‘It’s a 140 BPM Way of Life’ 29 certain MCs weren’t projecting enough to the audience, and how the pacing was off. Standing on the platform at Seven Sisters I came to realise that each and every one of us held a different conception of how the night went. Journal Entry. December 30, 2017. This section therefore looks into two issues. Firstly, it will address the difficulties faced trying to report on something that I am deeply involved in, and how these difficulties have been mitigated by a participatory approach that incorporates others’ voices as part of the research. Secondly, it will look at how my practice has changed since becoming a researcher-performer. In effect, how theorising about performance has affected the very performance process itself. The situation that arose in Five Miles showed how a singular perspective can never tell the full story. The difficulties of writing reflexively about one’s own work are augmented in a group scenario. Collaborators’ views, in these instances, become even more vital. And being able to accurately convey what occurred, and analyse the processes at hand, requires coming to terms with the fact that any interpretation—including my own—will never be completely disinterested. Acknowledging this incorporation of the self, without falling into self-­ indulgence is a matter addressed by other researchers: Leon Anderson examines issues of ‘evocative ethnography’ that prioritise pathos over precision; Norman Denzin is critical of autoethnographers who ‘bypass the representational problem by invoking an epistemology of emotion’ (Anderson 2006: 373; Denzin 1997: 228). While I of course have an emotional engagement with the artists who I work with—we have been collaborating since 2017 and have become close friends as a result—it’s important to remember that the priority is to unpack group creative performance in grime, not necessarily espouse a singular and emotive viewpoint. While never perfect, there are a number of ways in which I have tried to instil a sense of critical distance over the years working in the London scene. Part of this distance has come through human necessity. While completely immersed in the scene throughout 2016 and 2017, over time I became physically and emotionally exhausted. I was attending three to four events a week (radio sets and live shows), often seeing the sun rise on the night bus home. Taking breaks from practice allowed me to collect my thoughts and reflect. And diary entries were also subject to several phases of engagement. My immediate responses were revised and edited the following day, where possible, and the recording of most radio sets allowed me to re-listen to the performance, from a seated position rather than being behind the decks. Following this, I would speak with artists about their perceptions. Through a triangulation of artists’ interpretations, my own ethnographic reportage, and an assessment of the material away from the field, I hoped to assuage some of the issues that result from this sort of research.

30  ‘It’s a 140 BPM Way of Life’ In particular, this co-collaborative approach with artists has proven beneficial. Throughout this book, the process of translating practical grime knowledge into academic knowledge will be both challenging and illuminating. Difficulties breaching the impasse between artists’ ways of knowing and a more formal—yet by no means more legitimate—understanding have been substantially helped by discussions and collaborations with a diverse array of artists. Night bus debriefs after late-night radio sets were a regular occurrence, and innumerable informal encounters with artists at events helped calcify others’ opinions on what went down. In particular, I worked extensively with Razor and Reaps. We would speak regularly about the minutiae of grime practice and the ways in which it could be made transparent. They both became directly involved in the research as it progressed: Razor spoke to students as part of my teaching at Goldsmiths; both Reaps and Razor performed with me for a delegation of early career researchers in Trinity Buoy Wharf on the Greenwich Peninsula in South East London. Through thinking about ‘technical terms and their practical use’, we began to move closer towards how grime’s rich lexicon of descriptive terminology help unpacks what’s really at play in live performance (Chapter 4 on the Through Ball is a prime example of this). This level of thinking critically and collaboratively with co-­p erformers was bolstered by interviews with the rest of the crew. Interview questions about each artist’s practice related to performances that we were all involved in. Most were conducted informally: either directly after radio sets or over the phone. This approach helped move towards a more co-constructed model of OTE’s functionality and strengthen the book’s overall modelling of how crews can level up in a performance setting. Finally, it’s also important to note that extensive audiovisual examples have been used throughout, and the online collection of these artefacts is detailed in the book’s methodology (see below). Readers are encouraged to watch and listen to these examples and fashion their own thoughts on the music and interplay covered. This, too, helps a move away from a single, authorial voice. As Wong has noted, ‘any research on performance should push at the limits of the page’, and co-constructed modelling— coupled with multimedia artefacts—goes some way towards a collaborative rather than individualised response to creative practice in grime (Wong 2019: 20). Another element that I have been mindful of during this research is the peculiar intersection between theoretical writings on performance and practice itself. Any engagement with a system—according to second-order cybernetics—can elicit a change upon it; even just observing it. As a DJ, I have substantial scope to impact proceedings. I am able to choose what tracks to play and how to deliver them. And since I started grappling with theoretical material—particularly on interaction, improvisation, emergence and complexity—my approach to DJing changed, inflecting upon the functionality of the crew as a whole. When I ‘make the cut’ I bring this

‘It’s a 140 BPM Way of Life’ 31 understanding to the table, in addition to my skillset as a DJ. And although I would like to think that I am fully in the moment, improvising with the group in a manner that seems immanent and intuitive, there is an underlying influence. This affects the way in which I am thinking about performance at the time of performing (Hayles 2000: 137). I noted a growing trend in my diary entries throughout 2017. Some of my notes detailed a sense of detachment from the performance at hand, and my improvisational capabilities were temporarily suspended. Following a set with London-based crew Shellyvnne, I wrote that ‘I was not just performing but actively listening to other performers during their unfolding performance process and working out how to react to their performance’. This statement essentially articulates the metapragmatic process—­ musically suggesting to others mid-performance about the future state of a performance—that artists undertake while performing in grime music (see Chapter 3). However, I was being distracted by this thought during the process. Here, then, I was thinking about how I think and react while within a performance I was already working through. As a consequence, my decision-making was clouded, for at least a few weeks anyway. I would read certain authors’ work and try to avoid what might be seen as ‘bad’ practice. Whenever I performed in close proximity to reading the work of Keith Sawyer—a theorist on creativity and improvisation—I was acutely conscious of not trying to ‘drive’ or dominate the performance (Sawyer 2003: 9). Similarly, ethnomusicologist David Borgo’s assertion that ‘the modeller is not seeking to control the complex system by quantifying it … [but by] increas[ing] their “intuitions” about how the system works so they can interact with it more harmoniously’ led me towards a more passive performance style (Borgo 2005: 73). Here, sitting back and prioritising MCs actually brought distaste from artists, who berated me for not testing them and chopping the tracks. What’s captured here, then, is an alteration of process. Rather than responding in the moment to a variety of stimuli, I took singular suggestions and allowed these to override my practice. Despite both Saywer and Borgo being advocates for the emergent creative process, I found myself aligning with salient points from their writing and negatively impacting the crew’s creative output. Performances are contingent, and arbitrarily prescribing totalised understandings of how practice should be conducted will always fall flat. Pierre Bourdieu’s famous line ‘practice has a logic that is not of the logician’ still rings true (Bourdieu, 1990: 80). While not advocating for a complete abandonment of the theorisation of practice, there are limits. And there’s always a mediation between the actuality of a creative process and the difficulties faced in reflecting on what has occurred. For Bourdieu, there exists a fallacy of reflection as representative of practice itself: ‘there is every reason to think that as soon as [the practitioner] reflects on [their] practice, adopting a quasi-theoretical posture, the agent loses any chance of expressing the truth of [their] practice’ (ibid: 92).

32  ‘It’s a 140 BPM Way of Life’ Mitigating for uncertainty and fallacy of positionality is therefore a constant battle. After weeks of feeling lost, I tried to detach myself from the literature while performing, effectively unlearning what I had learned to explain what I was already doing. And through convening with co-­collaborators, I tried to reassure myself that I wasn’t writing absolute rubbish. And while I have come to realise that any conceptualisation of practice will have an impact, regardless of intention, I have attempted throughout the book to capture the process without the fear of ‘mere totalization’ that Bourdieu warned against (ibid: 82). There is a fundamental concern within this book to map the nuances of the creative process. Despite the challenges of autoethnography, it possesses huge scope to tell the whole story, rather than that of the observer. The insight garnered acts as a critical supplement to theoretical modelling and analysis, while also providing the experiential bolstering that acknowledges performances’ local instability, the importance of process, and the need to continually interrogate findings, both with co-collaborators and in reference to audiovisual documentation and field notes. The water may be murky, but at least I jumped in with both feet. Race, Class and the Academy / ‘80,000? That’s a Mad Amount of Words!’ After a few months as part of the crew, I was starting to find stable ground, with our creative partnership and communal affiliation strengthening one day at a time. One morning, I opened WhatsApp to find an animated exchange between two of the MCs in my crew. While this wasn’t unusual, and I was often one of the first to weigh into a discussion, the nature of their conversation made me think deeply about how I fit into the crew, and the overt racial and implicit economic affordances that I possess. They had just watched a set by a DJ in the scene, and were dismayed at what they saw. In their eyes, the DJ couldn’t mix, selected bad tunes, and shouldn’t even be allowed near the decks: MC:  Hear

what I’m saying. Probably an unpopular opinion, however DJ Starman …. He1 is whack fam. I was tryna take him in yeah. He’s whack g. I’ve been watching these sets that he’s doing. His selection is terrible, his mixing is terrible, he’s worse than XXXX, but fam he’s just whack bro. What’s going on? MC 2:  not gonna lie, it’s white privilege still. Here, my own position as a white DJ was laid bare. These artists attributed Starman’s reputation as one of grime’s principal DJs to structural racism. And I really couldn’t argue, because it is largely true. While Starman is a highly regarded DJ, the way in which he rose through the ranks was arguably facilitated by his race, relative economic security and social nous

‘It’s a 140 BPM Way of Life’ 33 to negotiate and reason with a managerial class that predominantly looked like him. At that precise moment, I was drawn back to Harrison’s work on Bay Area hip-hop, where he examined the so-called ‘racial heterogeneity’ of the scene. With a diversified practitioner base, nestled in a vehemently cosmopolitan city, the Bay’s rap network prided itself on being open and porous. However, there are prevailing structural obstacles in society that—regardless of the ways in which performance communities expand—effect employability and the opinions of major organisations over who to hire. As Harrison states, ‘the idea that race should not matter and the false consciousness (for some) that race does not matter gets consistently confronted by the fact that it does’ (2009: 34). Grime is a music of Black origin, yet its most prominent DJs are white: DJ Slimzee, DJ Logan Sama, DJ Maximum, to name just three. This is no accident. It simply took a WhatsApp conversation for this to be brought front and centre. One further aspect to consider is the particularity of DJing, and how this career path afforded access in a way that MCing could not offer. As a DJ, I didn’t have to speak aside from introducing tracks. Therefore, my identity wasn’t openly asserted. This is starkly different for MCs. Bruza, a Black MC from Walthamstow who spat in a Cockney accent, regularly had to deal with issues surrounding his ethnicity. Presumed by many listeners to be white because of his performance style, he released a single in 2005 called ‘Doin Me’ that explicitly confronted these expectations (Dissensus 2005).23 BRUZA:  When

people first heard of me they used to wonder what colour Bruza is, before they saw Lord of the Mics, they used to think that I was white …. All that’s white in me, is me bones bruv, and I know my history.

Unlike Bruza, my DJing identity was instead built through my selection of tracks, my skill set—how I mixed the tracks, the rapidity with which I could cut between different instrumentals—and the MCs I worked with. I provided the beats and the MCs did the talking. Further to this, I had the socioeconomic means to purchase a set of decks and start mixing vinyl from an early age. For an artist like DJ Spooky of Slew Dem crew, this wasn’t an option. He simply couldn’t afford his own set of turntables. In brute economic terms, ‘DJing isn’t cheap. MCing is free’ (Hancox 2018: 52). This consideration then is three-fold. While I have worked hard to get where I am, as did Starman, there are a number of elements (racial, socioeconomic, and DJ-specific) that have made this journey much more easily navigable than it would have been for Black artists. Another marked concern with respect to my practice, though, is my position within the academy. Not only did this research impact my own practice as a DJ, but I also felt set apart from other artists simply by virtue of being attached to an institution. There exists a long history of misrepresentation

34  ‘It’s a 140 BPM Way of Life’ of grime practice. As mentioned in the book’s introduction, the genre is readily exoticised, and a racialised fear resulted in a huge swathe of events being cancelled throughout the 2000s and 2010s under the auspices of ‘risk assessment’. I spent many nights worrying about what my research of the form meant; I was no longer just a DJ but someone to be treated with suspicion. These worries were brought into acute focus in early 2018 when an MC was ‘outed’ as a police officer. Although not a big name, he was regularly involved and engaged with the performance circuit, and while the claims that he was an officer were never fully substantiated—a picture of him in a Community Support Officer uniform was circulated heavily—this was enough to see every station immediately cut ties. Any affiliation to the police is seen as a strict red flag, owing to its history of systemic racism and continued discrimination towards members of the Black community through punitive stop-and-search measures (Beynon and Kushnick 2003: 233). Furthermore, these stations’ often ephemeral status meant that they couldn’t take any chances. This would have been a disaster for Deja Vu, for example, as the location could have been shared with the authorities and its equipment would have been seized. The consequent furore from this incident made me realise, quite unequivocally, that transparency was crucial. Of course, universities aren’t seen in the same light as the constabulary but any concealment of my intentions would be seen as a marker of distrust, and also disrespect towards the people who I work with. These concerns were most often made manifest when I asked artists to spare some of their time for an interview. Over a three-year period, I had the freedom to explore and document grime’s performance practice, thanks to a funding grant from the United Kingdom’s Arts and Humanities Research Council. This economic and occupational security, however, was not shared with the majority of artists I worked with, many of whom lived in relative precarity. This disparity between the time afforded to me as a researcher and the lived experiences of artists meant I had to be judicious with respect to who I interviewed and how these interviews were undertaken. I also had to be clear and manage expectations. Aside from the handful of academic studies mentioned above, the primary format with which grime artists are typically interviewed is journalistic. As such, there was initially an emphasis from artists to tell me about their new single that they thought might help them ‘go clear’ and get serious recognition and financial reward. My new role as a researcher meant that my intentions were very different from my time as a journalist. I had to be honest and upfront. While I had time on my hands, it was precious for artists. I did not want to mislead them or promise them something I couldn’t fulfil. I encountered this issue when I first met one of my interviewees. At the time, I was working for the youth culture publication Complex. I was in the smoking area at a grime night in West London, and an artist came over,

‘It’s a 140 BPM Way of Life’ 35 eager to tell me about his new EP. Someone had told him I worked for the magazine, and he wanted to offer me a premiere of his new single before the full project got released. While I was used to deflecting approaches during this period, I was genuinely interested in the project, and—even more so— wanted to have a chat about his creative approach. He sent a number of follow-up emails over the following two weeks, clearly keen to get something over the line. After an unsuccessful pitch to the editorial team, I decided to see if he was simply up to meet and have a chat about his work. Here, I had to be crystal clear with my intentions. I couldn’t promise a review, nor could I get his video uploaded to a popular channel. As a result, it took some time to get the interview in place. Understandably, there was far less urgency on his part to make it happen. This is captured well by Ingrid Monson: ‘unlike many journalists, however, I did not have a recognisable byline, could not guarantee that their name/photo would appear within a reasonable amount of time in Downbeat, Jazz Times, NY Times … consequentially I was rather low in the hierarchy of importance as an interviewer’ (1996: 17). However, once we met up, there was a mutual understanding, and this resulted in us talking extensively about performance and his wider pursuits. Through downplaying commercial imperative and foregrounding my interest in the art form, we entered into a far more meaningful working relationship. And as a result, we later ended up performing together, both on the radio and at live shows. I soon discovered that while being a researcher meant that it took longer to arrange interviews, my role as a DJ helped qualify my position to the artists that I approached. In the large majority of cases, it assuaged concern about my involvement with an academic institution, which was something I wasn’t necessarily expecting: most artists said that they felt reassured that someone they knew was doing this work, and that they were asked for their opinion; South East London MC Jabz, although initially surprised that someone could actually write 80,000 words on grime, primarily would continually check in to see how the project was going; a few artists jokingly suggested they’d like to have lectures from me. The formality of the boundary, then, only manifested itself in the recording of interviews, which wasn’t an unusual imposition since performances were typically recorded anyway. As time progressed, interviews flowed, and recommendations kept coming through, meaning I could speak with more and more artists about their practice. It was apparent that while the notion of the project itself was a bit strange to some, I was committed and had time to hear about their craft, rather than trying to squeeze out a soundbite for a news article. Most importantly, then, my position as a known quantity lessened concerns about my attachment to the academy. One artist in particular openly said to me in an interview that he wouldn’t have reached out if I wasn’t ‘active’ in the scene. For many others, this was implicitly inferred. Of course I can’t predict how this project may have turned out if I wasn’t a practitioner, but it was principally a ‘way in’ and it made the reasons behind my research

36  ‘It’s a 140 BPM Way of Life’ more tangible. In short, I am a DJ, I work with OTE and I have a fortnightly show on Mode FM and I used to be on Deja and Don City. Therefore, I was generally welcomed warmly because of this. Although there’s no telling what people have said about me behind my back. Authenticity, Homosociality and Gender One factor that hasn’t been attended to yet, with respect to my positional affordances, is gender. Grime is a heavily male-dominated space, evidenced by its pirate radio circuit, and the typically homosocial units that the genre orients around. I am part of an all-male crew, and—aside from a few exceptions—most stations I have DJ’d on (DejaVu FM, Mode FM and Subtle FM) are predominantly male spaces. There are a number of reasons for this, not least the patrilineal ownership of sounds and stations, passed down from reggae, dancehall and jungle. Furthermore, the material conditions in which grime was birthed (see ‘Introducing Grime Music’ above) were markedly fractious, and this coloured the environments in which the music was produced. For Joy White, young grime artists were—and still are—‘corralled into ever smaller spaces’, and an intense desire to break these ties comes through as part of the performance (White 2017: 224). Monique Charles makes a more direct link between socioeconomic conditions and the form’s sonority, stating that grime’s ‘tempo reflect[s the] fast pace of London’, while the importance of liminal spaces in Richard Bramwell’s on UK hip-hop and grime writing highlights the fragility of the Black Public Sphere and its creative spaces (Bramwell 2015: 18; Charles 2016: 133). Pirate radio is not only fractious with respect to impromptu clashes and MC’s jostling back on forth, but it is also beholden to the very real threat of being raided by the police. North London MC Skepta’s track ‘DTI’ refers to the impermanence of radio, while Mykaell Riley’s study of grime practice found Form 696—a document issued by the Metropolitan Police to assess the safety of events—to be used punitively against grime events, which were regularly cancelled, such as Giggs’ tour mentioned in the Introduction (Riley 2017: 59). This fraught terrain is often laced with tension, and as a consequence, articulations of hypermasculinity from community members are far from rarefied occurrences. Jeffrey Boakye’s book Hold Tight deals with masculinity and grime music (2017: 101). This detailed and sensitive approach contrasts with the racially essentialised reportage outlined in the book’s introduction, but it does draw out important issues and concerns with a certain style of performance and how this can exclude others. Boakye focuses on recordings, and looks to certain tracks, such as South London Giggs’ ‘Talkin the Hardest’ and East London MC Crazy Titch’s ‘I Can C U’, showing how they feature abrasive and often misogynistic lyrical content. Boakye argues that these overt assertions of masculinity are used to authenticate their positions as bona fide artists, while also reflecting their quotidian experiences

‘It’s a 140 BPM Way of Life’ 37 (ibid: 152). This reading aligns with Kembrew McLeod’s research on hiphop authenticity that locates the outward projection of a ‘hard’ persona in hip-hop MCing (2012: 169). Hypermasculinity’s impact on performance and performance spaces was evocatively documented by Monique Charles. During her doctoral research, she experienced aggrandised masculinity in a number of ways. She was sexualised by ethnographic participants, noted problematic gender dynamics at raves, and also referenced particular tracks that—like Boakye’s choices—had uncomfortable and misogynistic lyrics (2016: 78; 269). The normalising of these themes, and aspects of conduct, unsurprisingly makes grime unwelcoming for a number of people. With respect to performance, this hypermasculine intensity has consequently impacted and inflected upon radio sets and live shows. The most overt manifestation of this is the overall gender imbalance at events. The pirate radio station and rave are predominantly seen as a priori masculine, and this leaves women outnumbered and disenfranchised. Harrison has mapped a similar field of creation and performance in Bay Area hip-hop, where ‘informal apprenticeships, which in terms of underground hip-hop typically involve the diffusion of particular skills and knowledge within home and bedroom settings, tend to be activities that discourage female involvement’ (2009: 33). While grime MCs often speak about feeling at home on radio, the primacy of male bonding within these spaces makes it difficult and uncomfortable for women to engage. According to grime photographer Ellie Ramsden: Not all women feel comfortable at sets when they’re the only female in the room. It can be daunting and difficult to navigate, especially if it feels that you’re being treated differently or not taken seriously because of your gender. With grime being such a male-dominated genre, men have often only learnt how to behave around other men in these situations. It’s important for women to support each other and be present in these spaces to pave the way for a more equal and accepting culture. Throughout the 2010s, a shift towards greater participation and representation for women in the grime scene saw DJs Julie Adenuga, Sian Anderson, Rebecca Judd and Kaylee Kay host prominent shows on Beats One, BBC Radio 1Xtra, Westside and Pyro Radio, respectively. MCs such as Lady Leshurr, C Cane, Lost Souljah, Madders Tiff and Taliifah also gained substantial notoriety for their craft during this period.24 For DJ Kaylee Kay, these positive steps were seen as part of a gradual transition: What we want to do is integrate. It’s not like having all female sets all the time. I think it should be a thing where when DJs are doing sets, they invite at least one female MC. At the moment [in 2019] it’s not really the case … but it is a lot better than it was previously.

38  ‘It’s a 140 BPM Way of Life’ But, despite this shift, the nature of these spaces has affected female artists’ practice: I think a lot of the [female MCs] are strong minded people but put on an even harder front. Especially when they’re out doing their shows. They have to be harder than the guys to show they’re even better than the guys. This homosociality and its impact on practice will therefore be explored with reference to grime’s outset (where the field was overtly male-­dominated), but also the legacy of this latent homosociality on the contemporary field that I investigated from 2016–2020, and how I was afforded access and engaged with spheres that would have been unwelcoming to female practitioners or researchers. The prevalence of male practitioners and aggressive content are compounded by the insecurity and challenges faced by Black working-class artists performing within a field that is threatened by event closures and racist stereotyping. As a result, there is a combined intensity, both within the complex improvisatory performance framework that artists engage with, and the extramusical factors that they bring with them into the performance sphere, that results in high-energy clashing, confrontation and elision or isolation of other performers and audience members.

Methodology Observations Being ‘active’ is a prevailing consideration for grime MCs and DJs. If you’re not ‘putting in work’, then are you really serious about the craft? My ever-presence at events was vital not just for having a greater understanding of grime, but also for legitimising my position and securing interviews, as mentioned above. In total, I attended and documented nearly 200 events as part of the research phase, which ran up until February 2019. These events included radio sets, live shows, cyphers and video shoots. For the first year, I always wore the same outfit (a camo-print Vans jacket, track pants and Nike kicks), with the hope that my ever-presence at events and consistency of attire would render me a known quantity, even if it was just ‘that moody guy standing in the corner nodding his head’. Live shows and radio sets typically took place inside the M25 Orbital—a circular motorway that loops around and encloses London—ranging from intimate album launches in basement bars to large-scale raves at Fabric in Central London, Fire in Vauxhall and Bussey Building in Peckham. Radio sets were normally populated by one or two DJs and a roster of MCs. And while my earlier observations were on the periphery, I began to get more involved at shows, with a palpable blur between observation and active performance becoming increasingly apparent. A number of radio sets that I

‘It’s a 140 BPM Way of Life’ 39 attended as an observer resulted in me jumping on deck. And I often had a vested interest in certain shows, particularly if one of OTE’s MCs was scheduled to perform. Many of the observations appear throughout the book, and a few key episodes populate each chapter. While many more weren’t included, attendance at these events was both critical in fashioning the final output and reaffirmed the notion that I was ‘putting in work’ on the circuit. Continued attendance bolstered friendships and this immersion helped me develop ideas and schema for mapping the ways in which grime artists perform and improvise. Interviews In total, 26 formal interviews were conducted alongside innumerable informal and semi-structured discussions that took place at events. These were collected over a three-year period and almost all interviewees were based in London, aside from Japanese MC Pakin. All interviews took place in neutral spaces such as coffee shops, studio spaces and parks. Arrangements were primarily organised through Twitter or WhatsApp. As mentioned above, all interviews were recorded and I obtained verbal assent (predominantly on record) from artists since many were reticent to sign a form owing to its perceived legally binding nature. I typically found that demanding a signature can foster a sense of distrust, with verbal assent being far more practical and agreeable (see Appendix; Tilley and Gormley 2007: 371). Most of my interviewees were MCs and DJs; however, I also spoke with photographers, journalists and event organisers to gain a fuller understanding of the scene as a whole. Interviewees for Chapters 2 and 3 were primarily involved in grime in the early 2000s since the material examined in these chapters relates to its more foundational performance protocol. Artists interviewed for Chapters 5 and 6 were actively involved in the London scene from 2016–2019. Interviews were loosely structured, yet somewhat tailored towards the particular section I was writing about at that moment in time. I also made use of musical examples to direct our discussions. Ingrid Monson has written on the benefits and pitfalls of using music in her ethnographic interviews (1996: 19). While initially tentative, I generally found the incorporation of musical examples to be positive. As a result, I employed examples more and more as time went by. Often they invoked surprise and renewed interest from my participants, some of whom had forgotten the performance that I was talking about (particularly the case for interviewees for material in Chapters 2 and 3). DJ Eastwood, for example, was transported back to 2005 by hearing an extract from a mix CD that I played for him: I kind of like the rawness of this one. You don’t get the same energy in a professionally recorded mix as you do when everything’s live, with mistakes and everything. To be honest with you, I’d forgotten about that tune. It kinda hit me. Took me back a bit.

40  ‘It’s a 140 BPM Way of Life’ My interview with South West London MC Landman25 was particularly in-depth. Near the beginning of the interview, I played him an excerpt from a performance that featured himself alongside former MCing partner Sneaky John.26 Landman had not heard this in years and spoke passionately about that time period and his performance partnership with John. The prospect of hearing these sets again, which I e-mailed to him later that evening, was a great icebreaker and started off a discussion that lasted for a number of hours. Similarly, my aforementioned understanding of the music—and my work as a DJ—helped conversations flow. If initial exchanges were slow at first, these were ameliorated by being able to speak on issues that were often esoteric and largely reserved for hardened purists or practitioners. It is worth mentioning that this understanding of esoteric issues, while beneficial in interviews, did make the writing process in general more challenging. Being a (relative) insider by this point, I was often unaware of how much a non-initiate might know about grime music and what references they might glean from the study. Furthermore, these interviews often drifted off on tangents so specialised that wider applicability for the understanding of performance was completely absent. I also often lacked a curatorial gaze, afforded to outsiders that can help fashion a meaningful understanding of what is really important. These positional difficulties were attended to by Damian Marley, who mentioned that David Rodigan’s relative position as an outsider in reggae music meant he had an ability to see something in the music that artists deeply involved in it might miss. William ‘Lez’ Henry, a British reggae toaster and ethnographer of Jamaican music, has spoken on his specialised knowledge of the Jamaican sound system scene amassed through avidly collecting tapes of dances that Jamaican artists themselves simply discarded.27 There were moments in my research too, where I obsessed over minutiae (such as the relationship between two MCs in the early 2000s mentioned above) rather than looking at the bigger picture. While my reflexivity more generally is discussed above, for the purpose of interviews and comprehensibility for a wider readership I have tried to keep obscure references to a minimum. Those that are necessary for an understanding of the situation at hand are qualified by an explanation in brackets. Performances For the study of performance, however, my main objective was to become as embedded as possible. While I entered my research phase as a working practitioner in the scene, I continued to perform and develop my skillset, building further performance relationships through working with everyone I could. Here, I am indebted to the work of Joseph Schloss, whose study of sampling in hip-hop detailed how musical scenes often pose an ‘ethics [structure with] an internal systemicity that exists independently of the observer’ (2004: 105).

‘It’s a 140 BPM Way of Life’ 41 In total, I DJ’d with around 70 MCs and hosted in excess of 40 radio sets on Don City, before moving onto Mode FM—a station based in Enfield, North London—in November 2018. During this period, I also guested on a variety of other stations, which enabled me to compare and contrast. These included Radar Radio (Clerkenwell, Central London), Subtle FM (Hackney Downs), Brixton’s Reprezent Radio and Kiss FM, once the home of Logan Sama on Monday nights. OTE regularly performed live, and two of these performances are detailed in the book: the first was a set for the streaming platform Keep Hush, and the second was our ill-fated performance at Five Miles in Tottenham. Over the three years working fully in the scene, I amassed a working understanding of expected performance ethics and was able to document OTE developing first hand: from its embryonic days on Don City Radio, to Razor and Kabz landing guest slots on BBC Radio 1Xtra: a station with a weekly reach of over one million listeners. All of these encounters—even the sets that I’m now fairly embarrassed about—were invaluable for mapping both my own and the crew’s emergent practice, looking at how they pushed beyond the capabilities of individual members to level up as a collective in the live domain. Language A commitment to grime’s practitioner base is apparent in my attentiveness to artists’ ways of knowing. Artists’ use of descriptive terminology offers valuable insight into the inner workings of the creative process. While obscure references are elided here, the very language utilised to describe what’s going on is presented on its own terms. This is particularly the case in descriptive sections where intricate exchanges and specialised techniques are being used by performers. Artists’ use of sporting terminology, for example, often offers a striking visual correlation between practice and its metaphoric association and explains the gendered tension mentioned above. This terminology foregrounds performers’ interaction in a dynamic manner. The ‘rally’ and ‘through ball’ are prime examples. The through ball in particular moves beyond dyadic turn-taking and moves past simply antiphonal readings of Afrodiasporic practice. Its direct reference to a passing technique in football offers a prescient and multidirectional process between a number of players on the field who predict the trajectory of their fellow teammates, passing the ball through to their projected position. Rallying, meanwhile, maps the frantic back and forth between racquet sports players onto fast pace back-to-back barring between MCs. Outside of sporting associations, artists’ reflections on vibe and energy impart knowledge on the collaborative process. DJ Eastwood, for example, regularly referred to energy in interviews, and how performers level up and reach moments of climax or rupture through assiduous concentration and iteratively building through phases of play.

42  ‘It’s a 140 BPM Way of Life’ It’s important here to recall Pierre Bourdieu’s notion that ‘practice has a logic which is not that of the logician’—which indicated the shortcomings of trying to theorise upon my practice earlier in this chapter—and demand a more ethnographic gaze (1990: 86). Artists’ terminology and testimonials are able to both capture the nuance and intricacy of emergent creative practice and multidirectionality, while also making sense to a community of practitioners who actually conduct and carry out grime performance on a daily basis. As such, artist descriptions will be considered seriously as part of this thesis’ meaning-making framework for collective creativity in grime music. Representation Each chapter features musical ‘Episodes’, which correlate to piece(s) of audiovisual documentation uploaded to the book’s online website resource. This signals a commitment to representing practice within its environment of production, rather than just offering verbal commentary. The verbal commentary provided within the book’s pages is also written in a way that is hopefully accessible to all readers. Having said this, I often incorporate staff notation to convey or augment a point. Unlike studies of jazz, musical scores are not ‘insider notation’ for the large majority of grime artists (Monson 1996: 23). This was a tough decision, however there are moments of intricate interplay that are most efficiently represented using this form. MC performances are typically presented on single staff lines. MCs do not necessarily sing, and when they do this is clearly indicated. Cadences are shown through notation rising upwards above the line, or falling beneath it (see Figure 2.2 and Figure 2.3). The accompanying audiovisual material also represents what is at play. Of course, this does not negate interviewee contributions. On many occasions—such as when Swarvo speaks about the distinction between ‘technical’ and ‘reload’ bars in Figures 2.2 and 2.3—the notation is provided alongside an artist testimonial. Further to this, each piece of analysis attends closely to the performance context. In hip-hop studies, Justin Williams has written on the importance of the intertextual relationship between the text, flow and music, whereas Oliver Kautny foregrounded the ‘interplay of the MC and the track’. A rhythm alone does not tell us anything substantive. Accordingly, techniques are unpacked with reference to the situation at hand (Kautny 2015: 101; Williams 2009: 4). This importance of interplay also means that DJ techniques—when notated—are presented alongside the MC(s)’ performance(s). This is the case in Chapter 4 where the ‘through ball’ is mapped out. The notation is simple (such as in Figure 4.2) and exists only to elucidate the interaction taking place. More intricate techniques are attended to through interviewee contributions. Any use of terminology and representational materials that move outside the remit of its practitioner base is therefore used only when necessary.

‘It’s a 140 BPM Way of Life’ 43 My concern throughout this book is to capture the frenetic and exciting interplay of grime artists. Effectively, it captures grime musicians doing what they do, and how this is augmented in a group setting. Artists’ words are often far more meaningful, and they are placed front and centre wherever possible.

Notes 1 See https://www.officialcharts.com/artist/9989/so-solid-crew/. 2 “Desmond Dekker | Full Official Chart History | Official Charts Company”, Official Charts, accessed February 21, 2020, https://www.officialcharts.com/ artist/14126/desmond-dekker/. 3 See Boiler Room, “Mumdance in Conversation with Riko Dan”, accessed June 15, 2016, https://soundcloud.com/platform/episode-03-mumdance-inconversation-with-riko-dan, (2:04). 4 These terms are often used interchangeably, although both have a specific history. See William Anthony Henry, What the Deejay Said: A Critique from the Street! (Blackheath: Nu-Beyond, 2006). 5 Social ethnographer Joy White wrote that crews in grime ‘provide opportunity to learn your craft and develop tacit knowledge about the scene and how it operates’ (White 2017: 4). Understanding is formed through working together, and each crew prides itself on a distinctive aesthetic. Crews often mentor new talent, forming ‘Youngers’ factions of MCs and DJs, with a view to handing over the reins when the right moment arises; ensuring a long-­lasting legacy like the Sounds that came before them. 6 Red Bull Culture Clash, Earls Court, London, October 30, 2014. 7 Within grime, there has also been an augmented engagement with musical heritage. One particular project, entitled London to Addis (2019), employed samples from traditional Ethiopian instruments across a 23-track release. The following year, North London producer J Beatz released his Sega Boy EP that employs musical samples from his home island of Mauritius over bracing percussion and low-end agitations. 8 Ayo Technology wasn’t released until 2008 but is a clear indication of Timbaland’s style of production. It was later refixed by grime producer Mischief in 2016. See https://bossmischief.bandcamp.com/album/refix-champion. 9 HOT 97, “Dizzee Rascal and Rosenberg Discuss the History of Grime, Skepta, and the Whole UK Scene”, January 20, 2016, https://www.youtube. com/watch?v=-8dOAYpWass. 10 “Mumdance in Conversation”, 5:01. 11 Other notable hardcore releases include 2 Bad Mice’s ‘Hold it Down’ (1991), 4Hero’s ‘Hungry’ (1992) and Shut Up and Dance’s ‘£20 to Get in’ (1990). 12 Examples include: Brockie and MC DET, Roast presents the ’95 Showcase, The Sanctuary, Milton Keynes: June 10, 1995; Nicky Blackmarket and Stevie Hyper D, Roast, Island, Ilford: October 1995. 13 Later, both Terror Danjah and Roll Deep MC Flow Dan would earmark Hyper D as foundational for their own practice (Gibb 2014; Muggs and Stevens 2019: 299). 14 See Tape Crackers: An Oral History of Jungle Pirate Radio, dir. Rollo Jackson, 2011, https://fourthree.boilerroom.tv/film/tape-crackers, 29:30. 15 See “Official Singles Chart Top 100 | Official Charts Company”, accessed May 4, 2019, https://www.officialcharts.com/charts/singles-chart/20010812/7501/.

44  ‘It’s a 140 BPM Way of Life’ 16 Translations throughout are bracketed. See glossary for frequently used terms. 17 The inaugural Mercury Music Prize was won by Primal Scream in 1992. Mercury describes the award as ‘the Turner Prize for music’, championing innovation by artists from the UK and Republic of Ireland. See www. mercurymusicprize.com. 18 See “Lethal Bizzle | Full Official Chart History | Official Charts Company”, Official Charts, accessed January 24, 2019, https://www.officialcharts.com/ artist/16488/lethal-bizzle/. 19 Name anonymised. 20 Grime in the Midlands was flourishing during this period. Nottingham and Birmingham, located about 100 miles north of London, were home to some of the genre’s most promising MCs, including Invasion Crew and Stay Fresh. 21 FWD≫ started in 2001 at the Velvet Rooms in Soho. Initially frequented by less than 20 people, its notoriety over the years saw its crowd diversify during its time at Plastic People on Curtain Road. See Tom Lea and Mr Beatnick’s Oral History of Plastic People: https://www.factmag.com/2015/02/17/plasticpeople-an-oral-history-fwd-cdr-co-op-ade/. 22 Year 11 is the sophomore year in the US schooling system. 23 See “Bruza [Archive] – Dissensus”, April 14, 2005, http://www.dissensus.com/ archive/index.php/t-1263.html?s=2e5e0dc0ec02ff60c9615c51f731a9c8. 24 Artists such as Lady Fury, Lady Sovereign, Lioness, No Lay and Shystie established themselves in the early 2000s. 25 Name anonymised. 26 Name anonymised. 27 See BBC Four’s documentary ‘Reggae Fever’ aired on November 16, 2018.

2

Foundations

Sunday July 9, 2017. 10 pm. Rinse FM, Dalston It’s 10 pm on a Sunday evening, and there is anticipation across the capital. While the rest of the country is retiring ahead of a busy week at work, this is prime time for the London grime scene. Sir Spyro has been holding down his Rinse FM residency ‘The Grime Show’ since 2005, broadcasting weekly out of the station’s East London studio. Spyro’s show is unmissable, and everyone knows that the live sets kick off in the second hour. Spyro takes the microphone and addresses his listeners: It’s the top of the hour so you know what time it is yeah. Shellyvnne [pronounced ‘Shelly anne’] in the place right about now. If you don’t know about Shellynne: number one you’re an idiot, number two you’re about to find out. Oi this place is full up of MCs right now. Send out to Selecta Impact in the wings, yeah. Let’s go. The next 60 minutes see the 11-strong crew, their DJ Selecta Impact and Sir Spyro perform a continuous set that features live MCing and a collaborative back and forth between the two DJs. The MCs exchange and interweave lyrics at a remarkable rate, throwing down previously arranged routines and fresh ‘bars’ composed for the occasion. The DJs, meanwhile, introduce new ‘instrumentals’, or tracks, with interminable energy. Each time a new track is brought in, the energy builds, with the combined force of each MC’s recitations and the DJs’ novel sonic foundations providing a level of pacing and momentum that is both enthralling and characteristic of grime music’s multidirectional performance schema. The crew’s rapid rate of interchange and the complementary beat selection from the DJs resulted in an unprecedented social media response in real time. Twitter was ablaze with commentary and reaction, with Melvillous— their key talisman—widely renowned as the set’s star performer. Many listeners were listening to the crew for the first time. And while Shellyvnne were very much active on London’s underground radio network, this show was a big step for the collective. They simply had to perform. DOI: 10.4324/9781003295792-3

46  Foundations This performance was a landmark moment for the crew. However, it would not have been a success without a shared understanding of a radio set’s conventions. Although Spyro knew of Shellyvnne, they hadn’t performed together before. Furthermore, the order in which the MCs took to the mic was not pre-planned. Neither was the sequencing of the instrumental tracks. The MCs worked with a number of routines, and the DJs had a selection of instrumentals on their USB sticks, but elements emerged depending on choices made in the moment. The performance’s successful negotiation was therefore contingent on both adept understanding between crew members and a shared adherence to a wider system of rules that undergirds and informs these dense passages of multidirectional exchange. According to Julian Henriques, dancehall deejays pay close attention the ‘procession of a session’, monitoring its development and the audience’s responses (2011: 158). For grime artists, having an awareness of the performance’s overall trajectory also allows them to manoeuvre in ways that are in keeping with this direction. This broad awareness is also paired with an etiquette, or code of practice. Every musical environment has ‘dos and don’ts’; there are things that performers have to know, and are expected to know, in order to negotiate the performance arena. This chapter turns to these foundational conventions and expectations. Firstly, it will offer an overview of the rules underpinning grime’s two main performance spaces: the radio set and the live rave. Both have different expectations. Radio affords a level of intricacy and experimentation that is highly valued by its avid community of listeners, but might frustrate a paying crowd on a Friday night. Secondly, it looks at how artists manage the momentum that takes hold during a grime performance. There exists a fine balance between scintillating spectacle and complete collapse. Through appropriately harnessing energy inputs, crews of MCs and DJs are able to collectively build towards dextrous episodes of interplay that maximise, and often exceed, the potential of each individual performer. Melvillous may have been the standout MC that Sunday night, but without all 13 artists being on the same page it could have fallen flat. The practice of a number of MCs is explored, before a focused case study on North West London DJ Eastwood who, like Sir Spyro, was a radio regular throughout the 2000s. This examination of his practice will demonstrate how careful employment of DJ gestures and instrumental selection can iteratively build energy towards moments of climax. While DJs in many genres are principally concerned with ‘building the floor’, grime DJs, such as Spyro and Eastwood, have to work ‘in concert’ with the MCs around them (Wang 2015: 17). Moments of multidirectional exchange characterise grime practice, and are key for understanding how groups can level up in the creative domain. This chapter’s engagement with MC and DJ practice on a macro-level will therefore provide a platform for the exploration of more localised aspects of grime performance in Chapters 3 and 4.

Foundations 47

Grime’s Code of Practice In 2007, East London collective Roll Deep released their second album Rules and Regulations. Its title track, produced by DJ Target set an agenda. The detuned vocal hook, repeated after each artists’ 16-bar contribution, asserted that ‘You know the rules, the regulations. We set the rules, the regulations’. This statement is telling, and captures the ways in which performance protocol in grime music is tacit and implicit—‘you know them already’—yet contingent on the party in control. The rules may be set out, but they are dependent on who is in charge. This combination of unwritten expectations and savvy to negotiate different performance grounds is a perennial concern, particularly in improvisatory spheres. Soloing in the big band era became arbitrary and cliché, with consecutive 32-bar interjections offering variation and extemporisation on the head. But these expectations never last for long. The rulebook regularly gets torn up and reworked, be it as part of the wider stylistic change from ‘swing to bop’ or through regional variations that synthesise autochthonous, localised, ideals with wider genre-informed premises (see de Lacey 2020a: 115–141; Shipton 2002: 249, 302). Within these shifting parameters, then, there are always some indications of how to play. A melding of genre rules and contingencies is particularly manifest in hip-hop practice, specifically at the cipher. Marcyliena Morgan’s study of LA freestyle event Project Blowed details a marrying of protocol and sensitivity to the unfolding dynamics of a performance, alongside widely accepted rules that undergird hip-hop as a performance form. Initially based in Leimert Park, ‘the hippest corner of LA’, its weekly sessions began in the early 1990s acting as a space for both hip-hop pedagogy and praxis. Upon entering participants are met with a sign detailing how to conduct oneself. Stipulations include ‘DO NOT BITE STYLES, BECAUSE YOU LEARN NOTHING!’ And ‘NO ONE WHO IS NOT CALLED FROM THE LIST BY THE HOST CAN GET ON STAGE’ (Morgan 2009: 91). Aside from these ground rules, there are varying circumstances—such as impromptu battles—that require a learned understanding, only attainable through embedding your practice within both hip-hop and the performance community at the Blowed: ‘while the rules of freestyle are well-defined, the grounds for battle are not explicitly stated. Rather, they have been established through long-term socialisation in hip-hop skill development and assessment’ (Morgan 2009: 97). In grime, these expectations shift depending on where you are performing: raves and live shows require affordances on the MCs’ part to engage fully with a physically present audience; radio sets are more purposeful and often more experimental. This section looks closely at the contingent nature of the live process, and how grime artists adapt to its two principal domains. It will also explore the form’s basic ‘rules and regulations’, and present fractious encounters resulting from perceived foul play. For Joseph Schloss, some rules are ‘so

48  Foundations self-evident that [they] only become an issue under circumstances’ (2004: 114). So, despite the emergent nature of grime performance, deviance from ‘the right thing’—however nebulous and opaque it might seem—can cause a ruckus. By outlining this broad ethical structure, it will begin to offer insight into the improvisatory capacity required to make a success of a live performance. Radio vs Rave / ‘Step in the Arena’ As mentioned above, Shellyvnne’s show with Sir Spyro was successful owing to a combination of shrewd negotiation and adept understanding of what to do in a radio setting. Grime shows are typically two hours long, and over time a rough framework has fallen into place. In the first hour, DJs play fresh vocals and new productions. For DJs like Sir Spyro, this allows them space to show off their latest endeavours, strengthening their pedigree through debuting exclusives and dubplates. As the second hour approaches, MCs start to filter in, and live bars begin around the hour mark. While live shows demand an interface with a paying audience, radio allows for expansive interplay. Scenes tied to the live arena are often coloured by audience interaction. This is captured well in Oliver Wang’s study of the Filipino DJ scene; a circuit that principally existed as a way for the Bay Area’s Filipino community to congregate and party outside the strictures and unwelcoming eyes of San Francisco’s otherwise white-majority club scene. Wang found that DJ’s ‘fundamentally provid[e] a service [with] their tastes always [in] negotiation with the audience’s desires’ (2015: 159). These strictures do not apply on pirate radio. Of course, the radio phone line at grime sets needs to keep ringing, but the demand for a quick burst of energy to satisfy punters isn’t as physically imposing. There’s no need to ‘negotiate’ with the audience, or to ‘play the hits’. This room for movement acts in sharp distinction with the live rave. The blueprint for grime raves was set by Eskimo Dance, first held in Watford Arena in 2002. In line with grime’s deep indebtedness to Jamaican sound system culture (see Chapter 1), the event used Sting as a yardstick for creative practice. For West London MC Swarvo, Eskimo dance was a ‘soundman Jamaican thing. Everybody is just spitting bars and someone goes in and the crowd goes mad. [That’s] from the Jamaican Yardie stage show’. At Eskimo Dance, unlike on the radio, the presence of the audience is audibly felt: voices ring out, bodies jump up and down, and airhorns— distributed to attendees as they step in the rave—create a cacophonous barrage of sound. This energy propagates onto the stage. MCs pass the microphone with remarkable rapidity. This is in part influenced by the large number of crews and DJs ‘officially’ booked to perform across the night (see Figure 2.1). However, it is often galvanised by those who invade the stage, turning up to spray by any means necessary. With six or seven crews in attendance and up to 40 or 50 MCs on stage, it’s a far cry from the radio set’s space for experimentation.

Foundations 49

Figure 2.1  Eskimo Dance flyer from January 14, 2012.

My first Eskimo Dance at Proud2—a club attached to the O2 arena on the Greenwich Peninsula—took place in the winter of 2012. Dubbed ‘The Return’ by promoters after an extended hiatus, its line-up boasted some of the biggest names in the scene. Twenty-two MCs were booked to perform, but many artists either had pre-arranged guest list, or bought tickets so they could be part of the action. South East London crew OGz took to the stage at around 1 am, but soon their roster was indecipherable from the mass of MCs in the mix. In excess of a dozen other artists crowded on, each clamouring for their time to shine. This high intensity means the rave is often make or break for an artist. J River’s notion of ‘sharpening steel against steel’ on the radio or at school comes to a head at Eskimo Dance. As a result, the manner in which grime artists perform shifts markedly in the live rave setting. While not explicitly transactional—with the audience paying, and you providing a product—there is an expectation that the performance is fast-flowing: both to maintain energy, and to allow for the large roster of MCs to get their chance. Adjusting your approach can prove critical. This was captured in conversation with Kraze of Slew Dem. There’s people that’ll come on and spit a whole 16. When you’re spitting live and you’re in a show that’s a lot sometimes. It’s usually just [perform 8 bars] and pass it, 8s and pass it. But a lot of people come and spit a big 32 [bar passage] and get nothing. But, there’s people who come and spit 8 and get everything.

50  Foundations Keeping this in mind, it’s important to look at how these expectations affect the compositional work of MCs and the delivery of these lyrics in the live arena. For Oliver Wang, Filipino DJs often have to ‘mediate [an] emotional alliance with the crowd’ (Wang 2015: 12). Through examining an example from Swarvo’s practice, we can see how artists construct so-called ‘hype bars’ that act as short, snappy punchlines that are ideal for the rave. [At the rave] sometimes when you’re technical it’s too technical. Simple is always effective. If you listen to [East London MC] Dizzee [Rascal] back in the day, it wasn’t hard. It was simple. What people can understand, people work with. I would say I was technical but people didn’t know me like that. I didn’t really show the technicality of what I could really do, with the bars. If you knew me, if you was with me every day you would know that. But obviously when you go to raves it’s just hype bars, innit? You would know I was technical if you listened to a radio show. Swarvo is a diverse performer, but he is best known for a particular lyric that he performs at raves, based around the repetition of the word ‘forearm’ with varied extemporisation. Since MCs, as Kraze mentions, are only afforded eight bars to show what they can do, their job becomes expedited. Swarvo’s ‘technicality’ can be shown on the radio, but raves are a different prospect. The distinction between his approach in these two arenas is clearly evidenced in the rhythmic and cadential variation between Swarvo’s main ‘hype bar’ and his more ‘technical’ flow patterns, shown here in Figures 2.2 and 2.3.

Figure 2.2  Transcription of an excerpt from ‘Forearm’ by Swarvo (audiovisual example 2a).

Foundations 51

Figure 2.3  Transcription of an excerpt from ‘DJ Masta freestyle’ by Swarvo (audiovisual example 2b).

Figure 2.2, Swarvo’s ‘hype bar’, has a repeated refrain with a falling cadential figure on ‘Fore-arm’ in each of the first four bars. While it varies from Bar 5, each of its two four-bar units is rhythmically regimented, with the same pattern occurring in each bar. This rhythmic simplicity offers an immediacy that can be capitalised upon in the first instance. Thematically, too, it has no real trajectory. Therefore, it is simple for Swarvo to circle back and start again from Bar 1 and build momentum through repetition. For Alex Marsden, ‘grime flow’s regularity … encourages a kind of heightened and participatory attention in its listeners, and small rhythmic changes and shifts in accent placement within a predominantly regular framework continuously stimulate the listener’s creative play of attention and entrainment’ (Marsden 2017: 4). This offers Swarvo flexibility. He can either choose to repeat the lyric and build until a point of rupture or continue outwards into a new passage. In contrast, Figure 2.3 shows how rhythmic regularity is just one aspect of grime performance that offers a particular function. This lyric from Swarvo nestles social critique within a dense multisyllabic passage, full of varied rhythmic sensibility: triplet patterns, enjambement and the commencement of passages on the off-beat. Written as a freestyle and later incorporated into the single ‘North Weezie’, it also demonstrates the fluidity with which lyrics are written and repackaged in grime, depending on circumstance. This practice further collapses a linear understanding of production and consumption derived from the notion of popular music as ‘product’, captured in both Julian Henriques’ examination of sound system culture, and Keith Negus’ work on culture’s complex intersection with industry (Henriques 2011: 34; Negus 1998: 376). Here, though, it clearly demonstrates how grime MCs craft and compose lyrics to fit with different situations, and how they can then be appropriately chosen depending on circumstance.

52  Foundations Home Turf / ‘Every MC came through White Lion, but that’s My Centre’ Outside of lyrical content, there are often more immediate material conditions that impact how an artist might perform. Chapter 1 briefly outlined the geographical claustrophobia felt by artists: repressive legislative practices and a lack of economic mobility means that artists are restricted to their immediate surroundings. This ‘hyper local demarcation’ can colour creative interactions, with an artist’s block or postcode1 being part and parcel of both practice and everyday experience (White 2020: 4). Local affiliations are audibly apparent through the sheer volume of crew-led singles that assert an area’s pre-eminence. Swarvo featured on ‘North Weezie’, a single that collected together some of the best MCs in NorthWest London; the ‘South Side Allstars’ put forward a claim for those living south of the River Thames; and North London MC Skepta, with his brother JME and rapper Plan B, explicitly tackled these dynamics on 2007’s ‘Where Ya From?’ JME:  ‘I’m

from a place where the kids in estates do shit for the face, and don’t think … I’m 50% bound to bump into a fake 50 Cent and be asked “Where I’m From?” … hiding behind your postcode, you think I’m an idiot’.

But these recordings are just one part of the story. Pirate radio studios are often spaces where geographic tensions are most profoundly felt (see de Lacey 2020b: 194–214). But these rivalries are also experienced at a younger age. To evoke this fully, I want to look outside the radio/rave binary towards the youth club, a space that is similarly vital to grime and its practitioner base. For grime artists, particularly in the genre’s early days, youth clubs were much more than spaces to hang out. They acted as a ground for creative expression. In Richard Bramwell’s study of UK Hip-Hop and Grime (mentioned in Chapter 1), he noted the importance of the interstitial for grime practice. Spaces that might seem insignificant to outsiders, such as buses, school corridors and youth centres, are in fact foundational for MCs’ and DJs’ craft (Bramwell 2015: 18). These spaces are captured photographically by Simon Wheatley in his visual ethnography of East London grime practice, entitled Don’t Call Me Urban! The Time of Grime, while James Keith—of music magazine Complex—wrote that these centres are some ‘of the most undervalued (and in turn underfunded) resources the country has to offer’ (Keith 2017). For Krucial, an MC from North London, the White Lion in Islington was sacred. We first met in the summer of 2017, at another youth club where he volunteers in the evenings after his day working in a local school. As a young MC, his circle included the producer Ironik, sparring partner Royal, and MC/producer D Dark, who was also from Islington. Starting out building

Foundations 53 tracks in D Dark’s house, including a celebrated vocal of D Dark’s ‘Mission Riddim’, he joined prominent grime crew Aftershock in the early 2000s. While Krucial and Aftershock enjoyed moderate success, (his crew-mate Tinie Tempah later became a household name in the UK with the single ‘Pass Out’), this early period was formative for his practice. The White Lion was where he coalesced with fellow MCs and artists. For the most part, they hung out, made music and kicked ball. Occasionally, though, artists from different areas would venture onto Krucial’s home turf. One incident in particular stands out (see audiovisual example 2c). It features a number of MCs from outside of the White Lion’s standard catchment area—including an MC associated with Yunga SLK, an offshoot from Swarvo’s crew—in direct conflict with Krucial following an alleged provocation. The event was captured on camera. It opens with Krucial repurposing his ‘Mission Riddim’ lyrics as part of an unfolding and impromptu clash: ‘They don’t wanna clash, I’ll say no. They don’t wanna clash, I’ll ignore you. Write bars for me on the sly, then I’ll [Crowd: fucking bore (stab) you]. And I get lairy, and I’ve got a thugged out gym like Carrey. You don’t wanna clash, you will get buried. I’ll leave your T-Shirt bloody like Mary. Boy chat ish, dash him off Canary. Merk me on the mic you could never tear. Anyone in the game couldn’t compare, cause I’ve got every town locked down like Blair’. Not only does this employment of a certain lyric for a particular moment capture the improvisatory nous required in grime practice, it asserts his assumed superiority. This is audibly backed up by the artists in the room who know Krucial and know that he’s from White Lion. While it is apparent that the clash is taking place within the confines of a quasi-municipal space—Krucial partially censors his lyrics (saying ‘ish’ rather than ‘shit’) and there is a youth worker in attendance—this is still his domain. The disrespect shown to him in that moment had to be tackled head-on. He recalls the night in question: It weren’t a direct fusion between me and them. There was no befores, no afters. It was literally on the spot. Every MC came through White Lion, but that’s my centre. The way they were hogging the mic and stuff, I had to bully it. So when I took the mic I just flared and they thought ‘alright cool’ but to be honest I don’t think they knew what they got themselves into. Cause that was my youth club. So it’s like, that’s why I could go back and forth [with them]. Just do my ting cause it was my time. They couldn’t do anything really, those people that spat [emphasis in voice]. This scenario demonstrates an assumed protocol surrounding the White Lion that bears relevance to other sites of creative competition, such as

54  Foundations Project Blowed: its freestyle event is similarly bound to rules and regulations that demand respect for each other, the venue, and its regular audience. At the Blowed, its main MC Chu and his partner Fish oversee and maintain expectations. On one occasion, after a demonstration of disrespect from the Woodwest crew, it was incumbent upon them to set the record straight. Although the confrontation was lyrical, rather than physical, Chu and Fish let the Woodwest crew know in no uncertain terms that if they were going to step into the Blowed then they had to come correct (Morgan 2009: 104). These concerns were mirrored by Krucial, who was infuriated at the visiting MCs who refused to show due deference. As a consequence, he felt compelled to contest them. His cry of ‘I’m Aftershock, who are you?’ was both boastful and pejorative. Met with warmth from the audience, this allowed Krucial to hold his own against an entire group of MCs. This was the White Lion. This was Krucial of Aftershock. Who are you to come in here and test my skill? This confrontation at the White Lion, then, captures both the contingent nature of live performance and the need to consider the claustrophobic lived experiences and locational affiliations that matter deeply for a lot of grime artists. Representing can become a microcosm. Your youth centre and surrounding locale can mean everything.2 Location not only matters, but has a profound effect on practice. Each stage is different, and different crews set the agenda in different spaces. Respecting home turf is the absolute minimum. Hogging the Mic / ‘The Way They Were Hogging the Mic, I Had to Bully It’ At the White Lion, Krucial’s main point of contention was ‘the way they were hogging the mic’. In conversation, he took care to emphasise this particular moment and how the momentum shifted following this demonstration of disrespect. This discontent was of course magnified by the MCs performing on his turf. But it was their lack of awareness and etiquette that initially caused tensions to flare. Although youth clubs aren’t regulated by an ‘8’s and pass it’ policy—as mentioned by Kraze—performances are always an ongoing negotiation, and an ear to the ground in these situations can assuage confrontation. I spoke with former Roll Deep MC Trim, who had a verse on ‘Rules and Regulations’, about this aspect of the MC conduct. He expressed a general concern for other MCs’ needs, and how this becomes internalised: ‘We’ve been doing it for years so you just know. There’s an amount of bars that you should be spraying. So 16 bars, or 32 bars. You should have that and then let the next MC in. Yeah man. It’s like a chemistry in the room’. Julian Henriques wrote that artists engaged with sound system practice possess a ‘living archive of techniques’ that they utilise during performances (Henriques 2011: 175). This resonates with Trim’s opening

Foundations 55 gambit. He just ‘knows’ what to do. It’s tacit. Affording time for other artists is a natural consideration for Trim. To the extent that it remains unsaid. Deviance with respect to this rule, however, is met with distaste. And the way in which artists react and respond to perceived disrespect is vast. I vividly remember heading down to the launch party for North London MC Reece West’s EP 3D in the Winter of 2017. After a live PA of a few tracks off the record, the performance opened out into a live set. With no perceived stage area, the microphone was passed around freely amongst the 40 or so people present. Perhaps ten, at best, weren’t MCs or DJs. Amidst the ensuing chaos, there were cries of ‘bit of manners please’ and ‘step back’. At one point an MC took the mic and held firm, spitting for nearly two minutes. Considering the scenario, and the likelihood of getting the microphone again being close to infinitesimal, it was an understandable move. But in the context of sharing the microphone, it was a considerable faux-pas. In this instance, fellow North Londoner C Cane took decisive action. Rather than passively wait until the MC was finished, she ripped the microphone out of his hands and shouted ‘No Dead MCs’ at the top of her voice. This imposition, while initially fraught, restored some semblance of order. Following a powerful and plosive 32-bar passage from Cane, the mic was passed on and regular rotation finally took off. Here, it took C Cane’s explicit acknowledgment for the order to resume, since they couldn’t collectively negotiate a way forward. Nearly a decade earlier, Trim was present at less confrontational but altogether awkward encounter at Logan Sama’s Kiss FM residency. It’s worth providing greater context to give a flavour of what was at play. Microphone Politics / Monday September 7, 2009. 11 pm. Kiss FM, London P Money, Little Dee, Blacks, Jendor, Desperado, J2K, Manga, Trim, Obese, Skepta, Jammer, Fangol Audiovisual Example 2d On September 7, 2009, Logan Sama hosted a launch show for South London MC P Money’s new project Money Over Everyone on his Kiss FM show. As usual, I was tuned in from my bedroom eagerly anticipating the set; not least since I was a huge fan of P and his crew OGz at that time. Most of the crew had passed through to represent (Desperado, Little Dee, Blacks, Jendor), alongside other MCs loosely affiliated with the collective. Owing to the large number of MCs in the room, and Logan’s focus on P Money’s new project, the expectation was that the core OGz group would spearhead the performance, with others occupying a peripheral role. But, if we consider their set at Eskimo Dance from 2012 mentioned earlier, these expectations are simply that: expectations. This performance did open with P Money on mic, spitting a 32-bar passage over a meditative instrumental before Jendor then took over. As the

56  Foundations performance evolved, though, more and more actors entered the fray. Fifty minutes into the set, an issue arose between two of the MCs present. Following on from a 32-bar section from Skepta (of Boy Better Know), Jammer takes over, beckoned with a hand gesture from his fellow crew member. Jammer spits a 32-bar passage before the track gets pulled back by Logan. This isn’t a reload, though. Here, Logan is pulling it back owing to growing unrest in the studio, forcefully allowing space for the performance to breathe. Rather than defuse the situation, Jammer states ‘sorry still, there’s nuff goons’, implying that something’s wrong. He visibly points to another MC—J2K of Roll Deep—to indicate that he is up next. Rather than allowing J2K to perform, however, Jammer continues to spit, resulting in a clash of voices. J2K simply has to sit back, his exclamation ‘ok’ followed by a bemused look around the room, capturing utter disbelief at the situation. Awkward laughter from the other MCs present ensues while Jammer continues to spit, before Logan has to pull back the beat again (audiovisual example 2d, 1:16). JAMMER:  Aite 16, yeah J2K:  What you saying, cos I’m guna…. JAMMER:  Hold tight J2, cos he’s guna squeeze

off an 84 on me, so I’m just guna spit my little ting and move off, you get me? Listen.

True to his word, Jammer does spit a 16-bar before J2K then takes over, spitting 40 bars (rather than 84). The set then continues. This minor dispute, which—although tetchy—was fairly well tempered owing to J2K and Jammer’s long-running professional relationship shows how disruption of expectations can both cause tension and upset the momentum of the performance. This scenario is very different to the incident that took place at Reece West’s EP launch. Thousands of people tuned in to Logan’s show every week. As such, there is a distinct sense of occasion that colours these sets. Jammer tried to make light of the situation after his initial accusation, referring to an alleged tendency for J2K to spit longer than he’s meant to. However, by bringing explicit attention to the structure of the set, it caused laughter among other MCs and broke the ‘fourth wall’, or allure of an improvised performance, that sustains and excites some of the best examples of grime practice (Lahr 1970). Rather than implicitly adhere, or sense the ‘chemistry in the room’ as Trim put it, Jammer alerted the listener to underlying structural issues that dictate the set without ever being made apparent. Chapters 3 and 4 look more closely at how subtle musical adjustments can suggest impending change, but this instance shows how an explicit dismantling of the collaborative distracts from the primary focus, for both listener and performer. As Trim mentions, these negotiations are ‘just know[n]’, and failure to sensitively adjust not only causes dispute— such as with C Cane’s intervention above—but also results in collaboration unfurling into satirical pasquinade.

Foundations 57 Body Language / ‘My man’s moving snaky’ Avoiding confusion is a group endeavour, and organisation is easier in familiar settings. Intra-crew dynamics are particularly advanced. Pre-meditated routines and learned cues effortlessly interweave as part of scintillating multidirectional improvisatory performances (see Chapter 6). There are some cues that are generally familiar to most: rising cadences and the looping of a particular lyrical refrain usually indicates an imminent switchover. However, there often needs to be an overt construction of an agenda for new combinations of personnel, without becoming too formulaic. Kiss FM’s studio is challenging to negotiate. Four microphones were active at any one time during P Money’s set. This meant that the scope for spitting over the top of another artist was heightened. In other instances, and particularly at pirate radio stations, there is only one mic. As such, artists have to rely on an explicit cue to take charge. Body language is key for an adequate appraisal of improvisatory practice and inter-performer negotiations. Transitions are smoothened by being open and clear with your extra-musical signalling, and this non-verbal behaviour is important to reconcile with more explicit linguistic signalling. For Keith Sawyer, whose work on group process informs much of this book’s later chapters, there is a need to move beyond ‘attempts to draw parallels between music and language [that] have analysed improvisational forms of music by using linguistic models originally developed for langue, non-improvised verbal behaviour’ (Sawyer 2003: 98). We have seen how the very act of passing or not passing the microphone carries within it a number of tensions. These tensions are furthered through explicit tactics that actively prevent other artists from becoming involved, or engaged with, the performance at hand. While grime is fundamentally a ‘participatory’ genre, exclusionary tactics are practiced (Turino 2008: 24). Inter-crew power dynamics come to the fore, and extramusical tensions carried forward from prior encounters can rear their head in a new setting. In these instances, latent tensions can often boil over. ‘Blocking’ is a tactic employed by MCs who physically obstruct others from taking the microphone. Often the MC, or a group of MCs, turn away so there is no easy access to the microphone. Artists can also be ‘snaked’, where an expected order to the MCing is defied by an artist who jumps ahead, or ‘snakes’, the MC in waiting. These incidents typically happen when rival crews are on the same set, and the mood can quickly turn sour. I spoke with South West London MC Landman about this issue and the varying factors that may contribute to an MC blocking the entry of another. In conversation, Landman recounted a particular event where another MC jumped in front of him. This was seen as both a flagrant disavowal of grime’s customary rules through snaky tactics and fear on the part of his competitor who did not want to be shown up. Landman here might simply be asserting his own sense of supremacy—since he indicated that other

58  Foundations MCs are too shook to follow on from him—but it’s a wide-reaching concern, both in grime and other improvisatory disciplines. Jazz musicians, for example, carefully order soloists in their sets: ‘because of the influence that improvisers exert on those that follow, some bandleaders deliberately vary the soloists from piece to piece’ (Berliner 1991: 369). Although there isn’t a pre-planned order in grime, a sense emerges in play of who is due the microphone next. And this is frequently overruled by artists who are concerned about how consequent or previous performers’ inputs may affect assessments of their own contribution. This is of course the case in hip-hop ciphers, too, where you have to outshine your immediate predecessor. For H. Samy Alim, there’s a need to ‘evaluate the other rhymer while maintaining a cool, calm and confident exterior that lets the present rhymer know “you got competition!”’ (Alim 2006: 100). While Landman took the provocation in his stride, direct employment of snaky tactics can give rise to some very unsettling encounters, as shown in the following example. Reece West vs Saint P / Thursday December 8, 2016. Kiss FM, London3 Reece West, Saint P Audiovisual example 2e In 2016, grime producer Rude Kid held a Christmas special on Kiss FM with some of the best MCs in the game. An invitation is hard to come by, although close to 50 MCs were in attendance. Needless to say, not necessarily all of them were meant to be there. The set sprawled across 90 minutes and while Rude Kid’s introduction was set to the backdrop of Paul McCartney’s ‘Wonderful Christmastime’, the consequent performance was far from festive. The sense of occasion meant that most MCs performed to their fullest, but as the set progressed tensions flared between rival factions. Temperatures reached the boiling point in 70 minutes, with a confrontation between Reece West and fellow North Londoner Saint P, of the collective YGG. ‘Biting’ styles are frowned upon in grime just as much as in hip-hop, and this encounter stemmed from an alleged theft of content. Specifically, both MCs asserted ownership of the term ‘bounce’ as a lyrical punctuation marker. This incident saw them re-perform these bars as part of a ferocious back and forth that continued to grow in intensity. A brief look at the lyrical content (see Figures 2.4 and 2.5) shows some similarities. Both artists articulate ‘bounce’ on beat 1 at varying points. Aside from this, though, their rhyme schemes are considerably different. Saint P incorporates multisyllabic rhymes throughout his refrain, while West is more direct, rhyming each syllable on the first beat and finishing most phrases with the word ‘again’. Despite these disparities, this point of contention had obviously fostered bad blood between the two artists, and these tensions were played out in real time on one of grime’s most prestigious platforms.

Foundations 59

Figure 2.4  Transcription of Reece West ‘bounce’ bars (audiovisual example 2e, 0:15).

Reece West enters first and immediately lays down his ‘bounce’ lyric. Saint P then follows with his own version as a four-bar refrain (Figure 2.5) looping it four times. Each time, Saint P gestures towards West with an up-hand shoo, beckoning him towards the studio exit on ‘bounce’. After this, Saint P segues out of the refrain, before spitting another 16 bars. He then ignores West’s request for the microphone, before physically pushing it into West’s chest at the end of the 16. West’s riposte ‘cor blimey, I heard Saint P don’t like me’ lyrically announces the clash to those present, re-rendering their prior disagreements as a live battle. The following few minutes feature faux-passes of the microphone and physical posturing with the MCs in close proximity throughout. The clash reaches its apex when West again reaches out a hand for the microphone to continue the back and forth. Rather than renege, Saint P doubles down and spins 360 degrees on the spot before passing the microphone to fellow YGG MC Lyrical Strally (audiovisual example 2e, 5:32). Blocking is often subtle and grating, intended to both shut out an artist and antagonise them without being explicit, so as to avoid real-time confrontation. Here, however, Saint P’s performative pirouette was deeply provocative towards West. This deliberate shun was met with criticism from some and hilarity from others: both in the room, and once the set

Figure 2.5  Transcription of Saint P’s ‘bounce’ bars (audiovisual example 2e, 1:13).

60  Foundations was uploaded to YouTube. One viewer accused Saint P of ‘foul play’, while another said he ‘bullied him [West]’ with that act. From the video footage, it initially appears that Reece West had lost the clash, but on closer inspection this preliminary observation is distorted. While most of the room is triumphant in recognition of Saint P’s performance, it is also true that a greater number of Saint P’s affiliates were in attendance. Similarly to Krucial’s backing at White Lion, the benefit of ‘home turf’ is clear to see. West was outnumbered but held resolute; arguably a more strident and bold move than relying on his audience. Whatever the outcome, though, this employment of ‘blocking’ acts as a quasi-microcosm for the elements of MC etiquette that this chapter has sought to explore so far. Firstly, the ways in which MCs can use body language to provoke other performers. Secondly, the antagonisms that can arise as part of ‘microphone politics’, and finally the role of home turf. Although the Kiss FM studio in Soho, Central London is a largely neutral sphere, overseen by Rude Kid, it acts as a shifting, almost liminal space: a meeting ground with tensions that are made manifest by the affiliates and crew members present. Here, the ‘rules and regulations’ are less clearly set. As such, the very contingency of these rules and regulations is brought to bear. Furthermore, these incidents show how grime’s ontological basis as a collective endeavour is constantly in flux. Individual prerogatives and inter-crew rivalries continue to permeate its performance sphere, which often blurs with the quotidian. For Krucial, the White Lion was both a performance ground and a space to relax and socialise. At Reece West’s EP launch, it was impossible to determine who was and wasn’t a performer: it was a gathering of the community that played out through a fraught, yet ‘participatory’, live set (Turino 2008: 26). For Jammer, a latent tension with J2K had to be addressed on air. Here, then, it is clear to see a blurring of boundaries between the performance and the social, and a need to be flexible to different demands: Swarvo’s use of different lyrical units offers an improvisatory ‘way-out’ in high-pressure scenarios; Krucial’s capitalisation on ‘home turf’ allowed him to re-assert his pre-eminence. Therefore, while this section has begun to craft out expectations for live performance in grime, it is far from a catch-all taxonomy. In actuality, it demonstrates how a rudimentary rubric, or ‘code of practice’ is always insufficient for a form that is intrinsically bound up with extra-musical concerns and the quotidian social fabric of everyday life. You may need to know the ‘rules and regulations’, but you also have to be prepared for the rulebook to be dashed out the window en route to Eskimo Dance.

Session Management The variety of affiliations on show at Rude Kid’s Xmas special posed a number of problems, with a few moments having the potential to completely derail the performance. This scenario poses the wider question of

Foundations 61 who actually presides over the performance process in grime music, or who is responsible for its progression. There are three groups of human actors involved in a grime performance: the DJ(s), MC(s) and audience members. At some events, the audience is not clearly distinguishable from MCs and DJs who aren’t performing, such as in the clash between Reece West and Saint P where the room was filled with practitioners. Here, other MCs became mediating voices from the crowd: MC A:  Shall we move them back? MC B:  There’s no need, no need.

Audience members can play a crucial role, particularly for reloads (addressed in Chapter 3). However, for overall session management, the responsibility lies with MCs and DJs. The DJ is seen as the ultimate arbiter since they have control over many factors, including track selection, who is allowed to attend their set and whether or not to reload a tune. Even if the crowd demands a reload, a DJ can refuse. Stubborn refute, or willing responsiveness can have a profound effect on the performance’s procession. These power dynamics need to be carefully negotiated. For MCs, too, there is a need to strike a balance between aggressive individualistic performance and group sensibility. This section focuses on two things, which are nonetheless intertwined. Firstly, it attends to the MC’s role in managing the session, and the means MCs possess in order to be able to respond to performance direction from DJs. Secondly, it looks more closely at the DJ’s toolkit, with a case study of West London DJ Eastwood, and the ways in which he harnesses a performance’s ‘energy’ as it progresses. Mapping Energy / ‘Where’s My Energy Crew?’ Before starting, it’s important to unpack what I mean by ‘energy’ and how it relates to grime’s interactional processes. In a similar manner to how grime’s rules and regulations are seen as wholly apparent while remaining unsaid, there are other elements intrinsic to a grime performance that are envisaged as both self-evident yet impossible to quantify. A performance’s procession is contingent on building ‘energy’ and maintaining a ‘vibe’. This involves managing varying inputs and power dynamics—as mentioned above—so it neither spills over into pandemonium nor withers away into obscurity. But mapping this is challenging. ‘Vibe’ is notoriously hard to pin down, and much writing on Afrodiasporic practice renders this as a phenomenon located solely within the body. This fundamentality of the body could be seen as neo-primitivist, and it is often unhelpful in mapping what actually goes down in the live domain. The opening line of Joe Muggs’ impressively researched oral history of sound system culture is unflinching in its ascription of bass and bass practice

62  Foundations to bodily urges: ‘bass is fundamental. There’s nothing else in music that so firmly roots the experience in time and space, because it’s so instantly, obviously physical. You can’t mistake it for a cerebral experience: although you can think about it and it can alter your mind, its immediate impact is on your body’ (2019: 14). Similarly, for Steve Goodman, more commonly known by his producer monicker Kode 9, ‘Bass is not heard, it is felt’ (2010: 236). These readings are shared quite readily among those who attend sound systems on a regular basis, and both Muggs and Goodman have the right to assert an affinity for that moment where one feels immersed among bass bins, tweeters and scoops. The problem, however, is when an understanding of music as solely mediated through the body colours the ways in which artistry is written about, when the so-called ‘sub(politics) of frequency’ becomes essentialist dogma (Fink 2018: 88). This often comes into play with writing about grime. For Simon Reynolds, East London grime MC Crazy Titch is not an artist with cognitive credentials. Rather he is someone who ‘hoarsely hollers’ down the microphone (2009: 377). Matthew Fuller’s work on pirate radio frequently resorts to lampooning MCs and their critical faculties. In his overly technologically deterministic reading of pirate radio practice, MCs are not masters of their craft who carefully build momentum and manage energy levels. Instead, they are seen as ‘convenors’ who work mechanically and diligently, ‘chat[ting] on the mike, giv[ing] the shouts, work[ing] the phones’ before ‘chatting on the mike some more’ (Fuller 2004: 33). This monotony is redolent of a production line, and brute-level mechanistic utility of a computer program, confirmed shortly afterwards where Fuller writes of MCs’ language being ‘composed of UNIX commands’ (ibid: 38). Any cerebral involvement is again denied. These sort of assessments from Fuller and Reynolds take us back to Nina Sun Eidsheim’s work discussed in this book’s introduction. Both the musical production and musical practice of Black artists is written about with reference to a bodily essence. This not only re-articulates racist stereotyping, but it also offers a highly restrictive understanding of the creative practice. Through simply rendering ‘vibe’ and process as something that is merely ‘felt’, it both disavows the intellectual capacity of artists and obstructs any meaningful engagement with what is actually at play when artists take to the stage. This section, then, builds on this chapter’s existing attentiveness to the ways in which MCs choose and operationalise lyrics depending on the setting or scenario, to offer a wider view of how both MCs and DJs manage an unfolding rave or pirate radio set. While the bass is of course pervasive, it is thought through, negotiated and critically reflected upon by performers and sound system engineers who possess a highly technical cachet. Similarly, grime artists are continually engaged in processes of interaction, affordance and compromise: they are far from cerebrally detached.

Foundations 63 This artistic agency is used productively and often presciently, consequentially necessitating a synthesis of both ‘working’ and ‘thinking’ through the performance and its direction, while already performing. ‘Vibe’ might not be quantifiable, but its maintenance is based upon complex cognitive and embodied practice that demands in-the-moment reactions from performers who are sensitive to other actors (audience, DJs, MCs, etc.), and the unfolding performance scenario. This ‘Session Management’ is therefore crucial to a successful performance. Its mapping in this section involves an engagement with studies outside the immediate canon of work on grime that capture this simultaneous ‘thinking’ and ‘working’ through, alongside considered and long-form engagement with artists’ words, reflections and practice. It consolidates work by Julian Henriques on Sound System Culture—that does a great deal to unpack the technical cachet of artists—with wider studies of group interaction and improvisation to productively trace grime artists’ macro-­ management of creative interactions over the course of an event. Its synthesis of working and thinking is complicit with Pierre Bourdieu’s attention to practice as a process in Logic of Practice and is resistant of overly somatic conceptions of Afrodiasporic musical performance that are rendered loud and clear by Fuller, Reynolds and others. This is by no means an attempt to deny the ‘felt’ aspect of practice. Henriques writes extensively on how bass can be transduced and how ‘vibe’ can be built iteratively: this is all part of the process (Henriques 2014: 79). What it does do, though, is refute a reduction to a simply passive barrage of bass and bars. Rather, MCs and DJs in grime music possess a creatively cognisant attentiveness to an ongoing performance process, that enables them to ensure a continuation of ‘vibe’, harness collective ‘energy’ at opportune moments, and level up through acts of improvisational interactivity. MCs and Momentum / ‘You’re Not Going to Go a Million Miles an Hour Right Away’ In grime music, the management of a performance is primarily conducted by the DJ. While moments regularly appear wherein the MCs take charge, such as Reece West and Saint P sparring for supremacy, it’s the DJ’s job to keep things moving. This regular rotation means MCs’ and DJs’ responsibilities are broadly analogous to soloists and the rhythm section in jazz. MCs are ‘temporary leaders of the group journey’, who rely on the DJ ‘to provide signposts for the performance direction’. Because of this, MCs have to pay close attention to each other and the DJ, listening out for aural cues or physical indications and making musical decisions on the basis of the state of play at that moment in time (Berliner 1991: 158). To help frame this practice, it is useful to look at Keith Sawyer’s conception of group flow. This model prioritises interaction as a fundamental

64  Foundations element of collective improvisatory practice. Group flow is an ‘emergent property of the group’ manifest through participants working together and listening to each other (Csikzentmihalyi 1990; Sawyer 2003: 167). MCs have a number of tools that they can use when reacting to each other in this unpredictable and emergent performance environment. This can range from small-scale adjustments—such as those made by Swarvo—to broader brushstrokes that are typically referenced by artists with respect to ‘pace’, and ‘balance’. The aim is to both command proceedings and demonstrate your own capabilities, while also ‘preserv[ing] a continuity of mood’ (Berliner 1991: 368). To understand this, it’s necessary to both intensively listen in the moment and take forward your prior experiences into each performance, using them to situate yourself in a new setting. This was captured well in conversation with Central London MC Kwam: KWAM:  There’s

obviously a time and a place for things. If you’ve gone to enough sets you understand when there’s a peak approaching, or when there’s time to take it down and back off a bit. You learn these things along the way.    It’s just like sport. You’re not going to go a million miles an hour right away. You want to build up the play, rather than shooting as soon as you get the ball. Same thing in tennis, squash, rugby. Any sport I can think of. Experience leads you to it. And also sometimes it’s just natural understanding. Sometimes an MC turns up and they just know there’s a certain time and a place for something [emphasis added]. They can build up a vibe off that, and that’s why you see these young MCs coming through, whether through listening—you know at times when people didn’t know they were listening—or just having a natural sense of rhythm. They have that ability to engage with the crowd like that, so it’s cool. ALEX:  Do you think about young MCs now who are doing bits (doing well)? KWAM:  So the likes of [Lewisham MC] Novelist of course. I have seen him develop his craft from radio sets towards now doing much bigger sets. It’s clear that he’s been able to develop that understanding that I’ve talked about. When I was first on sets with him he used to just go for it as much as he could on every single lyric rather than go back a bit, regenerate himself and then go again. Here Kwam speaks directly to pacing and providing space for the DJ to work. He also earmarked South London’s Novelist. The Lewisham MC signed to XL at the age of 17 and saw a sharp rise to prominence. His engagement with pirate radio enabled him to refine his craft through attending as many as four or five sets a week. In 2016, I spent some time with Novelist and he reflected on his development up until that point. Notwithstanding the space that he affords to the DJ and other MCs, he

Foundations 65 also captured the idea of thinking and working through practice simultaneously. Here, he clearly locates how close listening to the DJ’s instrumental selection allows him to alter his lyrical pattern accordingly, mid-performance: I’ll listen for when the kick is and for where the snare is and figure out a groove. A rhythm between the kick and the snare … I like to pattern things to the music. I’ve learned a format so that I can write bars without any instrumental but the way that I’ve written it when I hear certain beats on a set I know automatically to drop this lyric or to drop that lyric. It’s like science. In addition to the correct choice of lyrics, the pace they are introduced at remains an important consideration. Kwam’s aversion to arriving at a ‘million miles an hour’ is well placed, especially since grime sets (at least on radio) last in excess of 60 minutes. The tendency for young MCs to grab the microphone and put everything into their first lyric, while understandable, can really upset the flow. Of course, if there are 30 MCs on the set—such as at Eskimo Dance—there is only a small window to stake your claim. You have to take that chance. However, when there are fewer MCs on the set, the role of session management and careful listening to the DJ’s selections is key. Krucial spoke to both these issues. KRUCIAL: 

If I’m on a set with millions of people, I’m gonna be selfish and spit what I want. But, if I’m on a set by myself and I’ve got the mic in my hand I’m ready. If I don’t like it I’ll pause, talk, say a little four-bar repeat and prepare. And when the beat comes in, spray. You just manage it. ALEX:  Yeah yeah time management. KRUCIAL:  You just manage it. ALEX:  I noticed that a lot as well, people re-fixing a bar anticipating something that’s going to happen, which is sick. KRUCIAL:  That’s just building, building the energy, building the vibe. Also if you don’t like that song you’re not going to spray on it. Here, Krucial explicitly mentions ‘building the energy, building the vibe’, and how this is made apparent through in-the-moment adjustments. The ‘four-bar repeat’, mentioned briefly with reference to Swarvo’s work, is a vitally useful unit that MCs use in a performance. These ‘transition lyrics’ are fairly widespread and their versatility manifests itself in a number of ways: transition lyrics can provide stability while a DJ is going in with the selections; paper over tracks that MCs don’t particularly enjoy spitting over; be employed in anticipation for the drop of a track; or act as a means to rebuild energy following a peak in the set. The best way to unpack this nuanced employment is to capture it in practice. A few months after our

66  Foundations conversation, Krucial went on Essex-based DJ Kirby T’s radio show, making use of transitions at opportune moments throughout the set. Kirby T’s Birthday Set / Tuesday August 22, 2017. 10 pm. Westside Radio, London Krucial, Face Audiovisual Example 2f Birthday sets are a regular fixture in grime. Notably chaotic, but mostly good-spirited, these celebrations typically see a vast swathe of individuals pass through to perform and pop bottles. At this time, Kirby T was a regular DJ for ‘Grime Sessions’—a show based out of West London—and a resident on Central London station Radar Radio, in addition to DJing for the Essexbased collective Payback. This broad reach (explored in Chapter 5) meant a huge number of artists, including Shellyvnne, were in attendance. An hour into the set, Krucial arrived with Face, his longtime friend who used to be part of Lethal Bizzle’s collective Fire Camp. Both were celebrated veterans, in comparison to the rest of those in attendance, and the rapidity with which prior MCs took the mic slowed, allowing them to temporarily take charge. Krucial and Face built momentum through a fast-paced back-to-back passage, finishing off each other’s lyrics and exciting the room. At a point close to bursting, Face broke out with his most famous hype lyric: ‘you don’t wanna war or, your boys will get bore-ored (stabbed)’ (audiovisual example 2e, 0:01). This lyric combined exponentially with Kirby T’s choice of instrumental—a refix of an old school grime classic ‘Gash By Da Hour’—resulting in a reload. The track was then cued from the top. Its long introduction takes 16 bars to build up before the bassline comes in. Rather than lose momentum, Krucial chose a transition lyric to quickly rebuild from the point of rupture (Figure 2.6 and Figure 2.7; audiovisual example 2f, 0:22–0:42). The rhythmic simplicity and lyrical content taken from his mid-2000s heyday work in combination, simultaneously sitting well on the instrumental and adding dewy-eyed flare to the already nostalgia-soaked instrumental. Once the track dropped, Krucial opened up into a more elaborate passage, therefore cleverly using the transition lyric as a precursor to his projected arrival point. Instead of immediately coming through with a new flow, he took time, demonstrated poise and patience,

Figure 2.6  Transcription of Krucial’s ‘transition lyric’ (audiovisual example 2f, 0:22).

Foundations 67

Figure 2.7  Transcription of Krucial’s lyrical development (audiovisual example 2f, 0:42).

and incrementally garnered excitement, before opening out on a new trajectory that enabled the performance to continue. This opportune use of a transition lyric is precisely what Kwam was referring to when he mentioned peaks and troughs. For a musical form that operates at both a high intensity and tempo, it is simply not viable to maintain the same energy level across an entire performance. Coming through with his own hype lyric would fully derail any sense of forward movement. Not MCing at all would see momentum atrophy and extinguish. Considering both Krucial’s actions and Kwam’s words, we can start to see how MCs manage the session through a combination of close listening, careful monitoring of participants’ body language and successful employment of an existing skillset. Ingrid Monson has written of jazz artists ‘continually [being] called upon to respond to and participate in an on-going flow of musical action that can change or surprise them at any moment’ (Monson 2008: 43). For grime MCs, this collection of techniques enables them to monitor, manage and set the pace of a performance as it progresses. ‘Vibe’ may not be quantifiable, but its preservation is an art that is studied, thought through and enacted on a daily basis by MCs intent on giving their all without letting the mood turn sour. This is adeptly summarised by Kraze: There’s a lot of intricate things you have to think about cause a lot of people think it’s ‘write, spit, go’ but there’s a lot to consider. You have to think about your delivery, you have to think about the flow, who has come before you on set. You also think about the change-up think about if you’re guna slide in a metaphor, if you’re going to end it on a metaphor, if you’re going to play the metaphor round and extend it to the next 16. It’s a whole load of things, but that’s for the people who are more sort of mindful of the craft. That actually are interested in the actual craft and not just bap some bars together and just spray them over a riddim.

68  Foundations The Accumulation of Energy / ‘Yo Eastwood! Gwarn, Eastwood!’ With power comes responsibility. DJs may have an open space to articulate themselves, but without being receptive to MCs and audience members a performance can falter, resulting in creative dearth. There are multiple elements that cross a DJ’s mind in the live environment. For Mark Butler, electronic dance music DJ is concerned with ‘what sort of sound or record should follow next’ (Butler 2014: 106). As stated in the book’s introduction, this requires reappraisal and a full consideration of the DJ’s technical cachet in grime music. Track selection is of course important in grime, offering a sliding scale from hostility to comfort for MCs performing with them. While MCs like Novelist profess to have a lyric for every type of beat, MCs do tend to prefer a certain style. An awareness of the MC’s flow and an appreciation of the style of instrumental that would complement their vocal delivery is an important consideration for all grime DJs. Lack of sensitivity towards co-performers’ trajectories can prove disastrous. Trim, of Roll Deep, laid this out clearly in conversation: I don’t think DJs are that considerate anymore. They used to be in the days of Mak 10 and Maximum [DJs for Nasty Crew and Roll Deep respectively]. These days I think DJs just play what they like and as an MC you have to adjust. But people like [Croydon-based DJ] Argue, DJ Easy B [Trim’s DJ], these people, I’ve been working with them for a while so they kind of know how to deal with me when it comes to sets. These considerations came to a head on Logan Sama’s launch show for P Money’s mixtape, mentioned above. Trim was also a guest. While Logan is typically known for an acute grasp and understanding of fellow performers, his choice of instrumentals for Trim didn’t quite match up. Following on from J2K—a markedly skippy MC, with a fast-paced garage-style flow— Trim’s languid, metaphorical and often quite dense passages were at odds with its effervescent and busy instrumentation (audiovisual example 2g, 0:08). Trim persisted for the first 24 bars, however Logan then brought through an even more animated instrumental, which completely threw Trim off-kilter: ‘Logan done that to me of all people. I’m greeze. I’m not J2. I can’t play with that one there. But yeah. Yeah that one there wasn’t me. I wanted something greeze Log. Please. Yeah, something like that. That threw me way off’. Logan Sama quickly acknowledged the mismatch and pulled back the track. He then introduced a half-time beat that was far less congested, allowing Trim the required space to work with. What’s interesting here, too, is the choice of wording from Trim. While ‘greeze’, like ‘vibe’ to an extent, is hard to tie down forensically, it was contextually meaningful to both performers in that moment. Sama made a link between Trim’s words, the

Foundations 69 palpable chasm between his style as an MC, and the choice of instrumental, and adjusted appropriately (audiovisual example 2g, 0:43; 1:18). Even through considering this short encounter between Trim and Logan Sama, it’s clear that selection is just one element within a DJ’s catalogue of techniques and tricks. It is not simply dealing with raw materials, ie. the records themselves. For DJs in reggae sound system culture, their role is likened to a ‘conductor, manager or producer’ (Henriques 2011: 158). It is their job to monitor and oversee proceedings. And while grime DJs generally preside over and support the performance of MCs, there is scope for more active and combative performance, and myriad considerations that colour their decision-making. In any one evening a DJ might consider: what sort of instrumental might align with the next MC to take the microphone (such as in Trim and Logan’s negotiation); how to quickly transition into a different style of instrumental; how the change might affect the MC currently spitting; what specific intermusical relevance the instrumental may have for any of the MCs present and so on. These considerations therefore move above and beyond the concerns of an electronic dance music DJ. And the myriad techniques developed within hip-hop turntablism,4 drum ‘n’ bass DJing, garage mixing and then grime of course demand a further re-mapping of the DJ’s role. You’re not just dealing with tracks and an audience: an entire ecosystem, coloured by pirate radio practice and the presence of multiple MCs, relies on astute decision-making in the moment. To capture this fully, I spent time discussing these concerns with a number of DJs. Techniques and tips were offered by many. In particular, an afternoon spent with North West London’s Eastwood felt like an education. Pearls of wisdom were shared generously, offering a glimpse into the inner workings of a grime DJ’s mind. DJ Eastwood was a key figure in the early 2000s for grime music, particularly in North West London. Based in Kilburn, his friendship network was highly talented: ‘I’ve known Swarvo for donkeys years, we all grew up together. I knew [singer and songwriter] Donae’o as well’. From modest beginnings playing jungle in his local youth club, he soon landed a regular slot on local station Juice FM, and after some encouragement, he also got into making tracks. His first foray into production was suitably DIY: The first release I done was a tune called ‘Uncle Harry’. My mate [DJ] Oddz played it in Cardiff [Wales], and [garage] MC Viper stopped it and was like ‘what’s this? This is crazy – where did you get this from?’ And then they pointed me out in the crowd and were like ‘big up!’. From then, I got a loan, pressed up 500 white labels and took it around the shops. [East London DJ] Slimzee picked it up. And when Slimzee started playing it, it really started going. He was playing all the tunes that no-one else was playing. Slimzee just skyrocketed … from then I bought a K Station [synthesiser] and an MPC 2000 [sampler], and made the tune ‘U Ain’t Ready’.

70  Foundations ‘U Ain’t Ready’ quickly propelled Eastwood into the spotlight, and its ever-presence on radio sets and at raves was a sign of his growing notoriety. In May 2004, he was invited onto BBC Radio 1 by the seasoned broadcaster John Peel to perform with MCs I.E, I.Q, Purple and G Double E: the first grime DJ to be given this platform.5 The regularity with which Eastwood consequently performed on radio, and at raves, meant that he developed a specialised technical cachet in a short space of time that was used alongside, and acted in conjunction with, a keen sensitivity to his fellow performers. His conception of session management is therefore based on skill and affordance. A need to build excitement through performative actions, while managing expectations and flow for the MCs on set with him. This can be broken down into a few key concerns. The Quick Draw Raves in grime thrive off excitement. Eastwood’s bookings following the success of ‘U Ain’t Ready’ meant he became something of a regular fixture at club nights, including the prestigious Sidewinder. Similarly to Eskimo Dance, Sidewinder was often hosted outside of London (owing to club restrictions and discriminatory policies that afflicted Black performance practice in the capital, see Hancox 2018a: 175). Its events and recorded tape packs were vital sources of new music and new artistry at the time, and later became canonical ephemera for the re-purposing of grime practice in international scenes, particularly in Australia (de Lacey 2020a: 124). For these events, a balance needed to be struck with the audience and the MCs. As a consequence, Eastwood stresses the importance of quickly mixing between instrumentals to maintain a sense of intrigue. When I used to DJ, I used to have a bag for my dubplates. I [also] used to have a normal record bag [as] I never had anything planned out. I might have two tunes that I liked to mix together. I used to do one with ‘Hungry Tiger’ [by Dom Perignon and Dynamite] and ‘Eskimo’ [by Wiley]. I used to mix the two together and it used to work so good. I put guaranteed hitters at the back of the bag. In the rest of the bag, and the other one [dubplate bag] I would just experiment and see how this one goes down. As soon as the vibe started I could draw for the back of the bag …sometimes I would draw three from the back and put them under the deck. I used to DJ quite quick so they were ready straight. Especially with MCs you need that element of surprise and you have got to maintain that level of energy when you’re DJing as well. So I used to put them under the deck, and I could literally flip it. It maintains the energy of the set. Being mindful that big hitters can help maintain the vibe is nothing new in terms of DJ performance. However, the lining up of tracks for the ‘quick

Foundations 71 draw’ is a technique that is really prized in grime performance. The changeover between tracks can be as little as 20 seconds. This has evolved to keep up with the rapid switching between MCs in the live arena. Eastwood’s contribution is also telling, with regards to the way in which he perceives live practice. Through paying close attention to the maintenance of energy, he demonstrates an awareness of the unfolding performance, the ways he can offer a quick burst of momentum, and the need to mediate between multiple performers; rather than simply acting as an antiphonal interface with a paying crowd’s ‘collective body’ (Fikentscher 2000: 8). DJ Gesture—Chopping and Punching This energy is further heightened through a number of gestural acts that really get the ball rolling. In addition to the ‘quick draw’, grime DJs often ferociously cut between different instrumentals, or use snippets of tracks as punctuative markers or alternative percussive lines. These tactics both add a level of intensity to the set, while also demonstrating a DJ’s authority over proceedings. Their usage is highly stimulating but their enactment must be considered, as it affects—and can impede upon—the MCs’ ability to perform. ‘Chopping’ involves swiftly cutting between two channels on the mixer, each playing an instrumental, so that the tracks instantaneously fade in and out of prominence through the speakers. This can be done either with the cross-fader, or by riding the channel faders (the latter is more common in grime). Its usage is generally welcomed by MCs, but approaches vary. Krucial, for example, mentioned to me that he likes to sit back while DJ’s chop, offering them space to ‘mix and blend’. For other MCs, though, a choppy DJ is highly prized. This can be heard clearly on recordings of Eastwood with grime crew Dynasty. They regularly worked together in the early 2000s, since both are from the same locale. The crew and Eastwood put together a Bonus CD for Sidewinder in early 2005 and on this set you can clearly hear Dynasty’s MC Hitman Tiga attacking the chops, riding over Eastwood’s quick changes. Without faltering, he is able to maintain his place rhythmically, build momentum, and allow for a substantial release when Eastwood brings in the new instrumental (audiovisual example 2h, 0:05–0:18). Again, there exists a balance. Later in the recording Tiga sits back over a transition, while fellow crew member Hypa Fen shouts ‘Eastwood, bring dat!’ before arriving with the new track.6 ‘Punching’, as the name suggests, is even more provocative, so it needs to be handled with care. By repeatedly bringing through a track on the same beat at each bar, a DJ can add intrigue by creating a new rhythmic layer. Typically this is done on the first beat while an MC spits a capella, in effect punctuating, or ‘punching’, their performance. The move finishes with a full release of the track that had previously only been exposed in snippets. A year after the set for John Peel, Eastwood linked up with Renegade Boys

72  Foundations to record a Sidewinder set, where this technique can be heard in full effect. MC Purple is on mic, while Eastwood is metronomically punching in a new track. This genius here lies in the selection and the technique. Through overlaying both a variation in production (VIP) of DJ Oddz’ ‘Champion’ and the original version, Eastwood both brings forward percussive intrigue and an intertextual reference between the two musical layers (see audiovisual example 2i, 0:05–0:19). Yeah the VIP one drops after. So what I do is drop the other one in. Because the basslines on them are so wavy and so different, it’s fun to play about with the two of them together … [and] when the next track [fully] comes in, the tone goes up, and there’s a little bit more energy. This synthesis of gesture and musical nous has a gestalt effect, moving the performance to a higher level. But these instances require an incredibly strong working relationship between the DJ and the MC. As a result, the use of specialised techniques always forms part of a creative negotiation, where the DJ assesses what the MCs are capable of, and determines how far they can take the performance. These concerns are captured in a set with Eastwood and Dynasty from 2005, recorded live at Sidewinder. Here like the example with Purple, Eastwood has to balance the urge to express his own idiosyncratic style and ingenuity of selection with affordance to others: particularly through allowing space for MCs to shine as part of an ongoing collaboration. Sidewinder Urban Summer Ball / Saturday July 23, 2005. MK Arena, Milton Keynes Hypa Fen, Marcie Phonix, Hitman Tiga, Naughty Gangsta, Purple, N.E. and more Eastwood Audiovisual example 2j The first factor Eastwood acknowledged in conversation was the ‘level’ of the MCs around him. A good MC means he can push it to the limit, and this was the case with Dynasty that night. The MCs [Dynasty’s Hypa Fen and Marcie Phonix] were really good on this set, because they didn’t get thrown off. There’s been times where you do that [chop in a track] and the MC gets confused and loses his rhythm. He starts stuttering, forgets his lyrics, then blames it on the DJ. When you’re around good good MCs … they’re so on point they can catch any beat. [Another time] Skepta, [and East London MCs] Ghetts and Kano were showing off on ‘Pulse X’, starting their lyrics on the first beat, second beat and third beat, performing seamlessly [over bar lines]. It helps when you’ve got good MCs around you when you’re DJing [so you’re able to] express yourself [without] them getting thrown off.

Foundations 73 New MCs, however, can provide a particular challenge, especially on the live stage when the risks are far greater. This set with Dynasty was dubbed the ‘graveyard set’ because it was the last of the night. As a result, other MCs saw an opportunity to crowd around and take the microphone. Here, Eastwood had to sit back and allow space, until he got fed up and dropped in a vocal track to keep them quiet! Rather than grab the mic and shout ‘No Dead MCs!’ like C Cane, he used his position of power—the sonic dominance provided by his track selections—to drown out unwanted guests (see audiovisual example 2k, 00:29). In conversation, he also alluded to another Sidewinder set where adjustments had to be made. In this case, collaborative performance proved very difficult owing to the sheer power and unpredictability of the MCs on the set. This time, there was no way he could drop in a vocal track—it was primetime, and the MCs were in full control. When I went Sidewinder another time, I’m not gonna lie I was fucking shitting bricks, especially since I didn’t know the MCs. I remember Tempa T [from Slew Dem] was there. I’d never seen anything like it. I was like ‘oh god this is crazy, let me just play the tune. I’m not even going to get into the creative stuff, these lot are fucking nutcases’. So I didn’t really express myself too much on those ones. These contrasting examples show how power dynamics shift depending on both the environment and the MCs present. DJs can challenge MCs to see if they are able to match their energy, while MCs can dictate proceedings if the DJ is new to their style. Eastwood later offered a counterbalance to his encounter with Tempa T. In this instance, Eastwood was the aggressor. Forthright and defiant, his words evoke practice redolent of seasoned instrumentalists in jazz testing out newcomers in ‘cutting’ sessions on the bandstand. I was quite known in West London as I was on so many radio stations. I remember being on React FM [a West London station that broadcast on 99.7 FM]. I used to get lots of MCs coming and it got messy. One day I said ‘look this is what we’re going to do. Everyone can go back-toback. Whoever don’t merk (perform well)7 has gotta go home’. I never sent anyone home, but it’s a thing where I was known and I was confident [emphasis in voice]. I was the big man. I wasn’t worried if I messed up or messed someone up [with my chopping and cutting]. If it happened I’d be like ‘deal with it. I didn’t ask you to come on my show!’ From these contrasting anecdotes, it’s clear to see that certain scenarios impact the creative possibilities for a DJ and their approach to session management. Sidewinder is high pressure—with thousands of fans in attendance, particularly for the Slew Dem set—while radio sets can be less frenetic.

74  Foundations It also reinforces the notion of home turf. At React FM, it was Eastwood’s show, so he could effectively do whatever he wanted to. Central to our discussion, though, was the tension between wanting to demonstrate virtuosity through chopping and creative interplay, and the need to be sympathetic to the needs of MCs. The sonic impact of chopping can be quite dramatic and overbearing, and with potential gains comes substantial risk. Building momentum with chopping and punching is all well and good, but if an MC can’t ride the chops then it’s not even worth brokering. When you get more comfortable and when you’re around MCs you know, you know the tunes they like to spit to, you know the ones that get them excited. You have to test the water, with new MCs, spending the whole time thinking ‘ahh is he guna like this one, is this guna work? I don’t know if I should chop it in and out, if there, I don’t know if they’ve got that in their locker’. I can see how it can be really difficult. But at the same time, you want it to be special. You wanna put your own imprint, you wanna do something original. You wanna kinda hear people be like ‘yo Eastwood! Gwan, Eastwood!’ You wanna have your little bit of time to shine. So see when you chop the tune, you chop the tune back in, chop the tune back out, [roll in] a little bit of the bass from here, flick it back … that’s how people can appreciate you. Here, Eastwood captures the full spectrum of concerns for the DJ’s management of performance: the worry and consideration over selections; sensitivity with respect to extended techniques and new MCs; and the burning desire to put your own stamp on proceedings while still ensuring it passes off as a success. ‘You want it to be special’, but your time to shine has to be nestled within a collaborative framework to make it coherent. Grime DJing doesn’t have its own version of DMC (Disco Mix Club World Championships). Virtuosity is prized but it’s not the modus operandi. Instead, techniques are utilised to harness, excite, and accumulate energy as part of an improvising group. Everything Is Like a mechanism… Through exploring the ways in which MCs and DJs manage the session, I have tried to tie down some of the key techniques and expectations that underpin decision-making in the live environment. For MCs, the principal concerns that come up again and again in conversation are pacing, and the need to ‘preserve a continuity of mood’ (Berliner 1991: 368). When Kwam mentions his distaste at going a ‘million miles an hour’ he is allowing for a co-constructed build of energy, that while naturally oscillating between ‘peaks and troughs’, can also reach moments of rupture, like the reload. Returning to Henriques, this ideal of collaborative interchange is endemic of a sound system session and its wide array of participants (both human

Foundations 75 and technological). This continual accumulation of energy through ‘amplification, inflection and transduction’, helps to ‘build the vibe’, which— although not readily reduced to a quantifiable essence—is something that can be harnessed and used in the live arena. There are many ways this can take place, such as the transduction of musical signal through the body of the ‘bashment gal’ whose consequent dynamism is then fed back into the dance floor and the performance’s emergent trajectory (Henriques 2014: 82). This interrelation is best captured by Eastwood, who not only feeds off MC practice (see above) but locates a quasi-symbiosis between human and technology while working at full capacity: Everything is like a mechanism. You’re programmed to do actions like boom, even when you see them [DJs] take the record off the deck, they do it, put it in the sleeve boom, or put it back in the bag. Everything’s almost in one movement, it’s tuned into your brain sort of thing, in to your nervous system almost. You just do it in a certain way. While this internalised understanding of both practice and one’s instrument is a clear indication of what Alexander Weheliye has determined an ‘enmeshment’ of sound, technology and Black cultural practice, for Eastwood this importantly affords instantaneous reaction and the maintenance of energy; through incorporating the ‘quick draw’, ‘chopping’, or ‘punching’ (Weheliye 2005: 4). It allows artists agency and is not deterministic. When trying to discuss how grime artists level up as part of a performance, all of these elements need to be included in the conversation. Session management is contingent on circumstance, the elements nestled within its network of enactment (technology, audience), the performers themselves (MCs, DJs) and the emergent character of each performance. DJ’s can challenge the MCs to level up through excessive chopping and punching, but they might also offer a more tempered response, particularly if Tempa T is on the set not giving them an inch. Grime artists are active, sometimes combative, agents within live performance. Because of this, a full understanding of performance protocol, awareness of your own technical cachet, and the ability to mediate between your personal prerogative and the wider emergent trajectory allows energy to be harnessed in an appropriate manner.

Conclusion Throughout this chapter, we have been looking at nebulous concepts that are hard to tie down, yet artists know inside and out. We know they exist, but their basis isn’t readily reduced to a singular kernel or clear evocation in words. MCs know how to do the ‘right thing’ in performance, yet the ‘right thing’ depends on circumstances. Similarly, artists know how to channel a performance’s ‘vibe’ and accumulate ‘energy’, but the energy itself is not

76  Foundations necessarily stable or quantifiable. What it has offered though are ways to pragmatically manage these unstable expectations and feelings, and channel them into successful performance. Without falling into what Fink has determined the ‘sub(politics) of frequency’ that romanticises the ethereal profundity of vibe and how it can be felt, we need to acknowledge that ‘vibe’ and ‘unwritten rules’ are part and parcel of a performance environment. As such, marshalling these is a key concern. And the way these are channelled is remarkably complex, rather than cerebrally absent as detractors and exoticist readings might suggest. When Sir Spyro took to the microphone before his set with Shellyvnne, anything could have happened. Eleven MCs were primed and ready to give it their all, with both DJs eagerly anticipating what was to come. The thin line between success and failure, magnified by no fewer than 13 artists about to enter into improvisatory performance, was ever present. Nonetheless, a demonstrable understanding of grime’s code of ethics and nuanced interplay ensured success. While these conventions and artists’ technical cachets are typically tacit and learned respectively, the artists I interviewed demonstrated an understanding of—if not an adherence to—these conventions and a toolkit that affords attenuated responses to creative stimuli. This foundational grounding allows artists to spread their wings in a variety of scenarios and facilitate dynamic exchange. DJ Eastwood referenced a certain freedom working with Marcie Phonix and Hypa Fen owing to their understanding of the genre, while Sir Spyro and Shellyvnne entered into moments of group flow. This collaborative process is always tempered with extra-­ musical tension. Animosity can add to the accumulation of energy and stimulate a performance’s onward trajectory, but ignorance of the MC code of practice—through mobbing someone else’s turf, hogging the microphone, or snaking—can cause friction. In these cases, DJs can exert substantial power over proceedings: mediating between MCs; building creative energy with MCs through shrewd instrumental selections; and providing moderate intensity through gesture (chopping, cutting and reloads). These dialogues and negotiations between convention and craft, group and individual, and the routine and unruly typify grime’s improvisatory process. The broad terrain of techniques in an artist’s locker, combined with the specificities of each scenario, is brought forth in exciting ways by MCs and DJs who manage, harness and propagate energy, at the rave and across the airwaves. For Eastwood, Kraze, Krucial and others, it’s tacit, learned, unsaid. But its evocation here enables us to begin to grasp how these performances are put together. These wider regulatory concerns will now make way for interaction at a far more local level. While Eastwood’s use of gesture offered a preliminary insight into the minutiae of DJ practice, Chapter 3 turns to grime’s so-called ‘phases of play’: deeply interactive manoeuvres that take place between multiple MCs, DJs and often audience members. Rather than look to the session as a whole, it pulls apart key

Foundations 77 moments, including the ‘rally’: a dense back-and-forth interchange between MCs that mirrors the dextrous interplay from its namesake in Tennis and Squash. It starts, though, with an appraisal of grime’s most evocative and energetic creative act: the reload.

Audiovisual Example Captions Audiovisual Example 2a Hype lyrics: excerpt from Swarvo’s track ‘Forearm’. Audiovisual Example 2b Technical Bars: excerpt from Swarvo’s track ‘DJ Masta Freestyle’. Audiovisual Example 2c Home Turf: clash between Krucial and members of Yunga SLK. Audiovisual Example 2d Crossed wires: exchange between MCs Jammer and J2K. Audiovisual Example 2e ‘Bounce!’: clash between MCs Saint P and Reece West. Audiovisual Example 2f Transition lyrics: MC Krucial, performing on Westside Radio. Audiovisual Example 2g Crossed wires 2: exchange between MC Trim and DJ Logan Sama. Audiovisual Example 2h Chopping and Punching: MC Hitman Tiga and DJ Eastwood. Audiovisual Example 2i Variation in Production (VIP): MC Purple and DJ Eastwood. Audiovisual Example 2j ‘Good MCs’: MC Marcie Phonix and DJ Eastwood.

Notes 1 Postcode is the British name for a ZIP code. 2 This sensibility is also apparent in UK Drill, where crews often explicitly represent a certain block: 67 hold firm for Brixton Hill, while Peckham’s Zone 2 is named after their area’s fare boundary on the London Tube. Despite these locational tensions, the dismantling of Youth Centres and funding cuts to teenage services accelerated throughout the 21st century, enacting ‘slow violence’ upon the communities hardest hit by the financial crash of 2008 (Nixon 2011: 149). 3 KISS FM UK, “The KISS Grime Xmas Special with Rude Kid Feat. Novelist, Discarda, YGG, Prez T and Many More”, December 18, 2016, https://www. youtube.com/watch?v=Fb7vU5GivhU. Accessed July 4, 2020. 4 See Sophy Smith’s book Hip-HopTurntablism, Creativity and Collaboration, released by Routledge in 2016. 5 DJ Eastwood. John Peel [Grime Show] DJ Eastwood & MC’s Purple, G Double + More - BBC 1xtra - 26.05.2004. https://soundcloud.com/getdarker/john-peelgrime-show-dj-eastwood-mcs-purple-g-double-more-bbc-1xtra-26052004. Accessed July 8, 2020.

78  Foundations



6 This negotiation is also captured by fellow North West Londoner Kaylee Kay who—although tending to be supportive when there are a large number of MCs on the set—regularly incorporates chopping as part of her practice: ‘I tend to play tracks for longer, because there might be a certain MC who wants to spit on that. I’m quite mindful. But I still chop where I can. If there’s another MC gearing for the mic, I want to do a nice transition’. 7 See glossary.

3

Improvisation and Group Process

Thursday October 26, 2017, 11 pm. Don City Radio, Hackney Voltage, Shiesty, Esskay Audiovisual Example 3a Three months have passed since Shellyvnne made their mark at Rinse FM. Two since my debut at Don City. I’ve been watching Shellyvnne grow as a collective firsthand, but on this occasion I was offered the chance to work with them directly. Typically after their show finished on a Thursday night, I’d walk up to the decks make small talk with Selecta Impact and the MCs would tail off. But on this occasion, four of the crew members wanted to stay back and spray bars over my selections. I was nervous, but as soon as we got into gear these worries waned and a need to understand and align with their intentions kicked in. Voltage is the so-called father figure of the collective. The Newham-born MC was a mainstay of the London grime scene in the late 2000s and is a master of his craft, offering pointers to the next generation, some of whom were in Shellyvnne at that time. He takes the mic around 45 minutes into the show and co-ordinates a gradual ascendance through the gears. Entering over a remix of Ruff Sqwad’s ‘Xtra’—the track I first heard on the back of the school bus, with a vocal from Devlin—he deftly switches from skippy lyrical acrobatics to more direct passages that provide purpose and direction. Sensing a shift, I start to draw for some of my ‘guaranteed hitters’, as Eastwood would say, and the momentum begins to really build. Voltage is continuing to toy with rhythm, and I realise it needs something more. Within eight bars, I’ve lined up and brought through a new instrumental that I thought would strike well with his delivery. His tone rises, the MC Esskay starts to back up his lyrics and they reach a point wherein the track simply has to be taken from the top. Voltage is close to breaking point and gasping for breath. The energy—if not acknowledged—was going to dissipate if I didn’t do something quickly. Through reloading the track, I both reacted to this energy and allowed some (very literal) breathing room for the artists before going again. DOI: 10.4324/9781003295792-4

80  Improvisation and Group Process Soon after this passage of interplay, Shiesty and Voltage start to riff off of each other, moving back and forth, exchanging lyrics. Both MCs are fairly technical spitters, with fast-pace flows and intricate cadential patterns, and their ability to dovetail is showcased clearly. After an initial passage where Voltage simply bolsters Shiesty’s efforts, they unfurl into a more measured trade-off: each taking eight bars to perform, before the mic is passed back across the room to their opposite number. Voltage then picks up and carries on with the performance. This back and forth, or ‘rallying’, is another key component of grime practice. Rather than Serena Williams facing off against Martina Hingis, grime MCs lace an eight bar and fire back across the court for their opponent to respond. Here the mutual understanding sees the intensity heighten towards a climactic point. While Wimbledon is often in rapture at the rapidity and pace with which tennis players return and respond, the radio studio similarly reverberates with wonder. That night at Don City, it took me a while to get my bearings. But once I was on the right course, our comprehension of the shared creative event shifted from tentative tussle to crystal clarity.

Introduction In Chapter 2, Swarvo, Eastwood and others showed how grime artists demonstrate an understanding of the macro-concerns of the field of performance. The form’s expected etiquette was outlined, and Eastwood in particular mapped how artists channel improvisatory energy over an extended period of time. However, a lot of these processes take place at a far more local level. This chapter looks at two of grime’s key phases of play: the reload and rally. It explores the ways in which artists creatively improvise, negotiate these interactions, and manage power dynamics born out of these processes. At Don City, the four MCs from Shellyvnne and myself regularly shifted in pace towards rapid-fire interactive passages: Voltage’s move towards a reload took place over 30 seconds; Sheisty and Esskay’s rally arrived almost instantaneously, but lasted for a while longer. Whereas Chapter 2’s modelling of creative energy across a session was iterative and gradual, many transitions are far more sudden, and through exploring two of its key phases of play (the through ball will be addressed in Chapter 4), this chapter will model the minutiae of the creative process: from the reload’s quick point of rupture, to the multifaceted (and multi-part) character of the rally. As such, it places further demands on the mapping of creative interchange. While we can clearly see how an audience at a rave can ‘cultivate and sustain liveness’ through dancing, for example, within grime there exists multidirectional, musically meaningful suggestions that are assessed and incorporated continually during the performance (Butler 2014: 102).

Improvisation and Group Process 81 Group Flow and the Continuing Process This mapping will draw from jazz practice, particularly free improvisation, and Indonesian gamelan to gain a grasp of the ways in which grime performers are engaged in an ongoing musical conversation. Returning to Ingrid Monson’s work, she employs the term ‘intensification’ to collate myriad musical events that ‘contribute towards a musical climax’. Phenomena such as grooving, while just as broad and hard to tie down as ‘vibe’, are vital for musical collectives, and sustaining a groove can lead towards the group ‘taking it to another level’ (Monson 1996: 139). These musical events that this chapter will focus on include ‘changes in dynamics, rhythmic density, timbre, melody’ among others (ibid 139). Small alterations from MCs and DJs can elicit huge change, if incorporated, and attenuated sensitivity to these multiple signals and inputs from the ensemble at large (MCs, DJs, audience and performance network), all contribute towards a building of energy that—while still iterative—is sometimes non-linear and often exponential. Central to these phases of play is an ability to perform and react simultaneously. This could be in response to a heightened MC voice, repetition of a lyrical pattern, a falling cadence, or an abrasive passage of chopping from the DJ, a technique that Eastwood heavily favours. In order to conceptualise this process across the following pages, it is helpful to keep in mind Keith Sawyer’s aforementioned modelling of ‘group flow’ and his work on emergent creative practice more generally. Sawyer’s model of ‘interactional semiotics’, in particular, maps how suggestions from performers are either incorporated or discarded as part of an ongoing interaction.1 Sawyer separates musical communication into two categories: denotational and metapragmatic. Denotational is overt, referring directly to something or a concept, and is often language based. For example, a grime artist might call someone’s name to usher them onto the mic. The metapragmatic, however, acts on multiple levels, requiring artists to perform and react to others at the same time A change in tempo, meter, or altered cadence—while non-linguistic—can contextually infer an impending change, and affect future interaction. Suggestions are collectively negotiated as a performance unfolds, and these are framed within what he terms to be a ‘continuing process’ (Sawyer 2003: 89). This process attends to the ways in which suggestions enter the performance arena and the performer(s)’ field(s) of perception, before then being either successfully incorporated by other performers around them or filtered out. Understanding this metapragmatic, iterative process is key for opening up the inner depths of grime improvisation. I have already discussed the importance of the multidirectional in grime, and this model is far from limited to dyadic exchange. Instead an intricate group interaction— affected by all performers, and often audience members—takes place. This interaction is dependent on contextual factors and social relations, and the extent to which performance suggestions are incorporated depends on their

82  Improvisation and Group Process relevance to the situation at hand, and how they are inferred to other performers. For example, an uncharacteristic cadential fall from an MC at the end of a four-bar passage might suggest to another MC that they should take over. However, the second MC may wait for it to appear again, to determine whether or not this cadential fall was an explicit performance suggestion or an unexpected variation. When suggestions are successfully incorporated as part of this continuing process, they fold into and reinforce the performance’s emergent trajectory. The reload for Voltage, for example, enhanced the vibe and galvanised the collective to push forwards. It is also important to note that the incorporation of suggestions does not need to be immediate. They can come at once, or build gradually. This is useful for modelling both the reload and the rally, since the moving into, negotiation of, and exit out of, each phase involves multiple negotiations between its participants. The decision to acknowledge someone’s suggestion, or not, also captures the power dynamics inherent in grime performance. Reluctance could be shrewd, or it could simply be brazen and begrudging. Aside from these divergences, though, a communal sense of a performance’s trajectory exists. As mentioned above, improvising groups often have to transition into, and out of, phases of play. Because of this, ignoring a cue can result in a mismatch of both energy and musical production. This sort of concentration is central to a wide variety of improvisatory forms. Gamelan and free improvisation, in particular, share a number of commonalities with grime performance and it’s worth mentioning these at the chapter’s outset. Active Listening in Free Jazz and Gamelan Similar to grime artists, gamelan musicians occupy roles within a group, have a skeletal understanding of pieces, but are required to react in real time to other performers. Each artist is expected to know the central melody, known as the balungan, and be aware of the colotomic framework (the length of each cycle and how instruments fit into this). But within this, they have to keep track of changes in speed, often indicated by the kendhang (double-­ headed drum), melody elaborations from the gendèr barung and shifts in trajectory from the overall leader, the pamurba. These affordances and relations can be seen in a technically demanding performance of ‘Jaya Semara’ from Lila Cita in 2012.2 Performed on Balinese gamelan, this kebyar style piece features rapid switches in tempo. Tenzer writes that an ‘essential aspect of kebyar’s sound is in its variability’, and while this book draws principally upon Javanese practice—kebyar lacks cyclic meter, unlike the majority of Javanese performance—it captures musicians engaging in ‘ongoing micro adjustments’ throughout, which are achieved through what Benjamin Brinner calls ‘active listening’ (Brinner 1995: 169, 213; Tenzer 2000: 60–61). Free jazz similarly thrives on improvisation, and successful performances rely on close attention to the unfolding landscape. British free improvisation

Improvisation and Group Process 83 outfit AMM employs an even more open format than both grime and gamelan. Established in 1965 by Keith Rowe, Lou Gare and Eddie Prévost, AMM were a radical ensemble, intent on creating new forms and ways of performance. Over the years, they developed an ‘emergent ontology’ for AMM, refining a group ‘epistemology’ that was specific to them yet irreducible to its constituent performers (Wright 2013: 319). Without an underlying structure to their practice, the group regularly negotiated multiple, on-going interactions that are gestural, timbral, or dynamic in character. A performance from 1968 at The Crypt in Notting Hill captures the group performing with a variety of found objects and instruments. For Seymour Wright, a saxophonist and researcher of AMM’s practice, the ‘dense practical homogeneity’ of this performance—with extended techniques employed on bowed discs, saxophone and drums making each individual instrument sonically indistinguishable—necessitated an attentiveness to the evolving sound worlds to signpost the performance’s trajectory (Wright 2013: 280). According to David Borgo, performance ‘hinges on one’s ability to synchronise intention and action and to maintain a keen awareness of, and sensitivity to, and connection, with the evolving group dynamics and experience’ (2005: 9). AMM’s constant monitoring of proceedings maps quite clearly, then, onto grime practice with MCs and DJs keeping a close eye and ear on the process (despite grime’s parameters being more clearly defined). What practice in both these forms captures, too, is multidirectionality. The ‘complex simultaneity and iteration’ of exchanges and interactions in free jazz is compounded by grime’s homogenous tool, the voice, where multiple MCs along with the DJ(s) have to deal with stimuli and suggestions from all angles (Wright 2013: 202). Therefore, through focusing on these two phases of play, this chapter will continue to build the model of levelling up within grime music by attending to locally complex and simultaneous interactions that, when harnessed correctly, can build energy towards either climactic moments (the reload), or passages of fully-realised group flow (the rally). Each of its two sections will explore the respective phase of the play’s inner workings: its rules of enactment; how it emerges; how artists respond and negotiate to performative suggestions; and how latent tensions between the individual and group are brought to bear as part of the decision-making process. It will consequently offer insight into an improvisatory group practice in grime music, demonstrating how active listening, group flow and metapragmatic ability help these artists negotiate and proceed through fraught and intensive performance environments towards moments of levelling up.

Reload It! Reloads are a critical part of grime performance. The fallout from the Evening Standard’s misreading of the reload as a technical malfunction at Skepta’s show in Alexandra Palace evidenced its centrality, with fan

84  Improvisation and Group Process responses ranging from anger to utter bewilderment. For East London MC Ghetts, the reload is part and parcel of everyday life: from growing up around the sound system culture in the East End, where the ‘forward’ was a staple at the dance, to his days in N.A.S.T.Y crew alongside fellow East Londoners D Double E and Kano. In 2019, the trio reunited for ‘Class of Deja’, a homage to their residency on the infamous 92.3 FM where DJ Mak 10 would hand out reloads on a regular basis. And in 2020, Ghetts asserted on the track ‘Microsoft Word’ that ‘[you] can’t tell me about reloads, I was born in generation jack’um’, referencing these heady days on pirate radio in the early 2000s.3 The ubiquity of the technique is further shown by the sheer number of terms used to describe it: the wheel, edge, forward, pull-up, reload, and jack’um to name a few. If we think in terms of Sapir-Whorf’s famous hypothesis, the variety of words in grime’s lexicon for the reload is evidential of its importance, much like Inuit indigenous groups’ 50 words for snow (Robson 2013). The figure below (see Figure 3.1) offers a basic overview of the reload, to provide some initial understanding of the technique. It is a densely interactional process, involving MCs, DJs and audience members. Enacted at the point of climax in a performance, the DJ pulls back the instrumental track, before restarting it from the top. The audience’s role varies depending on the situation. For radio sets, the audience of MCs and DJs in the room are a key component. But listeners still contribute. They can interact with performers as the set unfolds by ringing or texting the phone line.4 The live environment, however, provides the audience with far more agency. Their presence is resoundingly felt, both sonically and physically, and the level of interaction has precedent in the sound system practice that many artists grew up around. From reggae DJ David Rodigan’s cry of ‘give me some signal!’, to the whistles at UK hip-hop raves, and the airhorns distributed at

Figure 3.1  The reload in the live domain.

Improvisation and Group Process 85 Sidewinder and Eskimo Dance, audience members at raves have historically been urged to call out in response. This interaction is succinctly summed up by Heartless Crew’s Mighty Moe, captured live at Sidewinder in 2005: ‘if you want the re-load, you better ex-plode’.5 This section, however, will focus mainly on the radio environment and depart from the received understanding about audience interaction in the live domain. While the antiphonal praxis of call-and-response between the audience and the DJ in the live environment is theorised by Kai Fikentscher, who conceptualises this as an interaction between the DJ and the audience’s ‘collective body’ in Underground Dance Music, this model needs to be refined for the specifics of radio (Fikentscher 2000: 8). Antiphony is seen by many to be central to Black Atlantic cultural practice, but it is worth asserting that it is just one of many aspects of grime performance and reload protocol. Resorting to essentialism does grime music no favours. Nina Sun Eidsheim has written at length about ‘unexamined truisms’ that befall Afrodiasporic creativity: music is rendered as overly somatic (as was shown in early reportage on grime outlined in the book’s introduction); the voice reduced to a phantom genealogy, irrespective of context (Eidsheim 2019: 24). The reload breaks out from prior readings, and it is lazy to simply reaffirm antecedent commonalities with respect to its process. The figure above presents the multidirectionality of interchange within the reload, and its use at a local level is even more resounding. Therefore, while its employment in the live domain can be simply antiphonal—such as with Mighty Moe at Sidewinder—the process is often more complex. Rather than a communal back and forth, the reload in grime demands a closer look at MC and DJ relationships. This investigation will unpack the metapragmatic improvisatory skill required to pull off the technique in situ. Through taking a magnifying glass to this phenomenon within the genre, it will also show a constant mediation between what Ashton T. Crawley has termed ‘intersubjective and creatively cognisant agents’ engaged in ‘collective intellection’, and the need to express individual fervour, regardless of consequence (Crawley 2017: 21). To do so, it will examine three types of reload: the drop wheel, the MC’s wheel and the DJ’s wheel. Each example is accompanied by a relevant episode from grime practice. Following this, it will focus on the tactical games played by MCs and DJs when trying to secure (or prevent) a reload, before drawing together all of these threads, with a view to mapping this vital, communal, sometimes conflictual, exchange that results in instances of levelling up and scintillating musical climax. The Drop Wheel The ‘drop wheel’ is the most common type of reload in grime music. It typically occurs following the efforts of an MC spitting a hype lyric and the arrival of a new instrumental’s ‘drop’. The ‘drop’ is the point at which an

86  Improvisation and Group Process instrumental enters its main passage, and is typically built towards rhythmically and through heightened synth lines. Varying factors affect the energy, such as the MC’s technical ability and the nature of the DJ’s selection—if the track is poor the MC’s lyric may struggle—but the primary factor is this unified entrance of the new track and the MC’s reload lyric. I’m using the term ‘drop wheel’, here, as it was taken from my discussions with Kraze of Slew Dem and it really captures the process well. The following example works with a radio set featuring Kraze to demonstrate the ‘drop wheel’ in action. The ‘Youngers Clash’ / Wednesday December 29, 2004. Raw Blaze, London Kraze, Shorty Smalls, Lightning, Chronik Audiovisual Example 3b In Chapter 2, Kraze spoke about the intricacy required when spitting on a radio set. When you know your DJ, you’re afforded ground to push the envelope. This set from 2004 on Raw Blaze captures Kraze working closely with Spooky, the principal DJ for Younger Slew Dem during that period. Younger Slew Dem’s members included Kraze and his good friend Shorty Smalls, but the scene at Raw Blaze was far from jovial. The set was laced with tension as Lightning from Younger Nasty, a rival crew, had turned up to clash: So the wickedest ting with that set is that we didn’t know he [Lightning] was coming. He just turned up. I kind of rate him for that because we were absolutely terrorising him … So hats off to him that he came to defend himself and we just took it from there and we started clashing. This rivalry born out of a tension between their ‘olders’ Slew Dem and N.A.S.T.Y inflected on the performance, much in the same way as the presence of Younger SLK at the White Lion caused concern for Krucial. In this instance, Lightning was behind enemy lines. Kraze, however, could use his relationship with Spooky to his advantage. This ‘drop wheel’ took place 11 minutes into the set and was cleverly worked towards by Spooky and Shorty Smalls, allowing Kraze to arrive on the drop. Following a 16-bar passage from Chronik (of Slew Dem), Shorty Smalls entered over Wiley’s ‘Outburst’ remix at the 25 second mark. ‘Outburst’s’ string ostinati and syncopated kick pattern combined well with Smalls’ delivery. His voice verged on shouting rather than spitting, punctuating his contribution with a cry of ‘I’ll put an end to your days!’ Following this 16-bar passage, Smalls made way for Kraze’s entrance over the drop (audiovisual example 3b, 0:52–1:14). KRAZE:  And it’s Kraze Kraze, jump on a riddim gonna blaze blaze! If you stay more than a phase phase, merked when my bars get sprayed,

sprayed!

Improvisation and Group Process 87

And it’s Kraze Kraze, jump on a riddim gonna blaze, blaze! If you stay more than a… [reload] merk when my bars get sprayed sprayed. [‘Outburst’ gets reloaded]

The powerful arrival of Kraze with his hype lyric over the drop of ‘Outburst’ intensifies the energy in the room. Kraze finishes each bar on a heightened cadential figure, from ‘Kraze, kraze’ to ‘blaze, blaze’, and his repetition of the four-bar hype lyric gets the reload from Spooky seven bars in. The sound here is redolent of a car crash or violent screen-wipe. The needle cuts back into the groove, any forward momentum swiftly curtailed by Spooky’s hand spinning back the record. This incident, while an exemplary demonstration of the drop wheel, shows how an awareness of others around you helps in raising the energy levels. This complex process may appear to be natural on the surface, much like a collaborative performance between a jazz quartet on the bandstand. However, this episode presents constant communication between the artists at both a denotational and metapragmatic level, in addition to acute levels of listening. The joint arrival of Kraze with his signature bar and the drop of ‘Outburst’ instrumental created an energy level that meant Spooky simply had to pull the track back, much like my encounter with Voltage, and the timing was facilitated by Smalls’ shrewd step to the side. Its success was also furthered through Spooky’s attentiveness to the situation at hand. His awareness that Kraze was about to touch mic, and his reactions to Kraze’s entry—­including intense chopping of ‘Outburst’—added to the latent energy. Spooky harnessed this, building towards a point of climax. KRAZE:  It’s

not just what you see on the surface. People say ‘oh he spat and got a wheel. Done’. People won’t ever understand behind it that there are a lot of things that you have to know an do…if you’re new and just come to it, you’re not going to understand that. Unless you have it explained to you by people who are seasoned in it.

The MC’s Wheel The MC’s wheel is enacted purely on the basis of an MC’s craft or performance. It both celebrates an MC’s individual artistry and relies on attentive performance from the DJ to accommodate for the MC’s suggestions. Throughout the performance, a DJ is often engaged in a wide array of activities. They might be toying with effects (FX), equalisation or cueing up new instrumentals. Despite this, they need to remain aware of the MC’s performance in order to pull back the track: especially if the contribution alone warrants a reload. This allows the MC’s suggestion to have a substantial impact on the unfolding performance.

88  Improvisation and Group Process The MC’s wheel also foregrounds another element at play within grime performance: the ongoing tension between group flow and burning individuality. These tensions also occur in gamelan, in which Benjamin Brinner has located friction forming ‘between individual motivations and the broad structures and preferences of the group’ (Brinner 1995: 201). Individual thrust is possessed by many MCs who want to put their own stamp on proceedings, and mapping this dynamic is a critical consideration for understanding interaction in grime: DJs may be reticent to give the wheel since it might cause a negative effect on momentum (they might also not like the MC!); while MCs can force the issue, providing a substantial constraint on the emergent performance. The following episode examines the multifaceted nature of the MC’s wheel, showing both how it is enacted, and how an MC’s individual fervour can be simultaneously enlivening and problematic for the overall group trajectory. The Grime Show with Firmer D and Friends/Sunday June 4, 2017, 9 pm. Rinse FM, London Dot Rotten, Firmer D Audiovisual Example 3c6 Returning to Sir Spyro’s ‘The Grime Show’ residency, this particular set saw South London MC Firmer Dee (also known as Funky Dee) assemble a roster of MCs to perform. Fellow South Londoner Dot Rotten stood out. A markedly elusive character, Dot was a key figure in OGz (alongside P Money and Jendor) in the late 2000s and was known for his wit and way with words. After an acrimonious split from the collective and a brief foray into pop music—his 2012 track ‘Overload’ reached number 15 in the UK charts— he sunk into the shadows. This set was the first time he had appeared on the radio for a number of years. And he had a point to prove. Before his entrance, the set was largely unremarkable: there was a close interplay between Firmer and the other MCs and Spyro worked well in maintaining the energy, but nothing of note shone through. Thirty-two minutes in, the mood changed. Following a passage from Firmer, Dot enters for the first time, arriving powerfully with the drop of a Sir Spyro production, ‘10 out of 10’. Dot’s passage featured his trademark multisyllabic flow and dense enjambement across bar lines. This was compounded by lyrical sends and violent threats towards members of his old crew OGz (audiovisual example 3c, 32:20–32:38). DOT ROTTEN:  ‘Fuck

those crews that I used to collab with, someone take a pic of my middle finger, and @ those dons without using a caption, cah there’s no future attachments, I’mma send shot after shot like I’m shooting a gatlin, dress yourself in a suit don’t try to pursue beef with me I will do you with clashing…’ [reload]

Improvisation and Group Process 89 It’s important to consider here that Spyro could have drop wheeled Dot Rotten on entry. The arrival of the instrumental and a new MC could easily have merited it. However, Spyro allowed Dot room to perform, anticipating something special. As Dot opened up, Spyro started to chop the track in and out to add excitement to the MC’s delivery. After 11 bars, Spyro eventually wheeled the track back for a coveted ‘MC Wheel’, enacted at the point in which Dot’s contribution to the flow of the performance simply had to be acknowledged on its own terms. Spyro then took the tune from the top. Dot Rotten’s divergent individuality then comes into play in remarkable fashion. Rather than stop to take a breather, Dot continues to spray taking little to no account of Spyro’s decision to reload the track. Through continuing to spit for a further ten bars, he takes centre stage while the group performance as a whole becomes secondary to this display of technical prowess (audiovisual example 3c, 32:38–32:51). This decision from Dot Rotten captures the enduring tension between group flow and individual assertions of supremacy. Returning to Sawyer’s work, this would be seen as an example of ‘driving’ proceedings (Sawyer 2003: 9). Dot provides little to no outlet for other performers, particularly Spyro, to grasp a hold or influence the future nature of the performance. But while driving a performance can be seen as derisive, particularly in Sawyer’s work on improvisatory theatre, Dot Rotten’s divergence is exhilarating. Initiating a complete rupture with the emergent and unfolding collaborative process, this move set up a consequent three-minute passage wherein Dot and Sir Spyro dovetailed off each other with aplomb, with Spyro bringing in a classic Dot Rotten instrumental ‘Real Talk 3’ to, in effect, allow the MC to accompany himself as he pushed towards new heights (audiovisual example 3c, 33:02–36:54). The combined novelty of Dot Rotten’s entrance, the MC’s wheel and Dot’s determination to continue in spite of the wheel, resulted in a tense phase of play. Despite temporarily derailing the performance, Dot’s actions provided propulsion and energy. This energy was then built back into the performance. The manoeuvre’s success in this instance was contingent on how Spyro reacted to the change. Dot’s ‘intensification’ was fully harnessed by Spyro, who attentively listened and adeptly interpreted Dot’s forceful performance suggestions (Monson 1996: 139). This passage of play therefore shows two things. Firstly, an exemplary demonstration of the MC wheel. Secondly, how levelling up can be paradoxically contingent on both individual fervour and sensitive group work from others present. The DJ’s Wheel / ‘That Wasn’t You Bruv, That Was the Tune!’ Similarly to MC’s getting the wheel on the basis of their performance alone, tracks can be reloaded in recognition of the riddim. This reload variant is the most deeply indebted to sound system culture. However, its role in grime music differs slightly as the ownership of the reload is more hotly contested.

90  Improvisation and Group Process Grime’s fervent and hyperactive involvement of MCs—as opposed to the (generalised)7 reggae deejay’s facilitating of proceedings—can lead audience members (and artists) into believing that the reload was for the MC, rather than for the DJ’s selection. Because of this, power dynamics once again enter the fray. The following two examples help frame these dynamics. Firstly, through examining how MCs unduly take credit for the wheel. Secondly, by outlining how MC’s can become frustrated at the DJ’s usage of a ‘big instrumental’ that overshadows their performance. I spoke with Trim about how MCs tend to claim ownership over a wheel that should belong to the DJ. TRIM: 



Sometimes when the track gets wheeled, it’s for the track itself. A lot of the time some people hear they get a wheel up and act as if it was theirs. But it’s really a case of the track has come in at the right time and everyone was feeling it. You have to be able to differentiate. Some people are not fooled by it. You can act as much as you want that it was your wheel but the crowd will be like ‘nah, nah, nah, but that tune!’. You should be able to tell [as an MC]. If you’re spitting on set and you’re going crazy thinking ‘yeah this is the ting’, and everyone’s looking at you like ‘nah it’s not the ting’, but then the tune comes in and everyone is like ‘oooh, yeah it is the ting’, you should know. And people know that wasn’t you bruv, that was the tune!

Cases of mistaken attribution are a perennial point of contention at radio sets. So much so that the South London MC Rhimez wrote a bar that spoke directly to the issue: ‘Them man think that they got the wheel up, but the reload was a wheel up for the riddim’. Similarly, for Landman, there are certain instrumentals that you simply do not play when MCs are on set, owing to their significance. One track in particular has taken on a life of its own: Rebound X’s ‘Rhythm ‘n’ Gash’. Prized and maligned in equal measure, its appearance in sets is almost guaranteed a reload to the extent that it has become a ritualised expectation (Patterson 2015). Because of this a lot of MCs become frustrated at its appearance, since it completely removes their agency, their contribution overawed by the track’s arrival. This was evidenced by Canadian MC Tre Mission, who tweeted in 2015 that ‘sometimes u have to realise u didn’t deserve that reload, the DJ just happened to drop rhythm and gash’.8 There is a level of complexity here. While its usage is often defamed, its combination with the entry of a new MC can be exhilarating. An example from DJ Kaylee Kay, alongside the Girls of Grime collective, saw the instrumental combine strongly with the arrival of North London MC C Cane. Following on from an artist whose delivery was off-beat, C Cane powerfully arrived with clarity and precision. Her performance, in this case, merited the reload as much as the track selection (audiovisual example 3d).9 Its general

Improvisation and Group Process 91 usage though, can be likened to a ‘specific pejorative term’ within group improvisatory performance (Sawyer 2003: 9). Its arrival, much like Dot Rotten’s commandeering of Firmer’s set, leaves others with a restricted set of options moving forward. Primarily though, a DJ wheel should be a sign of appreciation for the DJ’s selection. This could be owing to the track being a rarity, an out-ofprint release, a specifically made dubplate, or simply an exemplary choice of tune to fit in with the performance. The fact that resultant power dynamics become the principal focus of discussion with practitioners is perhaps endemic of the way in which this phase of play—which offers huge potential for attentive improvisatory group practice—is continually coloured by the tension between the individual MC and the group.

Reload Tactics It’s perhaps owing to the coveted nature of reloads that dispute over ownership can become so protracted and fraught. In April 2021, Wiley and Riko Dan of Roll Deep joked on Twitter about the status of reloads. Wiley wrote that ‘I spray bars because ideally I want the reload’. Riko Dan replied in jest, stating that ‘MC’s have the biggest egos. [They] need massaging daily’.10 While jovial, this exchange evidences a constant clamour for the reload that results in all manner of power relationships during a performance. In order to manage proceedings, DJs and MCs alike must listen closely, react accordingly and collaboratively contribute towards an unfolding performance. But it’s often never that simple. While Dot Rotten’s contribution was lauded for individual brilliance, there are moments where artists seek to subvert or drive proceedings in ways that are not appreciated by the rest of the roster. The reload is incredibly volatile. Its sonic rupture initiated by the DJ pulling the tune back can open up a number of possibilities for forward movement. Attentive responses allow for continued ‘intensification’ towards new moments of climax, or periods of group flow. These maintain an emergent trajectory, that while encountering periods of repetition—through the restarting of an instrumental—is part of a ‘changing same’ that progresses and develops in new ways (Jones 1998: 180). This section looks at three tactics used by MCs and DJs to try and secure a reload that upset this trajectory and the accumulation of energy. Debate over these tactics’ legitimacy is incredibly heated. Because of this, contributions from interviewees will be juxtaposed with examples, offering multiple perspectives on the conditions required for certain tactics to be permissible. Forcing the Reload During performances, instances occur where MCs explicitly try to earn a reload from the DJ. This tactic, colloquially known as ‘forcing the reload’, takes place when an MC switches up their lyrical pattern to quickly perform

92  Improvisation and Group Process a ‘hype lyric’ over an impending drop from the DJ. By marrying their big lyric with the novelty and sonic punch of the new instrumental’s drop, an MC can save face, particularly if the lyrics they’re performing prior to the drop aren’t having the desired impact. This ploy can be seen as contentious, as evidenced by a lyric from Hertfordshire MC Bliss which calls for artists to leave their ‘forced reloads in two-double-oh-five’. But it is also very much a legitimate tactic. KRAZE:  You

can’t just be spitting some mediocre bar and then you turn to the hype thin straight away, shout and try to get the wheel. LANDMAN:  That is a real tactic. That definitely happens. I may have actually been guilty of that myself. You might be spraying something that’s a bit technical for the riddim so you might just draw the pattern back and take something else. While Landman and Kraze’s contributions are contrasting, there is scope to find nuance in their words. Whereas Kraze distinguishes clearly between ‘mediocre’ lyrics and ‘hype’ lyrics to get a reload, Landman presents a situation where he alters his pattern to fit the instrumental. In this case, it’s a shrewd, musical (and metapragmatic) decision. What is clearly apparent, though, is that artists consider their lyrics in tiers and they are chosen according to circumstance. These considerations are evidenced in a performance from East London MC Gripper in 2012. Here, Gripper switched up and drew for his ‘hype lyrics’ to cleverly rescue a situation where he was encountering difficulties. Saving Face / Saturday February 4, 2012. Kiss FM, London Gripper,11 MIK, Flow Dan, Merky Ace, Ego, Obese, J Deep Audiovisual Example 3e This ‘After Hours’ set was recorded for Logan Sama’s Kiss FM show in 2012. It was organised in support of both Gripper’s new release and his collaborative single with Lewisham MC MIK. MIK’s crew Family Tree was in attendance (Merky Ace, Ego), alongside artists who came to support Gripper (fellow East London MCs Flow Dan, Obese and J Deep). The set initially starts well, however Gripper’s re-entry posed a number of challenges. His opening 16 bars offered new lyrical content, which he hadn’t performed on the radio before. These ‘freshers’, or new lyrics, were successfully delivered. Following this characteristically abrasive passage, he loses his place slightly. This is the first point at which Gripper intuitively reworks his onward trajectory. Rather than continue with his new lyric, he instead rebuilds momentum using a trademark two-bar transition lyric that builds around his name and his nickname (audiovisual example 3e, 0:36). After eight bars of this, however, he doesn’t catch the drop. To quickly compensate, he improvises, shouting ‘b-b-b-b bare mixer!’, in reference to

Improvisation and Group Process 93 Logan Sama’s mixing. This punctuated and plosive passage is considerately augmented by Obese, who joins in with Gripper. Through this, they develop and reframe initial hesitance into a seemingly legitimate performance decision. Benjamin Brinner has written on spontaneous imitation in gamelan that ‘momentarily link musicians in relationships that are not sustained’ (1995, 225). Similarly to imitation in gamelan, this section soon began to wither. Neither artist was sure on how to progress from their moment of convergence. Instead, the instrumental is left to run on its own before Gripper speaks up to qualify the situation at hand: ‘Getting the new ones out. Off my chest. Let’s do the old ones maybe’. Following this, Logan Sama drops in a new instrumental by Teddy Music. Gripper then re-enters with his most famous hype lyric, based around a comedy film from the 1980s. This earns a coveted drop wheel from Logan Sama and substantial appreciation from the other MCs in the studio (audiovisual example 3e, 1:08–1:30). This passage is interesting for a number of reasons. Firstly, it demonstrates how other performers (such as Obese) help to collaboratively fashion forward momentum in an improvisatory manner. Secondly, it presents Gripper using a number of performance techniques to rescue his trajectory (transition lyrics and hype lyrics). This allowed him to rebuild following a challenging phase of play. Despite temporarily falling off and allowing the instrumental to run without intervention, Gripper knew that his ‘top tier’ lyric would garner a reload. While seen by some as a divisive tactic, the performance’s context—Logan had a huge listenership at the time on Kiss FM, and the video upload received in excess of 50,000 views—makes Gripper’s decision completely understandable. To the untrained ear, Gripper got a reload and the performance continued, thus reaffirming Gripper’s reputation. And his pedigree as a rave MC has continued to strengthen over the years, with regular appearances at raves such as Grime Originals and Eskimo Dance. His decision to use his signature lyric, however, forces the reload, almost as a quasi-ritualised expectation. Begging the Reload In the example above, Gripper used a number of performance techniques to shrewdly rescue the performance and ensure forward movement. While apparent to those in the know, its employment involved a number of swift re-adjustments. Other reload tactics, however, are overt and direct. ‘Begging the wheel’ is particularly divisive. Although similar in intent from the MC— since they are trying to get the DJ to wheel the tune—‘begging the wheel’ provides the DJ with little or no scope to continue. Within this there are two principal variants. The first variant involves MCs heightening their tone, shouting so loud that the DJ simply has to reload the track. The combined sonority of the MC’s performance and the

94  Improvisation and Group Process instrumental become so cacophonous that it would be embarrassing if the DJ did not succumb to the MC’s wishes. DJs are unsurprisingly resentful of this practice. On many occasions, I have deliberately ignored this driving tactic. However, it often has its desired effect. North London MC Capo Lee wrote a lyric that spoke to this issue: ‘Man wanna scream and hype on a drop, but it’s bare awkward if you don’t get a wheel’. And it came up in conversation with almost every MC I interviewed. KRAZE:  There

are a lot of people that [try to] force a wheel. But there are a few DJs that are straight savage and won’t care and keep mixing. But there are some who will hear you’re forcing the wheel, and know that you’re around a lot of people and they don’t want you to look stupid and they wheel you.

The second variant is even more explicit, with the MC verbally requesting the reload. Nitro,12 for example, was visibly frustrated when he did not receive a reload from Logan Sama at P Money’s Money Over Everyone launch. Listening carefully, however, you can hear that Logan was mid-mix and building momentum. He eventually reloaded the instrumental once the new track was established (audiovisual example 3f, 0:27). While the situation with Nitro was extinguished fairly quickly—the other MCs in the room ironically cheered when he eventually received the wheel—other instances can be far less amicable. Some MCs even develop a reputation for begging the reload. In 2016, MC Stanley13 overtly criticised DJ Jack Dat while they were performing together on the BBC. This was seen as very disrespectful, particularly since it was being broadcast live on air to a national audience. Stanley, however, felt that it was actually Jack Dat who was being disrespectful, by not wheeling up the tune: ‘Oi, Jack Dat. What you saying? Jack Dat don’t jack [reload] nobody you know’. Stanley was subsequently embarrassed when the next MC received a reload from Jack Dat just a minute after he voiced his grievances. In this situation, the DJ was able to assert his role as the ultimate arbiter, and the tactic from Stanley was not incorporated into the performance’s emergent trajectory. Rather, its continuation explicitly negated this interjection, with the other artists continuing to collaboratively build. Reload for ‘Your Boy’ This role as ultimate arbiter can also be used by DJs for their own gain or to assert their crew affiliation. At this chapter’s outset, I mentioned how Kraze used his relationship with Spooky to his advantage in the clash with Lightning on Raw Blaze. However, this was achieved through considered and attentive interplay, building towards a climactic moment where they both levelled up. In other instances, DJs deliberately reload their own MCs with a view to garnering artificial ‘hype’ in a difficult situation. On the flip

Improvisation and Group Process 95 side, DJs are often unwilling to wheel an MC from a rival crew, even if their performance merits a reload. For Krucial: Reloads should be on the energy. Loads of people are getting reloads, for me, for no reason. You got a reload cause your boys are here and they know your bars. But what you just did, if you did that in a club, or in a place that doesn’t know grime? It’s just going to be like ‘ok, right. What’s going on here?’ Rather than a reload for a genuine burst of energy. Krucial makes an interesting point regarding the need for a ‘genuine burst of energy’. This is critical since the reload results from an exponential combination of elements that naturally emerge through working together, rather than the enforcing of a ritualised expectation. YGG—PK Birthday Special / Friday October 26, 2018. NTS, London. Saint P, Faultsz Audiovisual Example 3g Despite alluding to the importance of ‘genuine’ energy, the instances that Krucial desired are fairly commonplace in grime. If we think back to Reece West’s clash with Saint P from the last chapter, it was quite clear that Saint P had the room behind him. This can markedly affect the DJ’s response to MCs’ contributions. In October 2018, Saint P arguably benefitted again from a home advantage on a set at East London station NTS. Organised for the birthday of PK, his fellow crew member in the collective YGG, the show featured over 30 MCs crammed into a tiny unit on Gillett Square in Dalston. Spirits were high, and an audience—alongside the usual flurry of skaters, smokers and jazz club goers who populate the square—had started to form outside. However, towards its end the carnival atmosphere verged towards the chaotic. A clash emerged between Saint P and Faultsz, allegedly owing to Faultsz jumping in front of Saint P and ‘snaking’ his contribution. This five-minute encounter featured both artists creatively reworking their lyrics on the spot, inserting the rival artist’s name in to their lyrics and openly defaming them, causing substantial reaction from the quite considerable crowd that had amassed. At one point, Saint P received three wheel-ups in a row (audiovisual example 3g, 2:08–3:01). Receiving this many wheel-ups in a row is seen as a badge of honour. So much so that Kano released a track called ‘3 Wheel Ups’ on his 2016 album Made in the Manor. In this instance, Saint received this ‘hat-trick’14 for the repeated execution of one of his trademark bars. But Faultsz was up in arms. You can audibly hear him shout ‘bias!’ over the mic, and contention over rightful awarding of the reloads starts to build. These claims were arguably well-founded, as one of the reloads was initiated by an audience member who reached over the decks to pull back the track.15

96  Improvisation and Group Process When Faultsz retakes the mic he spits a 16 before both MCs start to spit over each other, resulting in cacophony. The clash regains momentum, and they start to exchange eight-bar lyrical barbs. The tension eventually dissipates, largely thanks to Nottingham MC Mez taking the microphone and breaking the cycle, but also perhaps to the occasion’s overall atmosphere calming the mood. Nonetheless, this clash shows how artificial initiations of the wheel-up, or acts of recognition that appear bias to either party, can result in fraught situations that turn sour quite quickly (unless it’s someone’s birthday). The Reload: Collaborative Building and Climactic Moments It’s clearly apparent from the examples in this section that forcing or begging a reload can carry substantial risk. Overt reliance on the reload could result in the artists having nothing to say if the track isn’t wheeled. Reticence, or even complete rejection, from the DJ to adhere to these driving performance suggestions can result in ridicule. Whereas Gripper was ultimately successful, Stanley’s attempts damaged rather than helped his cause. Similarly, if a DJ is seen to be providing other MCs with preferential treatment, this can again disrupt the unfolding performance. In light of these ulterior tactics and power relationships born out of reloads, I want to draw together the key materials at artists’ disposal when collaboratively working towards moments of climax and levelling up. We have already established that MCs can assemble their lyrics in tiers, and the way they are put assembled in situ can be crucial for aligning as part of an ongoing trajectory. Bliss, mentioned earlier, has called for MCs to ‘pattern their bars’, and this is telling. A key element of grime MC craft is organising and structuring your lyrics so they can ebb and flow. Within hip-hop studies, both Justin Williams and Kyle Adams have written about this phenomenon of ‘patterning’. For Adams, avoiding a ‘predictable pattern of rhymed syllables’ can both create ‘rhythmic variety and articulat[e] form’ (Adams 2009). The articulation of form is achieved in grime in a number of ways. Chapter 2 examined the ‘transition lyric’, which ameliorates and smoothens out movement between sections. But 16-bar units are often arranged so that they have moments of calm balanced with rhythmic intensity; recall Kwam’s aversion to ‘arriving at a million miles an hour’. Aligning the right type of lyric with the instrumental at hand is another skill altogether. Fixing the pattern to the beat is an art. While Adams worked with artists’ recorded oeuvre, the fluidity with which instrumentals change on a grime set requires MCs to constantly shift and fit in the pocket of a new groove whenever another instrumental enters the fray. Williams’ article, in response to Adams, highlights myriad ways in which a single song’s instrumental can change markedly over a three-minute period, let alone a rolling canvas of tracks in a live grime set (Williams 2009). At a fundamental level, you have lyrical units that can be employed, but the order in which they are chosen and the way they are performed means you have patterning at the level of writing and recitation. Grime MCs both compose and ‘pattern’ lyrics

Improvisation and Group Process 97 in advance, but their live enactment is predicated upon direct engagement with the unfolding rhythmic and musical structure put forward by the DJ. In turn, we also need to consider DJs’ contributions to the reload, its acquisition of energy, and subsequent moments of climax. Sir Spyro’s reaction when performing with Dot Rotten is a prime example. He showed due deference to Dot Rotten in a moment of individual brilliance, while at other moments becoming more creatively engaged through cutting and chopping, and dropping in an instrumental at just the right moment. Knowing when to step back is as important as pushing ahead. We have seen how a huge number of factors can influence, augment, or even derail a reload. Power relationships are constantly at play. However, the reload is enacted primarily off of a shared acknowledgement that the energy levels are high. This is either iterative, from a succession of interactions that progressively build ‘hype’, or it can be exponential resulting from a ‘genuine burst of energy’. And while often antiphonal, interactions frequently take place between multiple MCs and DJs that move beyond dyadic interplay: Shorty Smalls, Kraze and Spooky all interacted to secure the reload on Raw Blaze; Obese assisted Gripper in rebuilding momentum before Logan wheeled the track. Fundamentally, though, its enactment is born out of successful interactions that subsequently cause the emergent performance to reach an energy level where the track simply has to be pulled back. This is captured perfectly by Eastwood: When the energy hits a certain level, you’ve just gotta say fuck it and spin back the deck. Or if someone spits that bar that just goes crazy or if they’re in beef with someone at that time and they slew him? Wheel it up again. There’s so many different…it’s literally just a point of the vibe’s just gone crazy, you’ve gotta pull it up now, you can’t leave it going no more. The reload, then, is a principal example of both grime’s collective creativity, and the paradoxical contingency of individual brilliance and emergent process. Its enactment is secured through intense listening, improvisatory ability and metapragmatic decision-making resulting in both frenetic and measured ‘intensification’ towards a climactic moment.

Rallies / ‘Rally on a Tune Like Novak and Andy. Rally on a Tune Like Roger and Raf’ Securing a hat-trick is one thing. But sustaining a rally over an extended period is an entirely different ball game. For professional Tennis coach and grime artist Kwam, grime MCs’ emulation of racquet sports on the radio is a sport in and of itself. His 2016 Rally EP with the producer Trends features a lead single that directly compares ‘rallying on a tune’ with the back-and-forth freneticism of Novak Djokovic and Andy Murray in their prime. Rallies are quick-fire but lengthy exchanges between MCs. One MC will spit a lyric of a certain length, then another MC will spit a lyric of the same length, before hitting it back across to the other MC. This rapid rate of change requires

98  Improvisation and Group Process acute awareness among the performers present. As such, it typically works best with crews who have been working together over a sustained period. Once the microphone is passed back to an MC, they have to automatically pick up the mantle and spray their passage without losing their place. This section explores the rally’s long-form actualisation. Rallies are transitional, and because of this, an examination of them can unpack movement between phases of play. These transitions are vital for grime performance as there are no stoppages between tracks (aside from the temporary rupture caused by a reload). This requires a heightened level of (musical) dialogue between participants. David Borgo has explored interstitial passages in improvisatory performance, stating that ‘many of the most effective collective improvisations involve decisive musical “phase spaces” and transitions between phases are all negotiated by the group with an awareness of what has occurred and a conception of what may follow’ (2005: 61). Through focusing on the rally, we can unpack how grime artists negotiate these interstitial ‘phase spaces’: how they collectively work together to negotiate a ‘way in’ to a rally phase; how the artists subsequently improvise during this phase; and how they negotiate a ‘way out’. There are two principal ways in which a rally is approached. The first is artificial, either resulting from time constraints or an explicit announcement. The second is emergent, building naturally out of the performance. Through exploring both variations, this section will distinguish between enforced group practice and creative initiative with a view to moving closer towards Krucial’s quantification of ‘genuine bursts of energy’. An enforced rally phase demands immediate fixity and can often result in substantial issues. The phase’s natural emergence however—born out of a collective response to MCs’ non-linguistic cues and performance suggestions—offers fluidity and a natural sense of progression. According to Kwam: There’s no set structure to it [radio sets]. We just meet on the radio. When you go to sets again and again with people and bounce ideas off each other, it’s natural. You’re going to learn their bars, just naturally because you’ve heard them over again so it’s a reflex thing. It’s not something that people have spoken about. So, me personally, I haven’t spoken about ‘oh when I do this bit everyone has to do this’. It just kind of happens. I think those are the most organic moments in a grime set for sure. The Rally’s Explicit Announcement / Saturday June 17, 2017. Radar Radio, Clerkenwell Master Peace, Squintz, Boss Renz, Mic of Course, JP, JoSoSick, Lusionist, Jabz, Logan, Mr Myki, Luciferian Audiovisual Example 3h16 When expediency forces a rally phase into play, the results are often chaotic. This was clearly captured as part of Croydon-based DJ Argue’s

Improvisation and Group Process 99 residency on Central London station Radar Radio.17 During his time on Radar, Argue championed up-and-coming MCs. This particular show featured a clash between two of these artists: Renz of Mob Set, and M3 of the Collective. This clash was highly charged and nearly 30 young people were in the room, many of whom had rival affiliations. Following the clash, there were five minutes remaining of Argue’s two-hour show. Rather than gradually close proceedings, Argue saw an opportunity: ‘Oi, listen we’ve got five minutes left. Do you lot want to have a quick squeeze off? Quick. 8 bars, 8 bars. Quickly. Quickly, quickly, quickly. Yeah’. Immediately, all of the MCs in the room tried to get hold of the microphone. Mob Set’s Master Peace was the fastest. He grabbed the mic and defiantly announced himself with repeated iterations of two two-bar refrains (audiovisual example 3h, 1:54:43). Master Peace: Master P-E-A-C-E, Master P-E-A-C what? x2 Chatting and bragging about Ea-zy-E, Chatting and bragging about Ea-zy-what? x2 Following Peace’s eight-bar section, another MC tried to grapple the microphone out of his hands. Instead, Peace held tight, resolute and began to re-spit the same eight-bar passage. Just one bar into this recapitulation, Argue pulled back the track amidst audible discontent from other MCs in attendance. Cries of ‘8 bars!’ and ‘8 bars, fam!’ are strikingly clear (audiovisual example 3h, 1:55:22). The microphone was then passed to fellow Mob Set member Squintz, who similarly flaunted convention. Erring upon entry, Squintz decided to hold the mic and compose himself for re-arrival over the instrumental’s drop (audiovisual example 3h, 1:55:40–1:56:15). The rally regained some momentum, with consequent MCs Renz, Mic of Course, and JoSoSick all spitting for eight bars and passing the microphone smoothly. But then, disaster struck. Argue made a slight mistake of his own. He dropped in a new instrumental out of time. While this was very uncharacteristic for Argue—who is normally a highly assured and technical mixer— this completely threw off West London MC Lusionist. All momentum was lost. What seemed on the surface to be exciting, quickly descended into disarray. Explicit calls for an ‘8-bar rally’ are can be rife with complication, and this was clearly apparent in this instance. Argue’s announcement to an unprepared room filled with MCs from different crews saw power relationships come to the fore. Mob Set asserted authority over proceedings and flagrantly ignored the eight-bar call, and there was considerable confusion over the order of MCs. Consequently, there was no common thread to the performance. The tacit understanding and close listening needed to negotiate this passage of complex interplay were absent. And as a result the artificiality of the phase was audibly foregrounded. Thinking back to Borgo’s work on phase spaces, he locates difficulties that arise from a sheer ‘availability of options’. Here we have 30 MCs, all baying for the microphone, with no order or agenda in place (Borgo 2005: 124).

100  Improvisation and Group Process Rather than fostering an exciting passage of interplay, Argue’s announcement resulted in a situation where the ‘speed of interaction’ required ended up overwhelming the participants in a quite remarkable fashion. The Rally’s Emergence in Group Creative Practice / December 30, 2016. Rinse FM, Dalston Lyrical Strally, Ets, Big Zuu, Dee 7, AJ Tracey, PK, Saint P Audiovisual Example 3i18 In contrast, the rally’s emergence within an already-unfolding performance is often more successful. This is particularly the case if the MCs present have close collective affiliations, as opposed to simply an amalgam of 30 MCs with varying ties. In the Winter of 2016, Rinse FM’s studio played host to West Londoner AJ Tracey and some well-chosen guests in support of his Lil Tracey EP. The roster, known as ‘MTM’ (see Figure 3.2), was positioned as a supergroup, consisting of members from both West London’s MTP (AJ Tracey, Big Zuu, Ets, Dee 7) and YGG (Lyrical Strally, Saint P, PK). For at least a year prior to this set they had been working together extensively, releasing tracks and attending radio together on a regular basis. This strength of association enabled the supergroup to really gel under the stewardship of Sir Spyro, moving through multiple phases and levelling up into periods of group flow. This example focuses on a remarkable rally phase, which took place over several minutes mid-way through the set. The artists’ constant shifting through stages of interplay speaks to the importance of active listening in a crew setting, with each MC making micro-adjustments as they progress through the collective improvisation. To capture this fully, this analysis will pay close attention to each of the rally’s five key stages: mapping its initial

Figure 3.2  MTM’s MC line-up, June 2017.

Improvisation and Group Process 101 emergence and solidification; the rally itself; back-to-back interplay; the rally refrain; and the eventual exit and transition into a new phase.

Stage 1—Entry and Solidification The emergence of any rally phase is contingent on a number of factors, while its length depends on successive MCs’ decision(s) whether or not to incorporate others’ suggestions into their practice. An artist may implicitly suggest a rally by spitting just eight bars, but the following MC may choose to continue on their own path. Just shy of 20 minutes into this performance on Rinse, a rally starts to emerge. It lasts for a period of seven minutes and its entry was facilitated by Lyrical Strally and Ets. Just prior to the rally’s point of entry, Strally spits an uncharacteristically long 96-bar passage (roughly three minutes in length). During this time Spyro brings in two new tracks and the vibe builds (audiovisual example 3i, 17:43– 20:23). Deftly moving through a number of transition lyrics, Strally skips across an angular and highly percussive track produced by North London producer J Beatz, before Spyro gradually brings in his track ‘Tekkerz’. ‘Tekkerz’ allows the mood to pivot. Its half-time feel, powered by sub-bass rather than percussion, offers space for the MCs to shine. Strally’s ferocity reneges, allowing room to fully open up with the entry of Ets. Ets’ entry is key. Strally had just performed a 96-bar passage. It was therefore entirely feasible for Ets to follow on with a similarly lengthy contribution. However, he immediately draws for a four-bar ‘hype lyric’ in response to Spyro’s instrumental choice: Ets: Man-a lock off the dance, drop one whoosh make gyal wanna glance, E-T-S manna lock off the rave, drop one whoosh make gyal watch face x2 Through choosing to loop a repeated four-bar passage, Ets indicates a transition, quickening of momentum and heightening of intensity. Through hearing this, the other MCs and Sir Spyro acknowledge that the pace has changed. The phase’s solidification, however, is ultimately contingent on MTP’s Big Zuu. After Zuu seamlessly takes over from Ets (there is no apparent visual cue between the artists) he has a number of choices to make. Ets’ suggestion is up in the air. Having heard Ets spit eight bars, Zuu could either carry on regardless or incorporate Ets’ suggestion into the ongoing performance—as part of a ‘continuing process’—and restrict himself to eight bars (Sawyer 2003: 89). The eight-bar rally is far from secure, and it’s entirely in Zuu’s hands. However, two things happen to secure the transition. Firstly, Zuu decides to opt for an eight-bar passage. Then, he explicitly signals to Dee 7 to take over. This fully announces the rally phase. Ets’ performance suggestion is successfully absorbed back into the emergent, unfolding performance as the energy iteratively builds (audiovisual example 3i, 20:39–20:50).

102  Improvisation and Group Process

Stage 2—The Rally Phase Once within the rally proper a number of further negotiations have to take place. Whereas some rallies are dyadic, this example featured six MCs who had to work out an order amongst themselves with minimal time, while the performance was ongoing. This instability within group improvisation is described by David Borgo as ‘locally unstable’ since the parameters were not yet assured (Borgo 2005: 81). No one knew who was going to go next, or even how long the rally would last. However, on the surface, the performance does not suffer. This instability isn’t rendered in the minds of the listeners (and later, viewers). The period is negotiated well, and is fully stabilised by the time AJ Tracey enters (audiovisual example 3i, 21:05). This stability is exemplified by the calmness with which the diminutive PK takes the headphones from Dee 7 while walking towards the microphone. Here, he readily supports AJ’s performance through joining in unison at the end of every bar (audiovisual example 3i, 21:05–21:20). The eight-bar rally then lasts for seven minutes, with contributions from all six MCs present. Table 3.1 provides an overview of the running order and an array of supplementary details including DJ gesture and points of unison.19 Table 3.1  Rally structure. Time markers relate to audiovisual example 3i. Created by author. Time Stage

MC(s)

Instrumental

17:43

Lyrical Strally

20:26 1—Entry and Solidification 20:39 20:52 2—Rally Phase 21:05

Ets

Neon Beats— 96-bar passage. ‘Quantum (J Beatz Remix)’ Sir Spyro— ‘Tekkerz’ Eight-bar passage. Four-bar hype lyric repeated.  Eight-bar passage. Eight-bar passage.

AJ Tracey 

21:19

PK

21:33 21:46 22:01 22:29

Lyrical Ezro—‘Spirit Strally Bomb’ Ets Big Zuu AJ Tracey 

22:43

PK

Big Zuu Dee 7

New Instrumental

Comments

Eight -bar passage with accompaniment from PK. Eight-bar passage. Spyro starts to chop-in ‘Spirit Bomb’. Eight-bar passage. Eight-bar passage. Eight-bar passage. Eight-bar passage. Spyro cuts out low end of instrumental.  Eight-bar passage. Arrives with drop of new instrumental.  (Continued)

Improvisation and Group Process 103 Table 3.1  Rally structure. Time markers relate to audiovisual example 3i. Created by author (Continued). Time

Stage

22:52 23:05 23:21 23:34

23:45 24:00 24:14 3—Back to Back

25:28 25:43 4—Rally Refrain 26:15 26:31

27:18 27:41 5—Exit and Transition

MC(s) Lyrical Strally Ets

Instrumental

Comments

Eight-bar passage. Four-bar hype lyric repeated. Eight-bar passage. ‘Wraydar’ gradually brought through by Spyro. Big Zuu Eight-bar passage. Spyro blending two instrumentals.  Dee 7 Splurt Eight-bar passage. Arrives with Diablo— drop of ‘Wraydar’.  ‘Wraydar’ Towards the end Spyro starts to bring in a new beat.  AJ Tracey Eight-bar passage. Heightened cadences. Spyro chopping. PK Two-bar loop repeated four times. Spyro brings in new instrumental.  Lyrical Kid 42-bar passage. Strally & D—‘Phantom Two-bar variation back to back. Ets Creeper’ Mutually supporting each other.  Dullah After eight bars, Spyro drops in Beatz—‘Gun new instrumental. Smoke’ Track reloaded by Spyro after two bars.  Ets and Strally restart and continue for 32 bars. Spyro ferociously chops in a new instrumental. Ets Eight-bar passage. With backing from Big Zuu. Punch rhythms from Spyro.  Big Zuu Enters and immediately gets a wheel from Spyro.  Eight-bar passage follows with backing from PK.  PK  Eight-bar passage. Four-bar hype lyric looped with chops.  AJ Tracey  Eight-bar passage.  Its repeat gets a wheel from Spyro.  Eight-bar repeat with punch rhythm. Saint P Two bars on entry. Reload from Spyro. Saint P Saint P spits for 56 bars.  Sir Spyro—‘Ya After 32 bars, Spyro brings in Dun Kno new instrumental.  Already’ Moves out of phase. 

104  Improvisation and Group Process Spyro is mentioned a number of times in the figure above and for good reason. His role is critical for the rally phase’s success (and for its outward negotiation). Earlier in the set, Spyro was more predisposed towards fast chopping. This sort of gesture substantially builds hype, but it can be off-putting for some MCs (see Chapter 2). At Stage 2, though, he takes a considered step back. I’ve already mentioned how ‘Tekkerz’ as an instrumental afforded room for the MCs to take centre stage, but Spyro compounds this through his focus on their craft. He allows the MCs to develop and move through the early stages of the rally without interference. There are many moments where he could reload the track, most notably five minutes in which the drop of the new instrumental arrives with PK’s entry. However, Spyro allows the rally to flourish. This adjustment signals a temporary suspension of usual practice—acknowledging individual fervour through a reload—in favour of the as an emergent group trajectory. Spy could see that the group was beginning to ‘take it to another level’, and he was able to facilitate this rise (Monson 1996: 139).

Stage 3—Back to Backs: Negotiating a Way Out After a period of time resolutely within the rally phase space, the crew had to collectively move towards a ‘way out’. These points of departure can prove challenging. Once you’re in a routine, it’s easy to keep going and going. Breaking out with purpose is key but hard to fashion. Once again, it was Lyrical Strally and Ets who aided the transition through entering into a back-to-back passage. Their interplay is then compounded by a drop-in from Sir Spyro’s eight bars that forces the issue and merits a reload (audiovisual example 3i, 24:33). This exchange between Ets and Lyrical Strally is remarkable, considering that its emergence also relies on the way in which the rally was organically established. Had Ets not initially followed on from Lyrical Strally—in the transition from Stage 1 to Stage 2—they would not have been able to negotiate this way out. Owing to this order, though, Ets and Strally could craft an exit point through entering into a pre-composed lyrical exchange. This passage quickens the pace from an eight-bar rally to a two-bar back to back with intermittent unison lines. STRALLY:  Ets

and Strally know we’re going on irate, tints get knocked if a man try violate ETS:  Ets and Strally, moving bammy (paranoid), washed MC’s can’t violate, STRALLY:  Washed MCs get left like the dishes, guarantee no one’s touching my plates, [Spyro pulls the track back, Kid D’s ‘Phantom Creeper’ enters with two bars of pre-drop build up] ETS:  Washed MC’s get left like the fishes, guarantee man can’t splash round my way, [‘Phantom Creeper’ drops]

Improvisation and Group Process 105 STRALLY:  Get

a new Xan cause my man sank, Magikarp all you can do is splash, ETS:  Get a new 16 my man’s whack, Vardy chat shit manna get banged! This point of convergence is also an exemplary demonstration of how MCs can incorporate pre-composed passages into an improvisatory structure. MCs have an arsenal of techniques, tricks, and lyrics that they can choose to employ at any time. Here, its enactment brought substantial energy to the unfolding performance, and its culmination with the drop of ‘Phantom Creeper’ afforded the first break in the rally phase (after Spyro’s reload). It’s worth mentioning the discipline with which Spyro holds back from wheeling the tune throughout Stage 2. There were so many moments where Spy could have decided to wheel the tune, but his patience adds gravitas to this eventual point of rupture. This back-to-back exchange, born out of a long-term association, both quickened the pace, brought substantial excitement from their densely interactional display, and ultimately resulted in a climax after a period of intensification and iterative building of energy.

Stage 4—The Rally Refrain Following the reload from Spyro, this sonic point of rupture offered scope to open up into new territory. Instead of this departure, however, the performance briefly moved back into a rally. This resulted from Big Zuu’s entry after the back-to-back. The momentum was high and Zuu chose to capitalise on this, drawing for one of his ‘hype lyrics’ and earning a reload for his efforts (audiovisual example 3i, 25:33). This significantly alters the rally’s trajectory. Through maintaining the energy after Ets and Strally’s reload, Zuu chooses not to segue out into a more long-form section. Immediately after the wheel, Big Zuu asks ‘What we saying? Still 8 bars?’ This question solidifies the ongoing direction, briefly re-establishing the eight-bar exchange. Zuu’s question is also the first explicit verbal acknowledgement of the rally. Up until this point, metapragmatic decision-making coupled with body language governed the rally. No words were uttered between the MCs. Sawyer’s observation that ‘the language of music does not allow reflexive commentary on how the performance is proceeding’ is useful to reflect on here (Sawyer 2003: 10). It took nearly six minutes before a temporary pause in performance afforded Zuu the terrain to comment on the situation at hand. The pace at which they were moving meant gestures and musical cues superseded any purely linguistic indication of the performance’s direction

Stage 5—Exit and Transition The rally’s eventual end is signalled through the arrival of YGG’s Saint P, who was late to the booking. Following a wheel on entry, he fully establishes himself with an uninterrupted 56-bar passage (audiovisual example 3i,

106  Improvisation and Group Process 26:17–29:12). Sixteen bars in, Saint tries to pass the mic onto Ets. Instead, Ets points back to Saint P and urges him onwards. This longer exposition signifies a new phase and infers to other MCs present that longer passages are acceptable again. Ets spits 24 bars, followed by 40 from Big Zuu, 56 from AJ Tracey, 48 from PK and 96 from Saint P to finish. Aside from Big Zuu’s question at the start of Stage 4, then, this entire rally phase is negotiated through gesture and inference while already performing. Here, MCs have to divide their senses, listen to each other’s contributions and react accordingly. Sir Spyro also has to be continually attentive, making shrewd choices about when to interject, through selection, cutting, drop-ins, punch rhythms and reloads. This exhaustive engagement with the rally therefore demonstrates the metapragmatic nature of grime performance, while also highlighting myriad possibilities and directions afforded to artists during collective improvisation more generally. Rallies are present in other forms of music, most notably the ‘trade-offs’ in jazz, best exemplified by Dexter Gordon and Wardell Gray’s ‘The Chase’. However, grime rallies are open to substantial interpretation and are multidirectional in nature. Indeed, ‘The Chase’ is arguably more formulaic, working from 32-bar exchange down to four-bar trade-offs. And the sheer number of MCs on a grime set provides a vast array of possibilities and orderings. Some aspects have been solidified. In total, eight bars are widely seen as the standard length of a rally turn. However, entry, exit and artist orderings are worked out in situ. It is important to remember we are still working with a form that has yet to fully formalise its parameters. As such this balance of technique and innovation is consequentially quite fragile, or fluid. The rally, however, is a strong example of improvisatory practice in grime music that while locally unstable, can provide global comprehension to its audience when enacted successfully (Borgo 2005: 61).

Conclusion By paying close attention to two of grime’s principal phases of play, the reload and the rally, this chapter has shown how artists creatively improvise at a local level. Within grime, the reload is typically achieved through a series of successful interactions between an MC (or MCs), a DJ and often an audience. These interactions are sometimes gradual and iterative, but often explosive and immediate. Either way, they cause the emergent performance to reach an energy level where the track has to be reloaded: Voltage left me no choice but to reload the track; Kraze’s entry over ‘Outburst’ was similarly impassioned. There exists mediation between divergent individuality and collective impetus; however, this dynamic often underpins and can heighten the energy to a point of rupture. This was particularly the case for Dot Rotten on Rinse. In jazz performance, Berliner has written on the ‘vehemence with

Improvisation and Group Process 107 which a player makes musical suggestions [having] bearing on the mutuality of musical exchange’ (Berliner 1991: 367). These dynamics are profoundly at play during the reload phase. Mutual attentiveness is critical for the rally. Its successful enactment relies on multiple agents negotiating an entry, the phase of the play itself and its subsequent exit. Sir Spyro’s role, for example, was crucial for MTP’s negotiation of the rally phase. The rally’s explicit announcement results in difficulties, with the best examples typically emerging through interplay as part of an unfolding performance. Rallies are distinctive, owing to their multidirectionality and long-form accumulation of energy. Arrival at a fully-f ledged rally phase is a prime example of levelling up since an array of artists initially immersed in an ongoing negotiation that has innumerable permutations results in an implicit move towards aligned ‘group f low’, where everyone is on the same page. We have also started to see distinctions here between acts of collective creativity and forced-through manoeuvres. This book is mainly concerned with the irruptive potentialities of improvising groups, read through the medium of grime music, and forced practice that often acts in opposition to group endeavour. Nonetheless, the reload’s succession of metapragmatic suggestions towards a point of climax, and MTM’s exemplary manoeuvres through the rally phase have demarcated terrain for the ways in which these local processes are realised. Chapter 4 explores how a new technique has emerged and solidified over time. Rather than inducing a ritualised expectation (through ‘begging the reload’, or otherwise), the ‘through ball’ is a direct result of collective instances of creativity. A variant of the reload, it gained substantial currency during the mid-2000s, with its gradual codification now readily incorporated into grime practice at large. An understanding of the ‘through ball’ will achieve three things: it will demonstrate how new ideas can solidify within an artistic practice in grime; offer robust argumentation for artists’ ways of knowing as part of this book’s commitment to reading performance through a performer’s lens; and provide analysis of grime’s most complex improvisatory technique.

Audiovisual Example Captions Audiovisual Example 3a Opening Example: MCs Voltage, Shiesty and DJ de Lacey. Audiovisual Example 3b The Drop Wheel: MC Kraze and DJ Spooky. Audiovisual Example 3c The MC’s Wheel: MC Dot Rotten and DJ Sir Spyro. Audiovisual Example 3d The DJ’s Wheel: MC C Cane and DJ Kaylee Kay.

108  Improvisation and Group Process Audiovisual Example 3e Forcing the Reload: MC Gripper and DJ Logan Sama. Audiovisual Example 3f Forcing the Reload 2: MC Nitro and DJ Logan Sama. Audiovisual Example 3g Clash: MCs Saint P and Faultsz. Audiovisual Example 3h The 8-bar rally: DJ Argue on Radar Radio. Audiovisual Example 3i The rally phase: Sir Spyro and MTM on Rinse FM.

Notes







1 Sawyer’s model builds upon the work of semiotician Charles S. Peirce on indexicality and later interpretations are put forward by R. Jakobson and M. Silverstein. While these three theorists are traditional semioticians in the sense that they work primarily with language, Sawyer employs the ideals of indexicality—and how contextual association and implicit suggestion can colour interaction—within a performance setting. 2 SEA Arts, “Jaya Semara by Lila Cita 31.03.2012”, April 11, 2012, https://www. youtube.com/watch?v=FP3KXTcEXZ4. 3 D Double E’s 2019 album was also called Jackuum. 4 See Dread D and Jammz, 10 Missed Calls, 2016, UK: Local Action. 5 Heartless Crew, “Sidewinder Live @ Brunel Rooms”, Swindon: May 20, 2005. 6 See Sir Spyro, “The Grime Show with Firmer D, Dot Rotten, Maxsta, Grim Sickers, Scrufizzer, Rawza, Narxx, Slam & Ace”. Rinse FM. London, UK. June 4, 2017. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n8KGj3RQ_3s. Accessed September 2, 2022. 7 This is not to disavow the dense lyrical arsenal of reggae deejays. Events such as Sting heavily feature lyrical provocations. In these scenarios, it is harder to ascertain the ownership of the wheel. Similarly, social commentary, live improvisation and to an extent slackness are all present in a sound system performance. However, the regularity with which eight or nine MCs will jump on a grime set differs from a deejay’s ‘conducting’ of the dance (Henriques, 2011: 196). 8 See https://twitter.com/TreMission/status/618702662356348928?s=20. Accessed April 5, 2020. 9 See DJ Kaylee Kay, “Grime Originals: The Female Takeover”, Rinse FM, London. May 22, 2018, 1:57:00–1:58:00. 10 See https://twitter.com/TheRikoDan/status/1380451232117104640. Accessed December 16, 2022. 11 Name anonymised. 12 Name anonymised. 13 Name anonymised. 14 Receiving three wheel-ups in a row is sometimes referred to as a ‘hat-trick’, taking its name from scoring three goals in soccer. Chapter 4 looks more closely at footballing terminology in grime. 15 General Courts, “PK Birthday Set”, NTS Radio, London, UK. October 18, 2018. 16 See DJ Argue, “DJ Argue w/ Jammz, Black Ops, Renz, M3”. Radar Radio. London, UK. June 17, 2017. https://soundcloud.com/djargue/19thjune. Accessed September 2, 2022. 17 Radar Radio ceased broadcasting in 2018.

Improvisation and Group Process 109 18 See Sir Spyro, “Grime Show: AJ Tracey, Big Zuu, PK, Lyrical Strally, Saint P, Ets & Dee 7 (MTM)”, YouTube, December 30, 2016. https://www.youtube. com/watch?v=u5lO-yuSDCE. Accessed September 2, 2022. 19 Simon Jones and Paul Pinnock employed a similar system for documenting a Scientist sound system performance in Sheffield from 1983; Jones and Pinnock, Scientists of Sound, 99–101.

4

The Through Ball

Introduction In football1 (soccer) the through ball is a style of passing with a delivery that arrives at the projected position of a player. It may be threaded between the lines or lofted over an opponent’s head. Italian footballer Andrea Pirlo was famed for his perceptive vision and ability to find a pass, while Lyon’s Dzsenifer Marozsán was practically unplayable in her heyday: unlocking space to distribute the ball to teammates further down the field. The distinctive nature of the through ball relies on the presence of mind, typically from a deep-lying playmaker, to predict or anticipate the trajectory of a fellow teammate and present the ball to their teammate’s future position.2 Ostensibly, the through ball in grime functions in a similar way. Rather than a footballer lining up a pass for a fellow player, an MC or DJ will prepare a fellow performer for the drop of an instrumental track.3 And as a consequence, the unfolding nature of this process is crucial to comprehend and map out. The through ball is metapragmatic in nature and artist(s) have to make necessary adjustments while already performing to ensure the joint arrival of their fellow performer(s) over the drop of the instrumental. This chapter explores the through ball in grime, paying attention to both its enactment and codification. Similarly to the reload and rally it is a highly localised, interactional technique. Unlike these phases of play, however, the through ball (and its parameters) have evolved substantially, particularly from its early usage in 2004 to the mid-2010s during grime’s so-called ‘second coming’ (Collins 2014). This technique’s emergence is a key consideration since it shows how a synthesis of performance protocol and improvisatory group creativity can bring forth irruptive, new ideas. Rather than enforcing a ritualised expectation, the through ball has naturally emerged from artists working with existing performance conventions but creating anew through multidirectional interplay. The chapter will also foreground artists’ ways of knowing. It will demonstrate how grime artists’ perceptual understanding of this technique is made tangible through the usage of footballing terminology and analogies. While sporting terminology is non-musical it is still highly specialised. Because of DOI: 10.4324/9781003295792-5

The Through Ball 111 this, its usage not only enables artists to frame their own practice but allows them to employ language that makes sense to a large majority of the genre’s participants and listeners. Split into two sections, it compares foundational and established practice from 2004 and 2015, respectively. Section 1 outlines the fundamentals of the technique, looking at two examples from 2004 featuring artists that have already been encountered in the book so far. Section 2, following a brief excursion that explores the ways in which other techniques, such as chopping and the reload, have developed owing to technological affordances, will assess the state of play in 2015. To do so, it will examine a radio set from MTM that featured multiple instances of the through ball. This attention to the development and solidification of the through ball as a phase of play will show how a synthesis of performance protocol and multidirectional interplay can both fashion new ideas and provide scope for levelling up as a collective. This chapter therefore acts as a bridge between foundational performance techniques—primarily addressed in Chapters 2 and 3—with novel, emergent practice that forms the focus of Chapters 5 and 6.

The Through Ball and Its Usage in 2004 LANDMAN:  The

through ball is when you drop a man in on the drop. Say for instance I’m spraying my 32 and I know that the DJ is going to let it drop and I let you take it, that’s the through ball. Or the DJ can give you the through ball by giving you the drop.

The through ball is all about thinking ahead. The definition above from South West London MC Landman foregrounds his awareness of other performers’ future decisions and the need to align with their trajectory. Sawyer wrote of ‘shared knowledge’ developed in a group practice where ‘group members can feel as if they are able to anticipate what their fellow performers will do before they do it’ (Sawyer 2003: 44). Landman similarly ‘knows’ that the ‘DJ is going to let it drop’. Comparisons once again abound with jazz practice. Improvisers regularly tease out and make educated guesses on what is about to happen. The pianist Kenny Barron, for example, has reflected on his anticipation of drummers’ decision-making: ‘it sounds like you actually rehearsed it all, and it makes a rhythm section sound cohesive. I might anticipate the “and” of a phrase together with the drummer, for example’ (Berliner 1991: 356). This arrival at a point of convergence is critical for understanding performance relationships in grime. Having an implicit understanding of what is about to happen before it happens means the energy of each individual’s trajectory is combined and magnified exponentially. For Pierre Bourdieu, there is a ‘sens’ of the ‘imminent future of the game’ and it is through a combination of ‘shared knowledge’ and individual skill that a through ball can be successfully enacted (Bourdieu 1990: 82).

112  The Through Ball This section looks firstly to the importance of strong group relationships, before addressing how both DJs and MCs can set up the through ball. The ‘Youngers Clash’ / Wednesday December 29, 2004. Raw Blaze, London Kraze, Shorty Smalls, Lightning, Chronik Audiovisual Example 4a While an MC may be familiar with the structure of an instrumental, knowing when a DJ might drop a tune is less clear cut. Similarly to a midfielder being aware of a striker’s tendency to run a certain channel in football, MCs also need to have an idea of what the DJ might do next. Kraze, Shorty Smalls and DJ Spooky worked together extensively in the early 2000s as part of Younger Slew Dem. This period of practice enabled them to predict each other’s prospective performance decisions. This is captured well by Kraze: Spooky’s a sick DJ, man. I’ve always rated Spooky from school cause we used to go to my bredren’s house and just practice all the time. He used to do the right chopping, play the right beats. That’s when you’re in touch with your DJ and he knows you and it’s that. With Shorty Smalls, it’s cause we worked with each other and we always used to write together. It became kind of natural [to us]. The Raw Blaze clash, first mentioned at the start of Chapter 3, features a number of moments where these three artists creatively anticipate each other. One particular example demonstrates the interactive attentiveness required from all participants for the successful enactment of a through ball. It takes place shortly after Kraze’s reload (audiovisual example 3b) and follows on from a passage from Chronik, where he struggles for clarity with a multisyllabic pattern over ‘Outburst (Remix)’. Shorty Smalls instead provides precision (audiovisual example 4a, 0:52–1:17). His high-pitched delivery occupies space above the string agitations whereas Chronik’s deeper tone was obscured. Eight bars into Shorty Smalls’ contribution Spooky subtly starts to bring in a new instrumental— an unreleased dub of Sunship’s ‘Almighty Father’—that sonically challenges ‘Outburst (Remix)’ for dominance with a warped gliding square pattern. This moment sees Smalls enter a critical juncture. Either he can continue MCing regardless or he can prepare to pass the microphone. He also has to anticipate when Spooky might drop the new instrumental. After a further eight bars, Smalls passes the microphone to Kraze just at the point where the new instrumental drops and Spooky pulls back ‘Outburst (Remix)’. The effect is remarkable. The impact of the new beat dropping into a sub-heavy kick groove with minimal percussion provides substantial space for Kraze’s forceful entry.

The Through Ball 113

Figure 4.1  Transcription of Shorty Smalls’ usage of rhythmic units, audiovisual example 4a 0:55–1:20.

The success of this manoeuvre comes down to Shorty Smalls’ use of transition lyrics. Figure 4.1 captures the way in which he uses one rhythmic unit (‘don’t get it twisted’) as a central fulcrum for his performance across the 16-bar passage. The first eight bars are expansive, with the phrase shifting positions throughout. From bar 9, Spooky starts to tease in the new track. Here, ‘don’t get it twisted’ acts as a punctuating marker for each odd bar, demarcating clear two-bar sections. Each section opens with a strong rhythmic identification on the first two beats before becoming closed off with an eighth note-eighth note-quarter note pattern in bars 10 and 12. The final four bars, from bars 13–16, are more elaborate and effusive, closing with a final call of ‘don’t get it twisted’ directly preceding Kraze’s entry. I played this example for Kraze in the interview. He summed up what took place that evening, using the through ball’s footballing correlate to break down the interplay between the three artists. Evoking the complexity of these relationships is challenging and while there are varying ways in which to present this information—such as the staff notation in Figure 4.1—many representations can isolate practitioners (and readers!) without doing the necessary work. Instead, Kraze opted for a suitably fitting analogy to break down the relationships at play: ‘it’s like football. When the DJs got a tune on the decks and he’s got the mix coming in you gotta be like, ‘now alright I need a through ball. Set up this volley for me’. This passage from Smalls, and its explanation from Kraze, demonstrates how MCs can switch up their pattern to both suit the unfolding performance and prepare for the entry of a new MC. He is afforded great flexibility. This is due to a large arsenal of lyrical units that work with, and improvise around, the phrase ‘don’t get it twisted’. After his exclamation of

114  The Through Ball ‘look!’ in bar 9, he was then able to select and tailor his next lyrical passage. This meant he could build towards the climactic moment where Kraze was eventually passed the microphone.4 This is a prime example of the MC’s through ball, and I have outlined its key characteristics below. The MC’s Through Ball Similarly to the reload, the through ball can be principally enacted by, or attributed to, one member of the creative group engaged in the performance. While the example above relied on attentive listening and metapragmatic reaction from Kraze, Shorty Smalls and Spooky, it was Shorty Smalls’ deft use of transition lyrics and his timely step to the side that put Kraze through on goal. The MC’s through ball relies on an awareness that the DJ might be switching up, and the sensitivity to make way for a fellow performer’s entry. The DJ’s Through Ball The DJ’s through ball is similarly self-explanatory. Its principal facilitator is the DJ rather than the MC. In these instances, the DJ has to possess a prescient understanding of where the MC’s performance might be headed and prepare a new instrumental drop for this projected position. This process is similar to Kenny Barron anticipating what the drummer might do, and DJs can also drop hints to the MC on the mic. Through ‘teasing’ or ‘chopping-in’ the new instrumental, the DJ provides the MC with forewarning, indicating that they know what’s about to happen. These gestures help prepare for the moment of convergence. Abrupt cutting in of a new instrumental can often throw an MC off balance, particularly if the track has a markedly different feel that could clash with the MC’s flow pattern. Therefore, a sensitive approach from a DJ is critical for its success. The two following examples, also from 2004, demonstrate this technique in action. DJ Eastwood B2B DJ Rema D with Cold Blooded and Combination Camp / Friday April 30, 2004. Heat FM, North London Magnifier,5 Wretch 32, C.A.P.S, Calibar, Jonson Terrorist, Cookie, Cel 22 Audiovisual Examples 4b, 4c North London’s Heat FM was a critical space to touch down and show your worth in the early 2000s. Home to Skepta, JME and the razor-tongued Chipmunk,6 it also played host to an exciting roster of emerging talent, many of whom would later become household names in the UK. This set was overseen by Eastwood, a North West Londoner, with a roster of MCs from North London crews Cold Blooded and Combination Camp, who had a close relationship at this point in time. Their members in later years joined

The Through Ball 115 the Movement (Magnifier, Wretch 32) and collaborated with Skepta’s Boy Better Know (Cookie).7 Unlike Eastwood’s work with Renegade Boys and Dynasty this set was relatively new ground for him. He had barely worked with these MCs in the past and was also playing away from home. Heat FM was a notoriously challenging station to visit, and the bond between the MCs in attendance cast him as a relative outsider. Because of this, Eastwood’s performance suggestions required great care. Similarly to his remarks in Chapter 2 with respect to his use of chopping and how it varied depending on how good the MCs were, Eastwood had to be careful and attentive: he could not rely on prior interaction and expectations to help facilitate improvisation. As such, his performance suggestions were met with two different outcomes. Example 1—Magnifier and Eastwood Once the MCs had warmed up and become familiar with Eastwood, the intensity began to build. Following two reloads for Cel 22, Cookie enters combatively over DJ Bossman’s ‘Bongo Eyes’, delivering a 16-bar affront: ‘who don’t hear will feel, look at my right hand stainless steel’. He then passes the microphone to Magnifier (audiovisual example 4b, 0:00–0:42). Magnifier enters at a similarly energetic level, adopting a patois-laden lyrical style. His punchy flow leads towards, and accents on, beat one of each bar (see Figure 4.2). This provides an assured trajectory and complementation to the frenetic instrumentation from DJ Bossman’s instrumental. Four bars into this percussive and plosive passage from Magnifier, Eastwood starts to ‘tease in’ a new instrumental—Davinche’s ‘Buzz Lightyear’— signalling an impending change. Having heard Magnifier’s high energy delivery, Eastwood capitalises on this and lines up the new track to arrive with Magnifier’s next 8-bar assertion. As shown in Figure 4.2, Eastwood cuts in ‘Buzz Lightyear’ for beats three and four of bars 5, 6 and 7 before wheeling ‘Bongo Eyes’ and allowing ‘Buzz Lightyear’ to come through will full force at bar 9. In most circumstances, Eastwood’s auditory cues would suggest an incoming change to the MC. His chopping explicitly projects towards a future moment where the new instrumental will converge with Magnifier’s punchy lyrical recitations. However, in bar 8—the point at which Eastwood pulls back ‘Bongo Eyes’—Magnifier loses his place. Attempting a recovery, he quickly repeats the phrase ‘listen, listen!’. After this, he enters into a new passage with the arrival of ‘Buzz Lightyear’. This decision, however, is arguably at odds with the emergent performance. Rather than adopting a similarly energetic bar for the drop set up by DJ Eastwood, Magnifier opens up into an elaborate lyrical passage. This passage does not necessarily match the vitality of Eastwood’s cutting and chopping, nor the instrumental chosen. Further to this, just prior to the drop, Magnifier was professing to ‘let the stainless (knife) dig in your chest’.

116  The Through Ball

Figure 4.2  Transcription of the DJ’s through ball: Magnifier and DJ Eastwood (audiovisual example 4b, 0:40–0:57).

The Through Ball 117 This cuts a sharp contrast with his next 16 bars where he asks the existential question ‘what are you doing with your life?’ Rather than communal convergence the resultant feel here is of disjuncture. Eastwood’s climactic moment is met with a measured lyrical pattern, the effect akin to passing the ball back into the defence rather than a volley on goal. As a result, Eastwood’s suggestions were largely in vain and not incorporated into the emergent performance. Because of this, the momentum and energy had to be rebuilt from the ground up. Example 2—C.A.P.S and Eastwood An arguably more attuned example of the DJ’s through ball took place twenty minutes later, with C.A.P.S and Eastwood combining well. Following a 16-bar passage from Cookie, C.A.P.S. takes the microphone while DJ Eastwood instantly employs a punch rhythm, cutting in the instrumental at beat one of every bar (see Figure 4.3). This tactic builds energy substantially, through the sonic power of Eastwood’s punches and the technical ability shown by C.A.P.S to stay in time with minimal rhythmic accompaniment. In addition to C.A.P.S’s skilful adherence, he also has a number of decisions to make mid-performance. Specifically, how to arrive at Eastwood’s projected position and with what lyrical pattern. He also has to second guess when Eastwood might choose to exit out of the punch rhythm allowing him to flow fully over the instrumental. This piece of frenetic interplay lasts for around eight bars. While C.A.P.S’s initial choice of his alphabetised pattern works well, accenting on ‘Caps’, it is his next decision that matters most. A pre-emptive ‘never dat, never dat!’ in bar 8 affords C.A.P.S the time to open up into a spirited lyric in bar 9, coinciding with the full reveal of DJ Oddz’ ‘Tha Trouble’. C.A.P.S’s shout of ‘you got a gat (pistol), never dat!’ is matched by the instrumental’s full sonic presence. This combination causes the room to erupt, the other MCs baying for the instrumental to be reloaded (audiovisual example 4c, 0:30). Offering contrast to Magnifier’s reaction above, C.A.P.S’s attentive listening while performing allowed him to sense the impending change and tee himself up for the through ball from Eastwood. Eastwood compounded the impact through his consistent punch rhythm, which is further magnified by quarter-note punches across bar 9. While demonstrating both Eastwood and C.A.P.S’s capabilities, this example captures the metapragmatic nature of reloads, and through balls in particular, since this interaction and negotiation took place mid-performance. It also showcases the importance of DJ gestures for iterative and exponential accumulation of energy: quick chops can rapidly build the vibe; punch rhythms lock in with the MC to devastating effect. The successful negotiation by Eastwood and C.A.P.S saw the set reach its apex. Galvanised, C.A.P.S continued for 16 bars before passing the microphone to Jonson Terrorist, who harnessed the latent energy from the through ball and consequent reload. This manoeuvre saw the collective move from

118  The Through Ball

Figure 4.3  The DJ’s through ball: C.A.P.S and DJ Eastwood (audiovisual example 4c, 0:11–0:30).

The Through Ball 119 engaged ensemble interplay to a period of group flow: from tentative first steps to a moment where they fully levelled up and reached new heights.

The Codification of a Performance Technique / ‘I’m Not Up-To-Date with All the Lingo’ When I met up with Eastwood in 2017 we spoke at length about this set. For all intents and purposes, his use of the through ball was exemplary and in line with contemporary understandings of the technique. However, he was completely unfamiliar with the term. Unlike Kraze and Landman, who remained active practitioners into the late 2010s, Eastwood had diversified his palate in the intervening years, DJing and producing a variety of styles. As a result, he found it challenging to reconcile the term and his enactment of the technique. Instead, he positioned what he was doing as a revised technique from UK garage practice. That’s not even an MC thing. As a DJ growing up—especially a garage DJ—when you’re DJing in front of a crowd, you give them a bit of a teaser. Through ball in today’s terms, well, I’m not up-to-date with all the lingo. You look at the crowd and see who recognises it, see who knows the little bit you’ve just teased. This disjunct speaks directly to the issue of codification. While obviously indebted to the UK garage, the through ball itself has a complex array of parameters and rules of enactment that supersede the ‘teasing in’ of a new instrumental. As our conversation developed, however, Eastwood did speak about the impact of MCs’ interactional role on his performance practice. Obviously with grime, MCs are fans of the music. So you’re playing with the sounds to see what MC’s are going to pick up. They get that little rush of energy because they can sense when it’s going to drop. If they catch it right, you do a little wheel up: their energy, their excitement comes out. It all adds up to a mad energy from that scenario. Part of the through ball’s development and codification could be attributed to this change in dynamic. This ‘mad energy’ is audible in Eastwood’s interactions with C.A.P.S, while the collaborative building towards moments of climax relies on both the DJ and MC attentively working together. Marking distinctions between genres is challenging. For Nick Braae, this process is markedly complex. Each genre has ‘its own sets of “rules” that define and distinguish one genre from another the “rules” of a genre encapsulate musical traits; modes of performance, communication, and dissemination; and imagery and presentation, all of which exist in the service of a particular audience (idealized or real)’ (2020: 226). In 2004, artists like Eastwood were finding their feet in a new realm. Crews were etching out their own particular

120  The Through Ball aesthetic. And the fluidity with which these ideas started to congeal meant it was a very exciting time for the form. Within this, certain tropes and traits started to become prevalent. We have already seen how the reload is heavily indebted to sound system practice, but through the addition of multiple MCs into the mix its parameters could be stretched, tested and ultimately evolve into something new. The improvisatory through ball work of Eastwood and Cold Blooded, then, offers a proto-example of what has now become formalised practice in grime music; even though Eastwood did not necessarily conceptualise his process in this way. Although the terminology had not yet been codified, the technique was undeniably starting to take shape.

Technological Affordances, Stylistic Developments It should be noted that the through ball is far from the only technique that has been developed and refined over time. Others have also altered owing to technological affordances, primarily due to distinctions between vinyl turntables and compact disc jockey (CDJs), the latter by far the most common device that DJs used in the 2010s and onward into the 2020s. The comparative ease, for example, with which you can reload a CDJ and restart a track from the beginning using the “cue” button, means that there is a general perception that they occur far more frequently than in early grime practice where you have to manually replace the needle on the turntable. A post on Grime Forum8 from 2013 complained about how ‘reloads are cool, they’re an important part of Grime culture, but [that] they are given out willy nilly these days’ (Grime Forum 2013). Despite this, Eastwood asserted an interview that if the tune is good enough, irrespective of the technology, it can have endless replay value: We don’t care, we’ll hear the start of a tune ten times, the tune don’t even have to go past the first verse. We can hear that start of the tune, 6,7,8,8910 times. As long as the MCs are still hitting and keeping the energy levels up, not a problem, not a problem. What certainly has changed over time, though, is the way reloads sound, and how they can be stylised. In the late 2010s / early 2020s, DJ Oblig became one of grime’s most prominent DJs, with a number of residencies on Rinse FM, including a Friday night show from 9  pm–11  pm which—in effect— replaced the grime show on the station, when Spyro migrated to BBC Radio 1Xtra in the Autumn of 2017. His employment of the reload is particular, and this can be heard a number of times on a high-octane Christmas Set from 2021, with Novelist, Scrufizzer, Tia Talks and others. As soon as the track is pulled back, Oblig engages the echo on the mixer. This means that the sound of the track’s abrupt stop emanates outwards, cascading around the speakers prior to its recommencement (audiovisual example 4d). This is very different from the

The Through Ball 121 absence of sound, or rough scratch that you can hear during Kraze’s interaction with DJ Spooky on the Youngers Clash (see audiovisual example 3b). Indeed, in May 2021, Manchester DJ and producer Chimpo remarked that ‘Djing digitally is a blessing I don’t miss vinyl that much. But the sound of a dead sketchy aggressive reload and the needle bouncing off the record is irreplaceable. Cdj reloads are shite’.9 Oblig’s stylisation, then, is perhaps a way to assuage the synthetic sound of a CDJ replicating the reload that is afforded by turntables. In addition, these developments can also map onto chopping. The stability afforded by djing with CDJs that work with digital files rather than vinyl records means that you can be a bit rougher with the equipment, without fear of jogging the physical record out of place. In addition, the general haphazard nature of poorly facilitated studios, often with belt drive decks that skip in the best of environments, meant that greater care and attention had to be paid in early grime sets. This is referenced in a lyric from P Money, that he spat at the Money Over Everyone launch on Logan Sama’s Kiss FM show, referenced in Chapter 3: ‘I don’t mind clashing a crew you can bring any on, one 16 tear any song, we can do it on decks where the needle’s got a penny on’. Here, P Money is referring to an old trick where a penny placed on the stylus can apply pressure and lessen the risk of skipping. This insider reference to DIY studios in the early 2000s is almost comedically evidenced by Logan Sama wheeling the track, reaffirming to the audience that P has reached a level of success where is now operating in a different lane. These short inventions ostensibly act as an indication of the ways in which technology can offer new ways to perform. Despite this, though, it is ultimately up to the artists and often the listenership to ratify or welcome new ideas to the fold, with codification being crucial. For example, future studies may see documentation of stylized reloads, and Oblig’s approach becoming canonical. At the time of writing, however, this is too early to tell. The negotiation and fashioning of new practice, however, is clearly evidenced by the development and refinement of the through ball, and its codification and proliferation over a period of more than ten years are prudent to explore. To probe further, then, this chapter’s final section will not just look at examples of contemporary through ball practice, but also question whether the very codification of the term ‘through ball’—and its subsequent proliferation—has led towards a more formulaic understanding of the technique, sullying the potential for acts of irruptive creativity. In 2004, Eastwood and C.A.P.S were engaging in a metapragmatic manner, demonstrating active listening and creatively reacting to each other, without necessarily quantifying what they were doing. This is also the case for Oblig with his adaptation of the reload. Similarly, the through ball for Eastwood is something that he just ‘did’ rather than necessarily thought about at length. The point of interest here isn’t necessarily the term’s provenance, but how the very process of naming the through ball has both contextualised and formalised this crucial phase of play.

122  The Through Ball

The Through Ball and Its Usage in 2015 General Courts’ ‘Wigmas Special’ / Tuesday December 22, 2015. Radar Radio, Central London Row D, PK, Spitz, AJ Tracey, Big Zuu, Jay Amo, Ets, Saint P, Fusion, Jammz Audiovisual examples 4e,10 4f Fast forward to grime’s so-called ‘second coming’ (Collins 2014). While grime remained a presence on the underground circuit during the late 2000s and early 2010s,11 a concentration of artists in London and the Midlands rose to prominence in the years following the London Olympics. Expressing discontent towards the popification of the genre—perhaps best exemplified by Tinie Tempah’s ‘Pass Out’ and Tinchy Stryder’s ‘Number One’—they focused on recapturing its essence. By this point in the mid-2010s, the through ball was very much common parlance in grime and seen as a core component of a live set. Nonetheless, there are marked differences between the way in which Eastwood ‘teased in’ instrumentals and the more established state of play in 2015. The two following examples are taken from a Radar Radio set, which aired in the week leading up to Christmas. Presented by the DJ partnership of Wigpower (General Courts and Travis-T), the set featured a number of MCs primarily from YGG and MTP (MTM).12 A volatile atmosphere pervaded the performance; however, a number of examples of close-knit group interactivity between MTM and their DJs took place. Two through balls, in particular, really capture how this phase of play has developed since its embryonic usage in 2004. Example 1—Saint P and Travis-T Over ‘Ice Pole’ Twenty minutes into the set, Saint P takes the microphone from Ets and immediately enters into a multisyllabic passage over an instrumental entitled ‘Pengaleng’. Saint P readily uses varying rhythms and stutters in his practice. Because of this, his responsiveness to suggestions from DJs is attenuated owing to the relative familiarity with which he can alter his pattern mid-flow. This came to the fore in this passage of interplay with Travis-T. Saint P proceeds to spit an opening 32-bar passage, featuring elements of tension and release, with careful use of cadential figures that help to etch out a coherent structure, rising upwards towards beat one for the first eight bars, before falling downwards towards beat one across bars 9–16 (see Figure 4.4).13 This is a further demonstration of how grime artists can articulate form through their ‘patterning’ of bars (Adams 2009). For the first 16 bars, Saint P is toying with an eight-bar structure. Its repetition from bars 9 to 16 employs a skippy sixteenth-note switch towards the accent on beat one, and this allows the performance to open up. By the time he hits bar 17 he’s

The Through Ball 123

Figure 4.4  Transcription of Saint P’s flow, bars 9–12 [excerpt] (audiovisual example 4e, 18:50–19:17).

in full flow, and the next 16 bars build towards the through ball that kicks in from bar 33, shown in Figure 4.514 (audiovisual example 4e, 19:44–19:59). The through ball takes place over ten bars. Its successful employment was in part down to chance, but predominantly the result of the enduring working relationship between Travis-T and Saint P and their ‘shared knowledge’ of each others’ predilections (Sawyer 2003: 44). As Saint P approaches his next 32-bar section, he switches up into a ‘transition lyric’. This sees the joint arrival of Saint P with Travis-T’s chopping in of a new instrumental. This use of a transition lyric affords Saint P the terrain to refix and rework his lyrical units. Meanwhile, Travis-T is getting ready to deliver the through ball. While Travis-T is preparing, Saint P has to react and move to the projected position Travis-T thinks he will arrive at for the drop. This passage signals the point at which interplay supersedes aleatoric elements. Their interaction is documented fully in Figure 4.6.

Figure 4.5  Transcription of Saint P’s flow, bars 33–36 [excerpt] (audiovisual example 4e, 19:44–19:59).

124  The Through Ball

Figure 4.6  Through ball interaction chart: Saint P and Travis-T (audiovisual example 4e, 19:44–20:05).

The Through Ball 125 As Travis-T begins to chop in the new instrumental—Wiley’s ‘Ice Pole’—on beats one and two of each bar, Saint P has a decision to make. The next bar is crucial. Having performed a four-bar transition lyric, Saint P chooses to re-perform this passage, effectively teeing himself up for the through ball, arriving fully with its arrival. A slight err from Saint P nearly derails the progression, but he quickly regains momentum opening up into an elaborate forward-moving passage, with greater enjambement across bar lines, and skippy syncopated sixteenth note units. This passage contrasts with his ‘transition lyric’ that he creatively used to work towards and punctuate the through ball (this can be heard in Audiovisual example 4e). This iteration of the through ball is dense and interactional, and offers far more negotiation than Eastwood’s ‘teasing in’ with both Magnifier and C.A.P.S. Like Shorty Smalls, Saint P uses a transition lyric to build through the through ball passage, and this is matched by Travis-T’s chopping and cutting. However, through setting himself up for the drop, Saint P employs different lyrical patterns to both built towards, and release on, the drop. Instead of simply passing the microphone, Travis and Saint engage in multiple phases of interaction that build towards a climactic moment. This allows the instrumental to open up at the exact same time as Saint P starts a new pattern. Similarly to the rally, this through ball demanded a long-form collaborative negotiation. And through this, both Travis-T and Saint P collectively arrived at a point of novelty and forward movement. As such, their energy combined and strengthened the performance’s emergent trajectory. Example 2—Big Zuu and Travis-T Over ‘What Comes Around (Dub)’ The second instance occurs ten minutes later. It features a close interplay between Big Zuu of MTP and Travis-T. Following on from a passage from Jay Amo, Big Zuu takes the microphone (audiovisual example 4f, 0:24). Almost immediately Travis-T beings to slowly rake in a new instrumental, building towards the projected position of Big Zuu. Zuu’s 16-bar passage is direct and assertive and the entry of the new instrumental adds real impetus to the performance. The immediacy of this decision is captured by Bourdieu in his mapping of the Logic of Practice, where performance decisions can be made ‘in the twinkling of an eye’, while immersed in the process (Bourdieu 1990: 81). And this decision from Travis-T, while instantaneous, was critical. As the new track builds, General Courts place a reassuring hand on TravisT’s shoulder while vigorously nodding his head, as if to say ‘you’ve got this, I know where this is heading’. When the track arrives fully Zuu moves into a highly animated passage that fittingly references two figures from the footballing world: ‘you are no baller, you are not Totti, you are not savage fam, you are not Robbie’ (audiovisual example 4f, 00:51).15

126  The Through Ball This climactic moment is met with a huge reaction from all present and is arguably the most substantial of the entire performance. The track is instantly reloaded by Travis-T, and the performance moves into a new phase where Zuu takes the headphones and DJs until the close of play. Through both Travis-T’s quick cueing up of the next instrumental and Big Zuu rising to the task, the two artists were able to creatively work towards this powerful point of convergence and irrepressible energy.

Conclusion The ease with which artists are now using the through ball evidences both its centrality for grime practice and a shared familiarity with its parameters for MCs and DJs alike. In addition to this tacit understanding, artists vocally acknowledge the through ball when it occurs on set. A few months prior to the Wigmas set, Big Zuu was performing with Oxford-based DJ Trends on Radar. After a particularly energising passage of interplay, Zuu responded with ‘are you nuts? Them through balls there!’16 And these acknowledgements aren’t just restricted to practitioners. Comments below a YouTube video from Sir Spyro’s Rinse FM show featuring YGG (Saint P, PK and Lyrical Strally) evidence an astute awareness of the through ball and its usage by grime’s listenership: the first respondent compared Spyro to Spanish midfielder David Silva with ‘them lob through balls’; the second remarked on how ‘the whole crews chemistry is just too sick tho, and that through ball thing Spyro does makes every MC sound so nang’.17 This respondent also referred to Saint as the ‘MVP’, demonstrating the way in which fans seamlessly mix metaphors from both football (soccer) and American Football in their analyses. In Chapter 5, I speak extensively with the DJ Aidan, of Cream Collective, but one moment from our discussion bears particular relevance to the ways in which the through ball has become a cornerstone of grime’s improvisatory performance practice: I feel like with through balls, there are a lot of times where the DJ gets the MC the wheel. I love it when MCs acknowledge it, and are like ‘safe for that’. Real MCs clock what’s occurring and they know what’s coming. They know it’s coming, they know how to prep for it. They literally anticipate that the drop is going to be here, prepare a particular bar, say it at a particular time, and get that wheel. Certain MCs are quick to shout you out, too. Some guys try and pretend that it was all theirs, though. But I’m like ‘mmmm I gave you that one’. I set you up! This explicit acknowledgement from Aidan differs sharply from Eastwood’s comments. It also demonstrates how a system of etiquette has developed around the through ball. Handing out credit where it’s due has become key to good practice; much in the same way as Trim called out MCs

The Through Ball 127 who try to take credit for a reload when it was really the tune that secured the wheel. Further to this, its development has coincided with a heightening of references to football in general within grime lyricism, demonstrating far more than a cursory influence on the field of performance. The example from Big Zuu converged on a footballing reference, but this is far from an isolated incident. AJ Tracey makes allusions to Italian winger Stephan El Shaarawy on the same set18 while South London MC Big Narstie threatened to ‘kick your head off the crossbar like Tony Yeboah’ on 2011’s ‘Gas Leak’.19 Care should be taken conflating wordplay and lyrical accolades with applicability for analysis, but the prevalence of lyrics and the strong footballing associations of artists foreground football as a perennial concern. In his autobiography, Wiley claims to have been by far the best football player in his school (Wiley 2017: 16). North London MC Terminator had a professional contract with Queens Park Rangers while Leicester MC Kamakaze both plays for the National League side Dagenham & Redbridge and has tracks featured on EA Sports’ popular video game series, FIFA.20 By exploring the through ball and its enactment, this chapter has addressed three important considerations for creative practice in grime. Firstly, it presented the through ball as a localised phase of play that is iteratively built, while relying on instantaneous reactions. Because of this, its outcomes are variable and multivalent. Highly energetic convergences can result in a reload, while more considered development—such as between Travis-T and Saint P—can see the collective level up and enter into a period of flow, much like the rally. Grime’s unique synthesis of individual prerogative and collective trajectory is perhaps most effectively realised within this process, with collaborative convergence towards points of climactic energy indicating a deep and implicit understanding of grime’s performance protocol on the part of practitioners. MCs and DJs possess a ‘sens’ of the immediate future. And the flexibility of outcome permits consonance with the emergent and ongoing accumulation of energy during a performance. The rupture caused by a reload isn’t always the best route. Through balls offer an array of options to suit the situation at hand. Secondly, it has explored how a highly complex process can be made sense of through appropriate sporting analogies. These analogies break down dense interaction into a metaphorical association that is (almost) universally recognisable; unlike staff notation, with its legacies in Western Art Music practice. Thirdly, it has shown how the technique has evolved over time. Eastwood’s ‘teasing in’ has grown into a fully-fledged phase of play, with varying levels of agency. Its functionality is recognised by artists and audience members alike; its use is governed by an expected etiquette. It is this transition from an almost nonchalant extension of a UK garage trick to a fully codified aspect of grime practice that really stands out. Both the naming of the technique—by its similarities to football practice—and its extended usage has helped to qualify the rules of engagement. With these

128  The Through Ball guidelines, artists can creatively work towards each others’ projected positions in new and exciting ways; either towards moments of climactic energy or periods of levelling up as a collective.

Audiovisual Example Captions Audiovisual Example 4a The through ball: MC Shorty Smalls and DJ Spooky. Audiovisual Example 4b The through ball: MC Magnifier and DJ Eastwood. Audiovisual Example 4c The through ball: MC C.A.P.S and DJ Eastwood. Audiovisual Example 4d The stylised reload: DJ Oblig and Scrufizzer. Audiovisual Example 4e The through ball: MC Saint P and DJ Travis-T. Audiovisual Example 4f The through ball: MC Big Zuu and DJ Travis-T.

Notes

1 Throughout this chapter, I use ‘football’ rather than ‘soccer’. This is since all my respondents are from the United Kingdom and use football. When I reference American Football, I make the distinction clear. 2 Acknowledging the decided temporality of practice is crucial for mapping it theoretically. This was most famously argued by Pierre Bourdieu in 1990’s Logic of Practice where he used this precise interaction from football as an example. He writes on how ‘a player who is involved and caught up in the game adjusts not to what he sees but what he foresees, sees in advance of the directly perceived present; he passes the ball not to the spot where his teammate is, but to the spot he will reach’ (1990: 81). 3 This is also present in a gamelan performance, where the kenong and kempul players in the palaran form attempt to predict the length of a singer’s vocal phrase. See Brinner, Knowing Music, 237. 4 This usage of small units, which are then expanded on, is an important tenet for many grime MCs. Two examples from Wiley’s practice demonstrate this well. ‘Bow E3’ bases its entire rhyme scheme around its title. Similarly, Wiley’s verse on ‘Destruction VIP’ works around the unit ‘don’t know you’. See Marsden 2017. 5 Name anonymised. 6 Now known simply as Chip. 7 For more information on The Movement, see Jesse Bernard, “The Lasting Impact of the Movement”, July 30, 2019, https://trenchtrenchtrench.com/ features/the-lasting-impact-of-grime-outfit-the-movement. 8 Grime Forum was a very popular website for fans and artists alike during the 2000s and early 2010s. 9 See https://twitter.com/CHIMPOMCR/status/1392791240886865921. Accessed August 10, 2022. 10 See BRMG, “General Courts’ Wigmas Special on Radar Radio”, YouTube, December 26, 2015. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LWmfmap5PIM. Accessed September 2, 2022. 11 In addition to the continued presence of MCs from the Midlands, artists like Rival, Marger and Lay-Z were important figures during this spell. 12 See Figure 3.3.

The Through Ball 129 13 The pattern from Bars 9–12 is repeated from Bars 13–16 (not shown in transcription). 14 The pattern from Bars 33–36 is repeated from Bars 37–40 (not shown in transcription). 15 Here, Zuu is referring to Italian footballer Francesco Totti and former Premier League midfielder Robbie Savage. 16 See Trends, “Trends w/ Special Guests: Spooky, Mez, Mic Ty, Big Zuu”, Radar Radio, London: June 15, 2015. 17 See Sir Spyro, “Grime Show: Lyrical Strally, Saint P and PK”, Rinse FM, London: September 17, 2015. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TYTaPxAuNlU. Accessed February 18, 2022. 18 AJ Tracey performs the following lyric: “Mic grip tight, loose grip on the glass. El Shaarawy, man skip then blast”. 19 Here, Big Narstie is referring to a goal from 1995 by then-Leeds striker Tony Yeboah against Liverpool that thundered into the net off the top of the crossbar. 20 The FIFA video game series has been running since December 1993.

5

Pirate Mentality Grime’s Radio Performance Network

Introduction The development of new ideas in grime music regularly takes place in the live domain. Artists may sharpen steel against steel in private settings, but the added pressure of a live broadcast—or rave—results in new work and fresh performance techniques: the through ball started out as an off-hand gesture in the UK garage but really came into its own through collaborative interplay on the radio airwaves; while long-form extemporisation on radio allows for rallies to take hold. This chapter focuses on the particularities of the pirate radio domain and the interrelated network of stations, DJs and MCs that mutually sustain and excite this practice. It interrogates the importance of co-presence in the radio domain, and how ‘collective intimacy’—among performers and listeners—offers scope for a mutually constitutive framework for performance that builds hype, excitation and a wealth of new ideas (Mann 2019: 390). When grime was taking hold in the early 2000s, radio was an absolute rite of passage. Development as an MC relied upon frequenting stations across the capital, testing yourself against other artists, in a manner similar to the jazz cutting session. DJ Eastwood recalls how ‘Wiley and Dizzee were all over the place. They were doing radio shows down here [in West London], they were doing one in East, one in North, one in South all in the same day. They were everywhere. You could not miss them’. The chapter opens with a focus on the particular performance ecology of grime music. This vibrant assemblage of stations and spitters caused so much excitement at the form’s outset, resulting in a welter of fresh ideas, new flows and conflicting ideals that has kept the form bubbling for two decades. It then turns to the artists themselves, and how they negotiate this circuit. As Chapter 4 pivoted towards more recent practice, this chapter continues along that trajectory, primarily exploring contemporary practice from the mid- to late-2010s that I experienced firsthand. While it will make references back to earlier practice—such as the ferocious and dogged commitment shown by Dizzee and Wiley in the genre’s early stages—the foundational aspects of grime practice have already been covered. Instead, it looks at DOI: 10.4324/9781003295792-6

Pirate Mentality 131 the character of radio 15 years after the form’s inception, and the ways in which artists are deeply embedded in a network that, while established, still provides the creative spark. In addition, it is important to note the changing mediality of grime radio, particularly with respect to the listenership. While pirate radio audiences were delimited to the strength of radio aerials, many stations during my period of research broadcast online. The rise of social media also meant that listeners could contribute in new ways through tweets and comments on livestreams, as opposed to calling the studio phone (see Chapter 3). Nonetheless, the contributions from listeners as active participants function in largely the same way. Furthermore, despite broadcasting online, grime’s physical sites, and this grounded network of stations remain vital (de Lacey 2021: 207). In order to capture the network’s functionality and vitality, this chapter’s second section will primarily focus on DJ practice during the 2010s. Specifically, it unpacks how DJs manage uncertainty in the radio domain, owing to the vast roster of MCs who might pass through their show on any given week. Two DJs’ practice is explored, with a view to providing salient examples of ‘complementation’—where ‘musicians’ parts combine to foster an integrated aesthetic’ (Brinner 1995: 193). This complementation between actors is achieved through what I have determined to be DJ’s proto-taxonomising MCs as a performance unfolds and demands shrewd assignment of both instrumental selections and appropriate gestures (chopping, cutting) to ensure a coherent marrying of styles demanded from a collaborative performance. When Eastwood performed with Cold Blooded on Heat FM, anything could have happened. DJs in grime now have the means to harness the unpredictability and vibrancy of this network on a consistent basis, working in new formations to create fresh ideas. The most successful creative practice occurs when artists have an acute understanding of each other and can presciently anticipate what other group members do, particularly during periods of dense interplay such as the metapragmatic processes explored in Chapters 3 and 4. This is achieved through acquisition of competence, and an ability to situate yourself both within the interactive network of performers, and the conventions and dynamics of interaction that underpin the form. Without complexity grime would stagnate, but this level of chaos afforded by both the pirate radio domain and its multidirectionality requires an acute set of techniques, expectations and attenuated sensibilities to successfully negotiate its unfolding performance and level up.

Alterity, Community and Collective Intimacy Let’s turn a closer eye to both the materiality and role of pirate radio within grime music. Studios often mean a great deal to their communities of artists and wider listenership. And radio’s position as both a site of alterity

132  Pirate Mentality and a haven for creative practice in the face of restrictions, sees it act as a critical space for expression, musical or otherwise. The book’s introduction outlined some ways in which censorship has affected grime music, and this turn towards grassroots practice—away from the ‘violence and disrespect from state and dominant publics’—allowed radio to flourish at the margins (Squires 2002: 458). Discriminatory practices and excessive policing were de jour, and this left underground domains as the most realistic route for survival.1 This radio network, while afflicted by its transitory state, is vital for creative production and community building in grime music. Every musical form requires a network that can enable its varying artists to develop and thrive. Historically within jazz, close-knit networks have offered opportunities for performance and exchange. Gleiser and Danon’s study of the United States’ network of jazz performers between 1912 and 1940 saw just 2.79 steps of separation between the players (Gleiser and Danon 2003: 567). Meanwhile, Corey Mwamba’s study of UK-based jazz demonstrates the enduring relevance and importance of networks (Mwamba n.d). While it is not enlightening to reaffirm the base-level assertion that close-knit communities foster collaboration, the scope for creative exchange is nonetheless highly important, particularly for groups that have been historically ostracised. For Larisa Mann, ‘communities that exist in a relatively hostile cultural landscape’ can produce ‘collective intimacy’ through ‘synchronous listening’ to radio broadcasts (2019: 385). This space for collective listening is not necessarily unique to grime music, with many antecedent dance music forms—such as hardcore and jungle—also employing radio as a means of production. Both forms also faced substantial censorship and sensationalised press coverage that foregrounded supposed debauchery and was littered with racialised ascriptions of moral panic. Malcolm James’ book Sonic Intimacy probes into the importance of being together musically, arguing that intimacy’s a priori inscription as private is tied to ‘the textual, visual and racial regimes of Eurocentric capitalist modernity’ that denied public assembly to Black subjects, and upheld individual reflection as a preserve of the elite (James 2020: 30). Radio is seen as threat because it averts the hegemonic glare imposed on music venues— through the punitive use of Form 696—and this is a similar case for earlier forms. Jamaican Sound System culture, for example, offered a distinct challenge to ‘bourgeois intimacy’, with dances functioning as a heartbeat for the community (ibid: 11; Bradley 2000: 4). Radio offers an aerial re-spatialisation of public communion for these forms. In jungle, particularly, its radio listenership functions as a ‘micro-massive’ which is able to ‘extend the intimate presence of the dance floor to thousands of bedrooms and cars across the city, providing a common presence between otherwise isolated micro environments […] the junglist “massive” whose co-presence unfolded through the airwaves’ (James 2020: 65). This form of ‘co-presence’ is important for understanding grime pirate

Pirate Mentality 133 radio. The ability to listen and respond in real time affords artists and listeners space to build rapport and embolden the performance. For Grime scholar Monique Charles, ‘the sense of community provided by pirate radio transcended the ethereal Black Public Sphere into the materiality of real London Colonial life’ (2016: 192). This ‘sense of community’ is also reflected in the functionality of the stations themselves and their operators. In Julian Henriques’ study of Jamaican sound system culture, his focus on the Stone Love Sound highlights the importance of actors whose involvement transcends the immediacy of the performance itself, such as the maintenance crew, or ‘boxmen’. For Henriques, this reaffirms a need for ‘the widest possible definition of what constitutes performance’ and an appreciation of ‘every necessity required for the performance to take place rather than only those on stage in front of the audience’ (2011: 45). This appreciation of a wider performance ecology hearkens back to Christopher Small’s study of Musicking, that signalled a move towards focusing on the everyday nature of the interaction. Nonetheless, it also speaks to the intent that specifically underpins grassroots Black media ecologies, described by Professor William ‘Lez’ Henry (a.k.a. Lezlee Lyrix) as ‘techno-social collectives’ (2006: 151). These collectives are principally communal yet realised through oppositional media channels and technologies; be it the sound system session, or the pirate radio broadcast. Grime music has a strong basis in community practice, and its own interconnected network of DJs, MCs, rave promoters, engineers, and radio listeners all contribute towards the field of performance. For Stone Love, the boxmen were vital. Similarly, for East London station Rinse FM, they simply couldn’t broadcast without the audacity of DJ Slimzee precariously affixing aerials and transmitters on the tower blocks of Bow. The daring commitment of Slimzee further reaffirms the need for subaltern channels to facilitate this communion.

Hype, Sites and Rites All of these interconnected elements excite and add energy to the field of performance. Henriques’ writing on the sound system session located a number of auditory transductions that excite and feedback into the performance process, be it the audience entering into dyadic interplay with the deejay or a bashment gal’s dance moves heightening in intensity as a result of the deejay’s selections: there exists a ‘patterning of signal, wave or disturbance in one medium [being] translated into another medium. The bashment gal hearing a rhythm in her ears and over her body and transforming this into a dance move would be a biomechanical example’ (Henriques 2014: 79–112). For pirate radio, the scope for interactivity is similarly fertile: both at the level of interchange with the wider network of stations across the capital, and at the human level between its participants and their listenership.

134  Pirate Mentality In Belgian philosopher Isabelle Stengers’ work in the philosophy of science, arguments are put forward for reconsidering science as a ‘constructive enterprise’ (2010). The ways in which we see the world are shaped by process and interaction. Overreliance on how things have always been done denies the irruptive power of scientific enquiry. Her paper ‘An Ecology of Practices’ adeptly captures how groups of actors—in this case, physicists— might venture towards new frontiers outside of the domination of their own discipline. Stengers looks at how to ‘actualise the power of the situation’ and depart from habit (2013: 185). Each practice must ‘unfold their own force’ towards becoming an ‘active, fostering milieu’. Within this milieu there exists a social diplomacy that moves towards ‘new propositions’. The interconnectivity of pirate radio and sound system sessions is such that the accumulation of momentum and ideas from multiple actors can similarly bring forth irruptive, new moments: crews of MCs fashion new lyrical units out of collaborative interplay; DJs discover new combinations of instrumental; and the audience can provide an instrumental production with force through reacting in the moment to its selection, and calling through to the station’s radio line. Matthew Fuller’s work on jungle pirate radio offers two points, precisely relating to the actuation of ‘hype’ in this network, through the iterative building of energy through the creative endeavour. Fuller, similarly to Malcolm James, examines radio interplay in the jungle indicating how these interactions between listeners, artists and the wider field of oppositional channels possess a particular dynamism that builds energy and ‘hype’ through ‘mutual excitation’ (2004: 35, 37). This is a valuable intervention and is useful for conceptualising the often unquantifiable ‘energy’ that artists—such as Eastwood in Chapter 2—speak of when engaging in pirate radio performance. Secondly, he offers a tangible example of reception technologies and how they can impact a performance’s onward trajectory. Within the radio domain, communication with an audience is imperative, and the principal way in which a dislocated audience can communicate with a DJ or MC is through their phone. While the proliferation of social media has altered the means by which this communication takes place—Twitter is now regularly used for shout-outs—the SMS message was the main avenue during jungle, garage and early grime. With the messages streaming in, this builds the ‘hype’ in the studio. It lets the performers know that the audience ‘are out there, that the listening is being done collectively … and that there is a system of feedback and production to intensifying it’ (Fuller 2004: 50). This demonstration of technological antiphony, between a collective audience and the studio team, etches out how multiple actors can intervene during an ongoing performance. This is principally achieved through leaving notes of approval: ‘voice [calls], texts and rings’. These notes signal collective co-presence but also indicate ‘hype about a certain

Pirate Mentality 135 track, and [build into] a system of feedback and production towards intensifying it’ (Fuller 2004: 50). What is envisioned here, then, is a re-spatialising of the sound system session, and its ‘techno social’ character, over subaltern airwaves. While Henriques ‘bashment gal’ provides energy to the dance through her biomechanic responses to the DJ’s selections, the collective ‘micro massive’ not only engages in ‘synchronous listening’ but also participates through contributing and feeding back via texts and calls. There are many meaningful benefits to the ‘synchronous experience’ of listening together, as highlighted by Mann, which include the ‘ability to reclaim space’ (2019: 393). But what we see with grime is not only this renewed autonomy shared among a ‘micro-massive’ locked in through oppositional channels but also a densely interactive sphere of musical interaction that moves beyond listening towards creative agency.

Grime’s Pirate Radio Network To capture this sphere of musical interaction, this section briefly turns to the findings of a study I undertook that explored the London pirate radio network in 2017. Although certain key aspects of these stations’ functionality have changed since grime’s inception, where many stations broadcast illegally through FM, a great deal of the attitude and approach has remained. Stations are housed on the margins, with their location concealed from outsiders. During my time on Deja Vu FM and Mode FM, I was expected to pay a subscription fee (subs) and studio locations would regularly change owing to issues with rental agreements, noise complaints and other measures that continue to police and blight the informal cityscape. In other words, although the listenership could find ways to access the music much more easily, the material conditions for practitioners largely remained the same, and this coloured the performance environment. The study logged every grime show that aired on the radio from May to November 2017. I also attended many radio performances, in addition to my own residencies. During this period I mapped a remarkable output and considerable variability across the capital in terms of the roster at stations. There were a number of key takeaways. Firstly, the spread of MC appearances month-to-month was vast with anywhere from 33 to 61 MCs attending radio in any given week. Secondly, ‘although the roster was interchangeable, the number of MCs and DJs actively performing—defined here as having performed more than once during this period—did not exceed 100’ (de Lacey 2021: 205). These findings demonstrated that although the scope for interplay was always substantial, there were common threads that artists could draw upon. Nonetheless, ‘this eclectic composition of performers across shows relies upon an astute ability to manage uncertainty once you enter the radio studio and enter communion with other performers and the

136  Pirate Mentality avid listenership, or ‘micro-massive’ across the airwaves’ (ibid: 205). This was captured in conversation with OTE’s J River: When we first went to radio, there’s elements of spitting [performing lyrics] that are specific to radio. You’re spitting in front of people that you might not know, and it gives you a level of nervousness when you’re performing if you’re not used to it. Even though I was confident in my own levels and abilities—since we’d be practicing for ages—it was an experience that we had to adapt to. But we did it as much as we could, and we got good quickly. Thinking through both the data and J River’s words, we can see that a significant roster of artists is active on the radio circuit and that attendance at sets can vary markedly. Although you might be able to gauge how many MCs and DJs turn up, the complete roster of performers is never set in stone. Because of this uncertainty, the radio setting is primed for innovation and provides the means to forge new ground as a group. But this variability necessitates and demands astute coping mechanisms from the artists involved.

Competence, Constructive Enterprise and Complementation One way to conceptualise artists’ management of radio performance is to move beyond raw data and look towards the specifics of the radio performance network and the MCs and DJs involved in it. MCing or DJing regularly on the radio allows artists to refine their craft, accrue knowledge of the performance sphere as a whole and make connections with the artists within it. While a working knowledge of this interconnectivity within the network is critical for grime artists, they also need to develop skills to deal with this uncertainty and work alongside a whole host of individuals with different performance styles and approaches. In order to better understand these skills, this section takes a closer look at the practice of two grime DJs who were working on the circuit at this particular time. As mentioned above, a shift towards DJ-led shows—as opposed to larger crew residencies—has resulted in heightened variability and a new set of demands on performers. The schedule below from Rinse FM in 2002 clearly demonstrates a substantial amount of residencies for crews, with Dagenham’s OT Crew, Wiley’s Pay As U Go, Crazy Titch’s Boyz in Da Hood and Lethal Bizzle’s More Fire Crew all featuring (see Figure 5.1). If this is compared with a weekly schedule taken from London stations in the summer of 2017, the landscape is markedly different. This lists just one show hosted by a crew, The Otherside. All others listed are DJ residencies with a rotating MC roster. And while this roster is often comprised of various crews, the wider variability of guest appearances is acutely felt by DJs. This section shows how DJs manage this uncertainty and move towards levelling

Pirate Mentality 137

Figure 5.1  Rinse FM schedule, October 2002. From RWD Mag, 14: 37.

up as part of temporary group affiliations realised through interactive performance. The opening case study of Cream Collective DJ Aidan foregrounds complementation as a key characteristic of his grime practice. The second example explores the work of DJ Charisma, an artist from West London, as part of his residency on North London station Mode FM, demonstrating how novel creative interplay can be brought forth within a radio setting.

138  Pirate Mentality Table 5.1  London radio schedule, July 10–16, 2017. Date

Show

10/07/17 Jack Dat 10/07/17 Cream on Deja 11/07/17 Plastician 11/07/17 11/07/17 12/07/17 12/07/17 12/07/17 12/07/17 13/07/17 14/07/17 16/07/17 16/07/17 16/07/17

DJs

MCs

Jack Dat Prod. By Aidan Plastician

Mazza, Jammz, Wize Crafty, Blaydes, Ramzey Discarda, Young Yizzy, Scratchy, D Double E, Footsie, Jammz, Mic Ty, Mez, Grime Sessions Kirby T, Olos, DJ Saskilla, Reepa M, Jinx Cable, DJ Kingpin Touchwood, Vital, Heckz, Firing Heavytrackerz Heavytrackerz None Marcus Nasty Marcus Nasty, Dizzle Kid, MC Shantie, MC Birthday Special Croustibass, Vapour Creed, PSG Boofy & Hi5 Boofy & Hi5 Ghost Ghost Nike X GRM Logan Sama, A.G President T, AJ Tracey, Not3s the DJ, J Cush, Grandmixxer The Otherside Selecta Impact Jo So Sick, Bliss, Darkos Strife, Logan OLM Grandmixxer Grandmixxer None Stella Beats: PK Pk Brako None Brako Grandmixxer Boxed Slackk None Charisma Info not online The Grime Show Sir Spyro Mez, PK

Before looking directly at these examples, it’s important to outline the ‘working knowledge’ that grime artists need to possess. For Benjamin Brinner, a theorist of creative practice in gamelan ensembles, artists engaged in improvisatory communities must develop a specialised musical ‘competence’ to respond to this ‘microcosm of connections, activities and possibilities’ (Brinner 1995: 5). Once developed, new work can be fostered in the live radio setting. Brinner writes that: [competence is the] ‘individualised mastery of the array of interrelated skills and knowledge that is required of musicians within a particular tradition or community and is acquired and developed in response to and in accordance with the demands and possibilities of general and specific cultural, social and musical traditions [emphasis in original]’. (Brinner 1995: 28). The first clause within Brinner’s definition could refer to grime’s performance techniques that were explored in earlier chapters. Session management, etiquette and the skills to negotiate a performance—moving through phases of play such as the reload, through ball and rally—are necessary to ensure forward motion. Artists need knowledge of these techniques so

Pirate Mentality 139 they can react to other artists’ performance suggestions, and move towards heightened states of creativity where they can level up. This was etched out in Sawyer’s model of the continuing process, and a number of episodes in Chapters 3 and 4 explored the ‘moment-to-moment contingency’ of grime artists during its varying phases of play (Sawyer and De Zutter 2009: 82). The latter part of this statement is also important. Grime artists develop with reference to the form’s demands and possibilities. Owing to its huge scope, there are myriad possibilities including changes in personnel, mobbing of sets, and so on. This, again, is unique to grime performance. Because of this, Brinner’s definition of competence needs to be repurposed for grime practice. To acquire competence, you have to work frequently within this environment for an extended period of time to become accustomed to this. This, in fact, is one of the primary reasons that Stormzy—a grime artist with international acclaim— was initially shunned by some members of the grassroots grime community. Historic unwillingness to attend radio sets was seen as a lack in his competence as a grime MC. Stormzy addressed this directly on the 2017 single ‘Mr Skeng’, rapping that: ‘they said Stormzy can’t be the king of grime. Cah he can’t do radio sets. Let’s be real, rudeboy, I would light up a radio set’. Knowledge of the environment and its expectations can be just as important as individual skill. Within grime there are specific demands for an individual to develop requisite skills with reference to the performance network as a whole and its varying environments. These arenas for performance lie outside simple discussions of familiarity, friendship or dyadic relationship development. As such, grime’s semi-improvisatory performance style and chaotic makeup of performances require the acquisition of a particular type of competence, specific to the form. It is the resolutely collaborative nature of grime performance that shapes this competence. The more you work within these groups, the easier it becomes to orient yourself within them and manage uncertainty by being adaptable. It is not a case of becoming more predictable—since there are always elements that cannot be pre-accounted for—but being able to locate certain behaviours becoming stable, while also recognising the scope for change and being ready to reposition oneself with reference to this novelty. For David Borgo, there is always a ‘localised unpredictability of improvised group performances’ but there are nonetheless ‘dynamics … that can reveal more stable behaviours over time’ (Borgo 2005: 74). This stability is afforded by grime artists’ distinct ability to adapt, react and create in this complex and continually changing performance environment.

Aidan and Cream Collective / ‘You Put on a Certain Beat and It’s Just Magic’ DJs with prominent residencies regularly have to grapple with a whole host of differentials when performing on the radio. In order to probe into DJs’ preparation, technical skill and adaptability in performance, we can turn to

140  Pirate Mentality the practice of Aidan. Aidan is from Hackney, East London, and was the DJ for Cream Collective’s DejaVu FM show for nearly two years from 2015 to late 2017. In this period he worked with over 80 MCs. This experience allowed him to develop tactics to deal with the variability faced in the pirate radio environment. We spoke at length about his practice, and many of the tactics he uses while DJing align quite readily with Brinner’s conception of ‘complementation’ and Stengers’ writing on the constructive enterprise. Rather than be intimidated by uncertainty, Aidan sees the irruptive potential of this variability that provided drive and character to his weekly residency (Brinner 1995: 316; Stengers 2010). Aidan mitigated against too much uncertainty over who might turn up to perform by having an understanding of MCs’ existing relationships. This meant he could predict who might show up, based on their affiliations. In addition, he also had an appreciation of MCs’ individual styles and categorised MCs in a particular way. Through this, he was able to adapt his instrumental selection accordingly. Early on in conversation, we discussed the Surrey-based MC Luciferian and his particular strengths in a radio setting, indicating how his concept-driven style desired a more attentive and composed approach from Aidan while DJing with him: Luci[ferian] is the guy. I feel like there’s a very good pocket for him. Just chatting to him he’s a very intellectual guy … someone who is just smart can explain things differently to you. When he spits you just really need to decipher what he’s saying when he’s spitting things which are very mad, and he’s got the skill to do it. He knows what to do with multis. He’s not no wheel up MC. This appreciation of an MC’s style means Aidan can perform in line with their skillset. Here, he indicates that Luciferian is not a ‘wheel up MC’. Thinking back to the distinction between different types of lyrics put forward by Swarvo in Chapter 2, Luci is instead an MC who primarily focuses on intricate flow patterns; hype lyrics are not his forté. Because of this, abrasive instrumentals could upset his flow or be overbearing on his performance. This discussion of ‘multi’ MCs continued with reference to other performers like Darkos Strife, Saint P (of YGG) and Dot Rotten, who regularly employ multisyllabic phrases and an expansive, storytelling style: For them guys I would be going for the choppy beats. I would go for the [East London producer and DJ] Spooky productions, the proper sampled bass ones. Skippy and skippy works together, that’s what I’ve seen. It’s either the proper choppy beats or the mellow ones where they get to say everything. Because on the loud wobbly grime beats they get lost. There’s too much going on with the music and the vocals, there’s no in between.

Pirate Mentality 141 This adaptability of selection resonates with Brinner’s notion of ‘complementation’ since Aidan indicates a move towards an ‘integrated aesthetic’. An awareness of artists’ respective styles enables DJs to harness their emergent relationship, work collaboratively and even reach moments of climactic energy (Brinner 1995: 316). The following two examples from his DejaVu FM residency demonstrate how Aidan’s knowledge of artists’ strengths and weaknesses, which form part of a proto-taxonomisation—that is continually evolving and contingent—affords him adaptability when working with both MCs who are familiar to him, and new artists that he assesses in real time during the performance. Charlie Trees’ Birthday Set / Wednesday November 23, 2016. DejaVu FM, London Charlie Trees, Blessed Audiovisual Example 5a As part of Aidan’s weekly residency a large roster of artists passed through. This set, however, happened to feature some familiar faces. Arranged to celebrate the birthday of South-East London MC, Charlie Trees, the roster reflected Charlie’s close affiliates and looser associates within the grime scene. Aidan himself works closely with Charlie, and because of this, his relationship with those present was relatively strong. During the set, an extended passage takes hold where Charlie Trees and fellow crew member (of WAVE Gang) Blessed were exchanging lyrics. Both artists are widely considered to be multi-MCs, although Blessed can pack a real punch when needed to. It emerges around 15 minutes into the set, with Charlie building momentum over the remnants of a Spooky production. Blessed takes over with the drop of a new instrumental by Swimful—a remix of Wiley’s ‘Shanghai’—adjusting his delivery to compensate for the change in style. Here, Aidan is seemingly confident that the selection would complement the two performers. Its half-time sub bass and pentatonic string pattern offered a marked change in sonority. However, it also provided space for the artists to work. Consequently, the switch-up allows their lyricism to come to the fore. While at the outset, Charlie and Blessed were working with repeated patterns, the point at which the instrumental breaks down offers an opportunity to foreground intricate schemes that overlap and intertwine (audiovisual example 5a, 1:18–1:42): CHARLIE TREES:–I’ll

slaughter a guy on set and I know myself so I’ll walk in the night no Stress, can’t talk to my guys on set no BLESSED: You must have thought my guys are all wet, when WAVE gang come on a hype it’s all stressed CHARLIE TREES: little man get back on your bike it’s all dead BLESSED: Don’t try living a life that’s not blessed CHARLIE: Can’t look me in the eye that’s not them ….

142  Pirate Mentality This back-to-back required great focus and offered temporary convergence. Although it eventually broke down after 12 bars, it possessed great potential, capturing a transitory point in which all three artists are working in unison. Aidan reflected on this set during our conversation: There was a set where I remember Charlie [Trees] and Blessed were there and I knew who was going to be on the mic next and I thought if I put something by Audioslugs [or similar] on they will do it right. Some people get lost. Let’s say you put on a gassed (excitable) beat, obviously whoever’s on it would start doing one liners or trying to get the wheel, but certain man that you know are not looking for that, you put on a certain beat and it’s just magic. This sensibility even extends to scenarios where MCs may appear uninvited. While Aidan had a familiarity with both Charlie Trees and Blessed, there are many cases where MCs get a bring-in and just turn up with their friends to shell. These situations can be enlivening but also stressful or even frustrating. However, Aidan adopts similar tactics to assuage concern, choosing appropriate instrumentals for the new MC(s). If I haven’t heard of them before, obviously whatever’s going to come next comes next. I remember there was this one guy named Figure-O or something. He only came to one set but straight away when he got on mic he was very clear, very slow. He wasn’t about doing a lot of syllable stuff. It was more just being clear and getting his shit out. So I knew straight away that when he was next to come to just put something on that wasn’t so complex. I wanted it to be something that would make him fit in pocket. Have the gaps. Maybe something choppy. Because then it would make him sound sick, and it did because I remember he got like two wheels straight away. Aidan’s contribution here offers a further example of being adept to novelty. He also touches on ways to make an artist sound better, especially if they are lacking the technical ability to project over an energetic beat. Figure-O’s clear and deliberated delivery was matched with an instrumental that benefitted this style. A perceived lack of competence is repurposed as a strength, offering another example of complementation. I feel like certain people see the DJ as just putting in tracks and the MC spitting over them. When really you’re trying to adapt your sound and style to them. So that you can make it sound better than what it is, cause even when they’re not the greatest MC(s) they might have good one line flows or something like that. If you take out the music, make it choppy for it it, will sound sick. It will sound like they’re doing it on purpose, it’s like a collaboration type thing.

Pirate Mentality 143 In both situations Aidan elicits a contextual association between a certain type of delivery and a catalogue of beats that would be suitable for the artists. Furthermore, he was able to put this into practice during the performance. He possesses the skillset to understand the nature of the interaction, how to enact a change, and be sensitive to other performers around him. In order for DJs to succeed in the highly fraught radio environment, then, there is an awareness of what to play combined with possessing the skillset to successfully enact change. They also need to have a strong selection of instrumentals that cover a variety of MC styles. A mastery of these techniques then allows this process to be secondary to the act of listening and reacting in the moment. A DJ’s competence within grime’s radio network therefore relies upon core skills (addressed in Chapters 2, 3 and 4) and the flexibility to react as a performance unfolds. Assiduous complementation and proto-taxonomisation affords DJs with full agency to respond instantaneously—through ‘moment-to-moment contingency’ or otherwise—and combine with MCs to level up and produce moments of substantial energy.

Radio as Constructive Enterprise This latter example from Aidan captures an ability to forge new ground in a collaborative setting. Fresh formations can encourage artists to—as Stengers writes—look outside their immediate environs, and push for alternative avenues. For DJ Charisma, an artist from West London who has had multiple residencies across the capital, this is a core part of his practice; reacting quickly to change and fostering something special. To capture this in action, I want to turn to a radio set that took place on North London station Mode FM in 2017. I was in attendance, along with one other DJ, and two MCs were there to perform: Darkos Strife and Spitz. Similarly to Luciferian and Charlie Trees, Darkos is a technical spitter, working with multisyllabic rhyme schemes that often carry across through bar lines. Spitz is more direct, but still has a skippy flow that is patois-laden and indebted to dancehall sensibilities. With both MCs their technicality is demanding. DJs consequently have to be acutely attentive and receptive. DJ Charisma / Friday October 6, 2017. Mode FM, London Darkos Strife, Spitz Audiovisual Example 5b Around half an hour into the set, Charisma offers up an example of the ways DJs both possess an acute ‘knowledge of cues and appropriate responses [that possess] declarative and procedural aspects’, and consequently are afforded the terrain to craft ‘new propositions’ with this knowledge internalised and employed as second nature (Brinner 1995: 40; Stengers 2013: 185).

144  Pirate Mentality Following a wheel up of a Mr Virgo track, entitled ‘Next Tune’,2 the track picks up again and Spitz begins to build, repeating the passage that earned him a coveted wheel. Almost immediately, Charisma starts to tease in a new instrumental, cutting it in on the last semiquaver of each bar. In bar 9, Charisma cuts more intensely with chops on the 2+ and the 4+ of the bar. Just as the new instrumental is about to drop something unexpected happens. Instead of moving into the next 16—which is one of his well-known reload lyrics—Spitz starts to loop bar 7, ‘dem boy a violate me well’, through into bar 8 (audiovisual example 5b, 0:17–1:04). SPITZ: 





There ain’t no witches, just ni**az with figures, bruddas with snubbers, tell man already make a man see colours, I’ve got man that wear their winter jacket in the summer, big shotgun hidden under the puffa. Locked and loaded, *chk* boom, now you’re another, dem boy a violate me well, dem boy a violate me well ….

Upon hearing this, Charisma quickly drops out the new instrumental and brings the existing Mr Virgo track back in. He then sets a loop on the new instrumental. This enables him to wait and anticipate Spitz’s movement into the reload bar. During the eight-bar build, Charisma begins to chop in the new instrumental again with increasing ferocity. As the eighth bar comes into view, he uses a high-pass filter to roll off the Mr Virgo track, before gently wheeling it back. This allows Spitz to announce the impending bar—‘nun nuh go suh’ (nothing goes like that)—and arrive at the drop: ‘Man are from yard, might run up in your yard, your bredren’s yard, your sister’s yard’. The energy and almost symbiotic interaction here between Charisma and Spitz lead to an instant wheel up of the tune, with Spitz immediately acknowledging Charisma’s contribution: ‘Oi we’re inside. Charisma. Going on very shelly around deckle’. This added substantial momentum to the set, which carried forward until its close. What this example shows—aside from the metapragmatic interplay between Charisma and Spitz—is competence and constructive enterprise in action. Charisma was able to achieve this for a number of reasons. Firstly he possessed the technical cachet to implement alterations almost instantaneously. He knew what to do (declarative) and he knew how to execute it (procedural). Secondly, he had some semblance of familiarity with the MCs, (although of course not the decision-making that Spitz undertook). This meant that he could second guess or pre-empt some of their actions since he was aware of the ‘functional and contextual associations’ of their material (Brinner 1995: 41). Thirdly, and finally he was more accustomed to this environment so he could manage uncertainty in a disciplined manner. This demonstration of both competence and improvisation is often a mandatory

Pirate Mentality 145 expectation for grime DJs, particularly on the radio circuit. Rather than falter, the combination of Charisma and Spitz reached an apex where their collective contribution exceeded individual capabilities, to a point at which they levelled up.

Conclusion Engaging with grime’s performance sphere is a complex and arduous endeavour. Personnel are in flux, radio stations are fervent yet hostile, and competition can see performances crumble. This fractured and chaotic sphere is therefore open to highly creative and combative approaches in equal measure. New environments create novelty but require both insight and resilience to thrive. This is owing to the double bind of both an interrelated performance circuit and the complexity of the improvisational process itself with a multitudinous array of performers. Nonetheless, it’s this very interrelated-ness that provides it with character and offers scope for new creative formations. Artists be together and engage in collective acts that are intimate with both their (counter)public and their fellow participants. Radio’s hype, sites and rites are intrinsically irruptive and offer new avenues: Aidan’s work with Figure-O saw imminent negotiation of a new challenge; Spitz and Charisma’s interplay demonstrated shrewd decision-making and resulted in a moment of climax. Grime’s radio network provides excitation through its communicative function with its wider ‘micro-massive’, be it online or over via the FM dial, while at the same time affording agency for artists to improvise and create. Successful negotiation of these environments of course requires a high level of competence. Awareness of performance context, knowledge of the interactional framework, and an understanding of the macro-network and micro-ensemble setup is critical. This, combined with adaptability to unfolding events in a semi-improvisatory form—be it through complementation or otherwise—allows for new ideas to develop, as part of what Isabelle Stengers calls an ‘active, fostering milieu’ (2013: 195). Radio, similarly to the live sphere, is often under threat from authority figures, or from increasing rental costs. This has been the case since jungle and even before. But the excitement and opportunities afforded in this realm are vital. According to Larisa Mann, ‘broadcast radio is a more portable and cheap way to claim space for one’s own community and identity, even temporarily’ and within these stations across London, both community and new creative ideas are invoked (Mann 2019: 393). Even in more stable settings, for example, during Aidan’s set with Charlie Trees, there is a great deal of scope for fresh interplay. Aidan possessed the competence and necessary faculties to react in the moment and fashion a moment of a remarkable convergence between himself and the two MCs. While there is some semblance of comfort in these interactions, there is always an urge to try and push outside existing mechanisms, moving towards

146  Pirate Mentality acts of not just synchronous participation, but synchronous creation. It’s this latter concern that the book’s final chapter will explore. Moving away from the freneticism of the wider network—although this undulating sense of chaos is never far from the surface—it captures the specificities of the creative practice within two relatively stable crews that have been referenced throughout, but as of yet not fully attended to. The 11-strong crew Shellyvnne went through a phase of remarkable development throughout 2017 and 2018, largely facilitated by their DJ Selecta Impact’s residency on Don City. This period of development and consequent acclaim resulted in their performance on Sir Spyro’s flagship show that opened Chapter 2. And secondly, my very own crew OTE, who similarly started out life on Don City but have gone onto secure airplay on national broadcasters BBC Radio 1, Kiss FM and perform across the globe. Grime is a form that sees continual tension between group creativity and individual fervour. Some individual pursuits are scintillating, but for everyday involvement and for constructing new ideas, the ensemble setup often provides many more possibilities. Weekly sessions offer crews the stability to both improvise and develop inter-ensemble techniques. These cases often foreground the most advanced examples of collective creativity in grime music, with each crew intent on both developing its own sound and pushing the envelope through new innovations. Through assessing the practice of these two groups, it will cover two key ways in which grime crews level up: through intermusical referentiality and the development of a clear aesthetic for group creative practice.

Audiovisual Example Captions Audiovisual Example 5a Proto-taxonomisation: Charlie Trees and Blessed with DJ Aidan Audiovisual Example 5b Constructive enterprise: MC Spitz and DJ Charisma

Notes

1 It is important to note that this arena is itself transitory with crews disbanding and radio stations being forcibly closed by authorities (Hancox 2011). 2 The version Charisma plays is the Dubzta refix.

6

Levelling Up Collective Creativity in Two Grime Crews

‘It’s not about coming into it and being a godlike musician from day one. It’s about having your own little niche and the goal is coming together as a collective thing but to grow everyone’s individual talents as well’, Reaps

Introduction For crews to develop, their artists need an acute understanding of the ensemble they work within. My first outing with OTE on Don City Radio was incredibly tense. I didn’t know the MCs’ lyrics, flow patterns or quirks during the performance. As such, I had to improvise completely on the fly, looking intently for cues and any indication of where the performance might be heading. Over time, though, crews become self-­sustaining units. And within this MCs and DJs begin to develop nuanced, interactional routines. Chapter 3 offered examples of how group tropes like back-to-backs and rallies can develop (see audiovisual example 3j, with Ets and Lyrical Strally). Working together enables new ideas to collaboratively emerge, and this is attached to a ‘collective sensibility’ that is built over time (Brinner 1995: 171). While this book’s previous chapter detailed the somewhat chaotic nature of the pirate radio circuit, residencies for crews offer a level of stability. This chapter explores what this stability can offer to improvising crews, and how both new practice and points of climactic energy can emerge. To do so, it focuses on two grime crews that we’ve already touched on: OTE and Shellyvnne. It attends to two key concerns. Firstly, how group’s collaboratively build performance schema that offer an opportunity for improvisation that is triggered through intermusical allusion and referentiality. Secondly, how the pursuit of a recognisable crew aesthetic leads towards ways of knowing that are unique to each improvising collective. While in these instances there is not necessarily scope for outside interference—such as through the mobbing of sets and inter-crew rivalries— this does not mean that radio (and live) performances result in stagnation. Rather, and this is captured by David Borgo, improvising groups ‘exhibit the DOI: 10.4324/9781003295792-7

148  Levelling Up possibility for adaptation and emergence by being open to energy influxes from outside the system [as shown in Chapter 5, but also] through their own highly interconnected nature’ (Borgo 2005: 62). Both crews chosen have a substantial roster. Within this, there is a sizeable scope for innovation within the collective, which adds to its creative thrust. This final chapter’s explorations are underpinned by work on intertextuality and intermusicality, and improvising ensembles’ ‘epistemologies’, or ways of knowing. It is influenced by work on British free-­improvisation group AMM, Chicago’s Association for the Advancement of Creative Musicians (AACM), Ingrid Monson’s writing on intermusicality and scholarship on hip-hop crews, all of which will help unpack the nature of collective improvisation in grime at a local level. It is split into two sections that tackle these considerations in turn. Firstly, it focuses on intermusicality in both Shellyvnne and OTE. Its second section looks more closely at OTE’s emergent practice. As mentioned above, this exploration of intertextuality is at an incredible local level, and it’s helpful throughout this chapter to consider grime crews as micro-‘interpretative communities’ that possess a vast array of ‘formal features’ common only to the crews themselves (Fish 1980: 14). While there are many extensive pieces of work that focus on hip-hop intertextuality, this is often at a macro level, with ‘intergeneric’ allusions to antecedent musical forms or ‘canonized’ figures like Tupac and Biggie Smalls (Williams 2013: 14; 18; 180).1 In grime, the use of particular lyrics or phrases can intertextually refer to another member of the collective, while a particular flow pattern can engender a response from the DJ. There are plentiful references to outside sources, but much of this work happens within the core unit. However, this is just one way in which artists interpret and create anew. In this chapter, this referentiality is described as intermusical since— like Ingrid Monson—I locate a wide variety of allusions at play, many of which are not textual, and most of which depend on context. DJ gesture, body language and cadential figures are critical to a crew’s interactional structure. While intertextuality in-and-of-itself does not negate non-textual referentiality, intermusicality more closely aligns with the full spectrum of interactive strategies employed (Monson 1996: 139). George E. Lewis, a trombonist and alma-mater of the highly influential AACM, has written on the ‘“open” improvisation practiced by [its] members’, drawing from a wide variety of sound sources (2009: 225). This is perhaps best evidenced on Roscoe Mitchell’s groundbreaking record Sound from 1966. In a similar vein, although within a different context, the British free improvisation outfit, AMM were open to varying stimuli affecting the ongoing performance, and becoming part of the group’s identity, which saxophonist and theorist Seymour Wright denoted to be an ‘emergent ontology’ (Wright 2013: 18). In both contexts, new musical ideas in situ become folded into future performances. And this is also fitting for grime, with pirate radio’s dual functionality as a site for practice hours that is never

Levelling Up 149 fully divorced from the pressures of live performance, owing to its dissemination amongst its ‘micro massive’ of listeners. This synthesis of ‘practice and learning’, then, with a full spectrum of musical ideas coruscating around the collective, will be kept in mind for this chapter’s duration (Wright 2013: 276). Both pirate radio’s specificity and the nature of grime crews’ interactive structures result in creative practice as a continuing, emergent exercise that offers skill acquisition, moments of heightened energy and irruptive novelty; all of which are critical for levelling up.

Shellyvnne: Group Cohesion, Flows and Referentiality Let’s now take a closer look at the practice of Shellyvnne, the 11-strong crew from East London whose scintillating set on Rinse FM opened Chapter 2. For that set to be successful, the crew needed an awareness of the genre’s ‘dos and ‘don’t’s’, and its overarching protocol, to fall in line Sir Spyro who was overseeing the set alongside their DJ Selecta Impact. What they also needed, though, was an attenuation to each others’ tendencies and proclivities. Periods of intense activity often result in scenarios where artists effectively predict what their fellow performers are going to do before they do it. This was noted in Chapter 4 with the through ball, and it is referenced widely by artists across disciplines. For free improvisation outfit AMM the centrality of shared enterprise meant that ideas would naturally coalesce, with improvisations lasting in excess of 60 minutes resulting from emergent interplay that naturally unfurled and was rarely explicitly acknowledged in words (much like MTM’s transition into the rally phase, see Chapter 3). This is also the case for Roscoe Mitchell’s work, in particular his release Sound. This piece is obsessively focused on the sonority of different instruments within an ensemble, players reacting instantaneously to the sounds made by their co-performers, and was later described by Mitchell’s drummer Jack de Johnette as ‘stream of consciousness’ (Mandel 2015: 39). For Shellyvnne, their instinctive capabilities were developed in weekly sessions on Don City Radio. During this time, they developed a framework for multidirectional improvisation which far supersedes anything discussed thus far in relation to grime music. In particular, six of the crew’s MCs fashioned flow patterns, cadential figures and modular lyrical units that can interweave and follow on from each other in an open model that allows for variation in both personnel and improvisational setting. Rather than pre-composed dyadic back-to-backs, this practice can be described as a fully realised multidirectional phase of play. Modular Lyrical Units Despite its advances on dyadic back-to-back practice, Shellyvnne’s multidirectional approach was initially more modest in intent. An embryonic example of this process can be heard on the Rinse FM showcase with Sir Spyro.

150  Levelling Up Four minutes into the performance MCs Shiesty and Glorz enter into a back-to-back, which takes form out of a 64-bar passage from Shiesty that gradually began to incorporate Glorz. This back-to-back uses each MC’s name as a modular lyrical unit, which is reworked and re-fixed according to circumstance. In this instance, they used the letters ‘D-A-T-G-U-Y’ and ‘G-L-O-R-Y’ as central organising units that enabled them to dovetail and exchange lyrics for a lengthy passage. No physical cues or gestures were used. Instead, the choice of the lyrical content from Shiesty inferred to Glorz that there was about to be a change in pace (see audiovisual example 6a). The onset of Shiesty’s spelling out of his name intertextually infers to Glorz that he should continue onwards with his own repurposing. Out of this, the back-to-back ensues. This early indication of close, intra-ensemble interplay was extensively refined and developed over the coming months during Selecta Impact’s weekly shows on Don City. As mentioned in the book’s introduction, my residency followed on from Impact every Thursday. Because of this, I was able to map its refinement firsthand over a six-month period from August 2017 into the Spring of 2018. On the basis of the Rinse FM showcase, I initially presumed that these back-to-backs were restricted to Glorz and Shiesty. I hadn’t met them at this point, and it was my point of entry to the crew. However, I quickly realised that Shellyvnne were fashioning an extensive framework, testing out new interchanges weekly, with successful ideas becoming integrated into future performances. On October 26, 2017, a few months into my residency on Don City, four members of Shellyvnne stayed on after Selecta Impact’s show to spit on my set. J Smart, Esskay, Shiesty and Voltage all exchanged lyrics, taking over from each other at various points. One tactic in particular stood out. While many artists use transition lyrics to permit flexibility, Shellyvnne used even smaller blocks to enable interchange. The following exchange took place just over an hour into the set over a meditative production from Welsh grime producer Dubzta (audiovisual example 6b, 0:15–0:57).2 SHIESTY:  chest

S-H mind on a S-H, run gums get one in your plate man might go to your estate, to dirt dem man on an S A I’m telling em, VOLTAGE:  It’s V-O, do man on the d-low, no dilly no dally and…. Through using the first two letters of their MC name, Shiesty and Voltage worked with modular blocks that can be repurposed, reused, and—most importantly—easily and coherently moved between on set. DJ Argue with Shellyvnne / Monday February 5, 2018. Radar Radio, London Shiesty, Melvillous, J Smart, Voltage, Esskay, Eklipse, Glorz Audiovisual Example 6c3

Levelling Up 151 This technique reached its apex on a set with Croydon’s DJ Argue in February 2018. While the back-to-backs were still in an elementary stage on Sir Spyro’s Rinse FM show, here the groups were weaving and interlocking comfortably. The following passage sees Shiesty, Glorz and Eklipse using a variant of the above style to move between each other mid-bar (audiovisual example 6c, 1:21:48–1:23:08). SHIESTY:  Look it’s S dot H, U-S-H, run gums and get boxed in the face GLORZ:  It’s G dot L beat off shells, barking road with a–––what I roll with

look,

S:  it’s S dot H, U-SH, run gums and a get boxed in the face, EKLIPSE:  It’s E-dot-Klipse, E dot 6, Barking road with a juice

and a….

These densely inter-related passages emerge at points throughout the majority of Shellynne’s performances and are an example of a ‘phase of play’ that is indeterminate in length, flexible and fundamentally tied to the ensemble. This process and the make-up of the lyrics utilised therefore allows for multiple ordering of artists on set. Melvillous, J Smart, Shiesty, Glorz, Eklipse and Voltage all have versions of this pattern, theoretically allowing for 720 different orderings if all six were present at any one occasion. This means the group can continually create novel combinations, reacting to subtle suggestions from other MCs and gestures from their DJ. Critically this group technique is developed during the performance, with its refinement occurring in a live environment, principally their weekly show on Don City. This active curation is a salient example of how grime artists collaboratively level up through multidirectional interchange and how it is afforded both by the terrain (weekly radio session), and the creation of flexible units that can be repurposed ad infinitum, much like musical motifs that are reworked and cascade around a jazz quintet. Intermusicality: Intra-Crew Flows and Creative Borrowing Another way in which grime artists can negotiate proceedings is through the use of flow patterns that are shared within the ensemble. The use of a particular flow pattern functions as a referent that both reaffirms a communal bind, but also engenders a creative response. The example above from Radar Radio demonstrated how stock phrases were starting to become owned by Shellyvnne: Glorz and Voltage used the unit ‘no dilly no dally’ as part of their multi structures; Eklipse repurposed Shiesty’s lyrics, replacing ‘chest plate’ with ‘cheek face’. The incorporation of flow patterns, however, is more subtle since they engender a creative reaction from fellow participants through rhythmic rather than textual character. Ingrid Monson’s work on intermusicality both resonates strongly with grime music’s ad-hoc improvisatory intertextual practice and its relatively

152  Levelling Up open schema. Rather than attending to overt lyrical allusion, Monson locates allusions within a full spectrum of ‘human behaviours, from bodily gestures to speech to music’ (Monson 1996: 188). In the case of Shellynne, while this referencing is of course lyrical at points (see above), it also extends to flow patterns and cadential movement. The employment of another artist’s flow style, for example, is a way of paying homage to a fellow performer. While there is a fervent discussion over stealing or ‘catting’ other artists’ deliveries, within a group setting performers often reference fellow crew members using a variation of their flow. This both creates hype through the reference itself, but it can also impact the ongoing performance. Upon hearing the rendition, other MCs present often decide to incorporate their own version of the flow. This is demonstrated by Shellyvnne during an appearance on Westside Radio in October 2017, which saw intermusical flow referencing between J Smart and Rudie Rudez (as shown in Figures 6.1 and 6.2). Rudez’s initial repurposing of J Smart’s flow pattern immediately garners a response from his fellow performer, who looks up from his phone and visibly reacts to its utterance (audiovisual example 6d, 0:14). J Smart then performs his lyric a few minutes later (audiovisual example 6e, 0:15). And although these passages are not entirely correspondent they share substantial similarities. Rudez’ interpretation generally follows a similar rhythmic pattern to Smart, particularly at the ends of bars, while the cadential arc of each passage is almost identical. The warmth with which Smart received Rudez’s contribution, and the consequent performance of his own version, demonstrates the way in which this intermusical referencing in Shellyvnne can actively reinforce relationships and elicit change in the unfolding performance. For Timothy Rice, who worked extensively with Bulgarian folk musicians, these sort of allusions are central for articulating a communal bond. While often located at a macro-level, through intertextual references to a shared folk canon— something that is also explored in Justin Williams’ examination of hip-hop intertextuality, with respect to ‘intrageneric borrowing … from hip-hop

Figure 6.1  Transcription of Rudie Rudez’s flow. Westside Radio, October 2017 (audiovisual example 6d, 0:14–0:21).

Levelling Up 153

Figure 6.2  Transcription of J Smart’s flow. Westside Radio, October 2017 (audiovisual example 6e, 0:15–0:22).

culture’—these folk musicians’ repurposing and creative use of this canon asserted resistance to state-controlled artistic production as part of a wider ‘ideational’ system (Rice 2001: 34–36). This is particularly the case for the MCs in OTE, who continually develop lyrics and patterns as part of their creative practice. Although their sense of group identity is strengthened through the tailoring of fresh bars and styles, not necessarily through reference to a wider canon (although there are instances of this). These referential techniques are deeply encoded, and the crew have created recognisable ‘Over The Edge Flows’. MCs Razor and J River have a number of flows that they use on a regular basis. This allows them to enter into temporary passages of unison, offering moments of divergence and convergence (see example 6g below). This was referenced by J River in an interview and is apparent in multiple recordings, one of which will be turned to shortly. That literally comes from I write a flow and he’d be like ‘nah that’s fucked’ and he’d write his own version of that flow. Then next time when we rally he’ll spit it after mine and then we just developed the rapport. And it’s like vice versa, like he’ll write a flow and he’ll be like yeah I’ve gotta remix that. We’ve got about five to ten different Over the Edge Flows, I call them—not only me and Razor, but Reaper and Geo and stuff, have their own versions of it. People know mine and Razor’s more because we spit them on set more or whatever. It’s an organic thing, we don’t sit down. We’ve got one or two tunes where we sat down and written it together but in general it comes down to just bouncing ideas back and forth between rallying sessions. Here, J River captures both this communal bind and creative consequence. The overtly indexical capacity of these associations provides meaning and structure to the collective’s creative practice, while ongoing iterations and repurposing of flows in situ can result in an acquisition of

154  Levelling Up momentum, typically towards a reload. This chapter’s final section turns explicitly to OTE’s practice, and how their fashioning of idiosyncratic flow patterns and development of ensemble ways of knowing both reaffirms their membership of the collective and enables them to level up and produce irruptive, new practice.

Over the Edge: Ensemble Ways of Knowing OTE are my crew, and I’ve been working with them since October 2017. Throughout my time in the collective, we have been striving to create something new in our practice. There’s a continual need to articulate an idiosyncratic edge, but there are always difficulties moulding something coherent in a chaotic landscape. This section will attempt to critically examine the way in which performance environments have impacted practice and offer an insight into the lived experience and everyday workings of a grime crew. Fundamentally, I am trying to map out the crew’s development of what Seymour Wright has called a ‘corollary epistemology’, that is both unique to the crew and foundational for our collective process (Wright 2013: 113). For free improvisation collective AMM, there was no real divide between performance and rehearsal. They placed great emphasis on developing an improvisational model that was specific to the group through continual learning. This both resonates with Christopher Small’s work on ‘musicking’—and the importance of the quotidian for creative practice—and grime music’s synthesis of practice and learning, which is realised within its interrelated realm of performance. To understand how new ideas emerge in these settings, it is necessary to document practice closely over an extended period. While I have been working pretty much daily with OTE for over half a decade, the examples drawn from here capture our earliest—and arguably most concerted— period of development from the Winter of 2017 through to March 2018. This was the period where the crew properly solidified, transforming from a group of friends who met a college, into a fully-fledged collective. While it began as a group of three friends spitting among themselves, by 2018 the crew had developed its core unit. Each performer had refined their skillset and there were strong interactional and musical bonds between each member. de Lacey with Over the Edge / Thursday December 7, 2017. Don City Radio, London J River, Razor, Reaps Audiovisual examples 6f, 6g The central space for the development of OTE’s creative practice during this period was my radio show on Don City, which aired every Thursday. During the early stages of being in OTE, I studied our sets intently. I wanted enough diversity in the instrumentals to reflect the MCs’ preferences,

Levelling Up 155

Figure 6.3  J River, Razor and Reaps. Photograph taken by the author in December 2017.

without losing a common thread. We were also starting to develop our interactive structures, with the MCs—who were much more familiar with each other than I was with them—engaging in back-to-backs and intermusical dialogue. On December 7, 2018, I hosted a set on Don City with J River, Razor and Reaps that spoke to both of these concerns (see Figure 6.3). My thoughts are captured in the journal entry below that detailed my desire to employ complementation and appreciation each individual’s skills and techniques. It’s important to note here, that these entries are immediate and unpolished—and often fairly embarrassing! But this is what I was thinking through immediately after performing. After an hour on my own running vocals and dubs they all arrived. J River started and spat for a good while. He worked a sick back-toback with Razor. I loved the crew’s dynamic tonight. Razor with presence and flow, definitely acting as leader. Reaps with the really intricate introspective bars. There’s always one of these MCs in a crew: Esskay, Luciferian [of The Collective]. Then you’ve got the hype bars from Growly and then J River who I guess is more like Charlie Trees but has a different flavour to Reaps. ‘I was rolling with Charlie and Stanley’ stood out [for its violent connotations]. I guess that edge doesn’t come through in Reaps’ bars which are more about manga, mythology and sci-fi. Journal Entry. December 8, 2017.

156  Levelling Up Despite this awareness and burning desire to align with each of the artists on the night, we often entered into challenging periods of interplay. My shows were important for Reaps’ refinement of his intricate rhyming style and the development of his radio confidence, but it still took time for us to align. This was evidenced 15 minutes into the set, where I drove the performance into uncomfortable territory for him. Entering over ‘Arouse’ by Huffy—a track with a half-time feel, strong synth line and intermittent bass stabs—Reaps was initially afforded space to spray a complex pattern over the top of the instrumental (audiovisual example 6f, 0:02): REAPS:  Exceptional wordsmith, I do my best out here get sent where the dirt is,



defending is urgent, take the path with them all out, you were sent by the Trojans….

Rich with internal rhyme, this passage alluded to aspects of Greek mythology, while foregrounding his technical expertise. However, the instrumental I brought in, Crafty 893’s ‘Oni’, drowned out Reaps’ performance. It was far too busy and abrasive. As a consequence, Reaps could not perform to his full potential. In light of these difficulties, I sought a compromise and drew for a punch rhythm on beat one. This meant that the sonic power of ‘Oni’ could both punctuate each bar and foreground Reaps for the remaining three beats. This decision, while desperate, worked well. Its re-arrival after eight bars of the punch rhythm combined with Reaps switching up his flow into a pattern that better fit the instrumental. He was more direct, plosive, and aggressive. He consequently received a huge response from Razor and River, and earned a reload (audiovisual example 6f, 0:28–0:50). While still a work in progress, this moment offered hope and momentum. The negotiation was metapragmatic, and an awareness of the mismatch of Reaps’ performance and the instrumental was resolved by a quick alteration. For Reaps, his switch-up of a pattern from his multisyllabic rhyme scheme to a more forceful provocation elicited an important change. And although initially fractious, we collectively managed to rectify the emergent trajectory of the performance. J River and Razor also demonstrated a strong level of interplay, which peaked 15 minutes before the end of the set. Following on from a strong 64-bar from Razor over Eva 808’s ‘Duality’, both MCs entered into an interlocking passage that coincided with the introduction of a new instrumental, Bristol-based producer Sir Hiss’s ‘Velociraptor’ (audiovisual example 6g, 1:46). RAZOR: 

like bruddas don’t know like dat, how’s my man tryna bite flows like that? J RIVER:  l-l-lem ting manna get smoked like dat,

Levelling Up 157 RAZOR: 

bout skeng ting manna don’t roll like dat, man can’t chat to my J: bros like dat, UNISON:  Bare elbows to the nose like that, UNISON:  Me and Rivs shell down shows like dat…. Following this passage, J River moved into an eight bar that used a similar rhyme scheme to Razor. Here, I started chopping back in Eva 808’s instrumental. This consequently set up a transition, emboldened by the instrumental’s stripped-back instrumentation. The muted wind line and sparse hi-hat pattern afforded River substantial space to spray. The full introduction of ‘Velociraptor’ at the drop then combines with River’s movement into yet another new section (audiovisual example 6g, 2:24). This resulted in a reload. After the interaction took place, River attempted to reflect on what had happened: ‘you know them mad back to backs. You don’t know where is one stops and my one starts’. This statement from River is telling, since it indicates how this interaction saw the group move through something that he didn’t necessarily know and wasn’t able to convey entirely in retrospect. Importantly, though, he could perform it in that precise moment. I was also able to facilitate this, having overcome my initial issues. Both these negotiations were afforded by the stability of personnel and our relative familiarity. By this point, the Don City residency was both a place of experimentation but also a site for the crew to enter into passages of flow. Razor and River’s interplay offered scope for multiple outcomes. A cacophonous mismanagement could have arisen between the two MCs. Or I could have undone their creative work through poor selection and mixing. Instead, this moment offered an example of us anticipating each other’s actions before they even took place (Sawyer 2003: 44). This set, then, starts to etch out a promo-model for performance within OTE, with emergent practice facilitated by collective social learning. During the following three months the crew engaged in a range of activities and continued to strengthen these bonds. An OTE set in January 2017 saw Reaps performing with renewed confidence and presence. Initially spitting 32 bars over a relaxed instrumental with a prevalent harp sample, he then deftly worked over an eight bar through ball into an instrumental produced by Defiant. Defiant’s instrumentals are notoriously punchy, and this track was up front and abrasive, with square wave synths and sampled choral stabs on a Phrygian mode. Riding a transition like this is challenging at the best of times, but in this instance Reaps retained composure and earned a wheel, following a rousing response from the other MCs present (audiovisual example 6h, 1:06). He then re-spat the 16 and passed the microphone. Later on in the set he also earned a wheel over an energetic instrumental.4 Reaps really rode one nutty beat that I dropped in on his entry about ten minutes before the end. Basically, he was fully on form tonight and because of this I thought he could take it [my instrumental choice]. Got

158  Levelling Up an MC wheel twelve bars into his section, properly killed it as well. Then he passed the mic to Razor, without re-spitting his lyrics. Razor clocked the significance of this straight away. Journal Entry. January 12, 2018. The comfort with which Reaps performed over these challenging tracks demonstrates a calmness and composure that wasn’t present just a few weeks prior. Rather, this moment was indicative of the three months of experimentation that we’d undertaken since the Autumn of 2017. For Seymour Wright, there is real value in unpacking [the] ‘music [that] exist[ed] before its creators have fully got the measure of its parameters’ (Wright 2013: 113). This transitional period for OTE resulted in new ideas and a renewed intensity in our practice. Similar to AMM who developed their own epistemology, the core of our crew was concerned with fashioning techniques, tracks and tropes that could be identifiably OTE, and come to signify us as a group. This chapter’s final subsection takes a single set as its focus, unpacking the ways in which we were developing and articulating a group aesthetic or ‘sound’ in the radio domain.

The Over the Edge ‘Sound’: Developing a Group Aesthetic At the end of March that same year, OTE were invited to perform a showcase on Subtle FM in Hackney Downs, East London. Subtle FM is a medium-­ sized station playing bass music of all kinds, but with a particular focus on dubstep. The show was going to be video streamed live across social media, and it offered us a chance to demonstrate what OTE was really about. I presided over the first hour, playing tracks from Razor, J River and Kabz, who joined the collective in December 2017. Reaps had yet to release any material. Following this, I interviewed crew members about their work and their influences. This provided an insight into their craft for Subtle FM’s audience. This final case study examines the set that took place in the second hour. While studio recordings offer a snapshot of individual crew members’ work, this live set was a realised manifestation of the OTE ‘sound’ that we had been developing over the preceding few months. While nothing was pre-determined, there were ways in which we had been affirming a sense of group identity across our radio sets leading up to the Subtle FM show. These are present in this performance. The study focuses on three aspects of our performance practice. Firstly it examines my relationship with Razor. Secondly, it looks at how certain instrumentals became fundamental to the group’s overall aesthetic and sound through acting as an intermusical referent and creative stimulant. Finally, it examines MC techniques and the ways in which ‘Over The Edge Flows’ (see above) helped solidify Kabz’s status within the collective, demonstrating how intermusical practice is both communally binding and musically generative. A close examination of these factors will make transparent

Levelling Up 159 our often implicit performance schema, thus revealing both the ‘internal systemicity’ and emergent multidirectional improvisatory that characterises collective creativity in grime music (Schloss 2004: 105). Over the Edge Showcase / Sunday March 20, 2018. Subtle Fm, London J River, Kabz, Razor, Reaps Audiovisual Examples 6i–p Razor and de Lacey Working with Razor has been sick, but it took time to get used to being the DJ for someone I was initially a fan of. I remember hearing his track ‘Sao Feng’, and clocking that his cultural points of reference were sick, in addition to his voice timbre and delivery. For the first few sets I was trying to keep a low profile and just support what he was doing. Once it became regular, I began to develop more of a back and forth with him. I guess my birthday set in November 2017 was the first point where we had an extended chat. We were both fully on pushing the group forward and he came to all my sets, and we started to work out what each other liked. I became more conscious of working in 16s, and as my knowledge of his lyrics developed I knew when to drop things in. We became super competent with through balls. I knew to start teasing in an eight before his big bar would come, and he knew that I’d drop it at the right point. We’d maybe exchange a knowing glance but by this point it was tacit and learned. I was confident that if we ran set it would be OK. I guess it’s also happened with Reaps, whose development has been great, but Razor’s established status and existing body of work meant I could study his tracks and lyrics more, where Reaps’ material was basically only available on my sets. Either way I was hyped for this Subtle set to show what we could do. Journal Entry. March 23, 2018 This extract from my diary captures my shifting relationship with Razor, from a point of fandom to symbiotic performance. While this entry is raw it offers a reflective look at the months leading up to the show. I spent weeks trying to develop a quasi-encyclopaedic knowledge of each MCs’ bars. In doing so, I was hoping to gauge when it might be good to bring in a new instrumental, or when I could build energy through chopping. The understanding developed between myself and Razor was reflected early on in the showcase for Subtle. Ten minutes into the set the microphone was passed to Razor, and we quickly entered into a passage of interplay over a typically caustic instrumental from Defiant. Razor was spitting new bars off of his phone that I hadn’t heard (artists often write new lyrics in their mobile phone’s ‘Notes’ section). I held back, allowing him space to perform. However, as soon as he switched up into something familiar I cued up the next track.

160  Levelling Up Although it only had an eight-bar build-up, I knew what was coming in on the ninth bar (audiovisual example 6i, 0:33): RAZOR:  For the campaign, manna got a manifesto, gas ting, when I spray shelling Es-so,



wasn’t really for the money from the get go but, now I’ve gotta get paid gotta make dough, gotta work for the dough like a baker does, we’re crazy you know, don’t play with us man already said that we’re dangerous. We’ve got the sauce you stay flavourless, I’m like we’ve got the we’ve got the sauce, manna man a came with the condiments, I’m out here collecting the compliments….

Having heard Razor spray these bars on previous sets, the quick draw for a new instrumental meant its drop coincided with his arrival at a hype lyric, and the combined efforts of the instrumental’s sonic punch and Razor’s flow caused the track to be pulled back. The principal point of interest here is my response. As soon as the lyrics came out of Razor’s mouth, I looked forward instantly and made appropriate alterations. At this point in time, I was starting to see his lyrics in a modular way. Second-guessing Razor’s trajectory enabled me to both react correctly and quickly, resulting in a moment of substantial energy. Moments later, however, an error took place while I was struggling with a mix on the decks. I typically mix fast, with the intention of bringing through a new instrumental every 32 bars if possible. Here, though, I simply could not get the new track in time. Razor and I were working together and I started to tease in a new instrumental by Bristol-based producer and DJ MJK, entitled ‘D-T-OI’. I alerted Razor to an impending change by chopping on beats 3 and 4. He spat a 16 over this period of chopping, before I then started to bring it in on beat 1, inferring more strongly that a change was due. Razor responded, put his hand up in the air and raised his voice in anticipation. Rather than arriving with the drop, however, Razor’s vigour was instead met with stasis. While Razor attacked the microphone with punch and power, I faltered, failing to match the expected trajectory of our collective performance. This resulted in him falling off beat, leading him to reflect on what had just occurred (audiovisual example 6j, 0:30–1:14): Sword on my back, strike first can’t wait to attack…sssss. Ohhh. See I got gassed in between what was here and what was coming. Nah, nah, you gassed me too hard, it’s not your fault bruv. I’m gonna do one more though.

Levelling Up 161 Razor tried to argue that it wasn’t my fault, but I knew that this was not the case. My suggestion, an overt through ball with ‘D-T-OI’, strongly suggested to Razor that a change was immanent. Through not following through, his expectation was mismatched with my inability to mix in the instrumental. As a consequence, this improvisatory negotiation fell flat. Both the energy and momentum were lost. Looking back to the journal entry above, it’s clear that this negotiation was leaning on our ‘tacit and learned’ relationship. For Razor, through being ‘gassed in between what was here and what was coming’ he acknowledged that he was thinking through the performance, and anticipating my movements, while already spitting. Through failing to align with his expectations, I plunged this passage into uncertainty. What both these negotiations show, though, is a working relationship that was beginning to flourish: micromanagement and interaction afforded a successful through ball in the first instance; and the closeness with which we were working allowed us to rebuild from the mistake without it affecting the overall performance’s trajectory. Managing uncertainty is a critical facet of improvisatory performance in grime music. So, too, is the ability to engage with successful and more unsuccessful passages of negotiation. The ‘emergent ontology’ of a group is fashioned through live interaction, and while the stakes are high, it’s this dual functionality of radio as both a site of performance and practice that sees new ideas come into being. Live performance in grime is a process of both individual skill acquisition and collective growth, and these examples—from both Reaps and Razor—­capture this development in action. Intermusicality: The DJ’s Perspective Shortly after Razor received a reload for arriving at the drop with his hype lyric, he took the mic and reflected on how far the crew had come since its inception: ‘Do you know know what yeah? Over The. Yo. Do you know how many years man has been waiting for OTE to touch its full potential cuz, are you mad?’ This declaration is telling. For years the crew had been MCing together in a close and creative way, but this set indicated a move towards a more readily identifiable ‘sound’ for the crew. One important aspect of the crew’s sound is the relationship developed with their DJ. While guesting on other DJs’ sets allowed Razor, Reaps, River and Kabz to refine their MCing ability, a level of familiarity with a regular DJ meant that combinations could be explored further. Aidan’s residency on Cream Collective depended on a quick assessment of artists’ strengths and weaknesses, owing to his rotating roster. This subsection explores how weekly sessions with the same crew afford the development of a more established group sound, cemented through instrumental selections and the employment of DJ gesture.

162  Levelling Up Mark Butler’s landmark study of DJ performance presents concerns that DJs face while performing: ‘DJs are continuously evaluating the current configuration of sounds; when, how it should change; what sort of sound or record should follow next’ (Butler 2014: 106). This moderation of travel is compounded by the addition of MCs. If we recall Chapter 2, DJ Eastwood spoke about ‘surprising [the] MCs’ and maintaining a high level of energy, whereas Aidan’s proto-taxonomising distinguished between certain styles of the artist. Localised, crew-based practice signals an advance on this approach. I had already assigned a rough ‘style’ to each of OTE’s MCs, but I was also part of a collective push to fashion an overall crew sound, born out of instrumental selections and multidirectional interplay. Instrumentals possessed intertextual power, and their usage both meant something to the collective and engendered a musical response. As such, the organisation of instrumental tracks was an arduous process. During this period, there were 2,847 instrumentals on each of my USBs.5 Only 30 of these were in regular rotation. Each month I would curate a new folder. Instrumentals would then be trialled. Those that survived the month would then be moved into my principal folder. This vetting process produced a core selection of instrumentals. I knew which tracks would work with certain MCs, when to bring them in and how to use them. A level of familiarity for the MCs also brought forth patterns that MCs had either written specifically for the beat or that they knew would work over it. Eliciting contextual associations became a useful intermusical tactic. I would often drop instrumentals that an MC had previously vocalled. This offered an opportunity for the MC to change tack and spit bars that they had initially written for the instrumental in question. This happened a number of times on the Subtle FM show, especially with Razor, dropping in instrumentals for the tracks of his then-latest EP Homegrown. Outside of this, I would consciously choose selections that certain MCs had been enjoying in recent weeks. For example, Reaps was a big fan of North American producer BLVCK COVVBOYS, notably his track ‘T.L.C.O’. I made sure it was ready for this set, since he had been writing lyrics to it for a future release. After the set, I wrote the following in my journal: Here I quickly mixed in ‘T.L.C.O’ by BLVCK COVVBOYS cause I knew Reaps wanted to have it on the set and I saw him take the mic from Razor. Even though I’d just thrown in another new instrumental eight bars beforehand I wanted to line it up. Within sixteen bars I had the track in and he reacted instantly with a more forceful tone but hadn’t had time to switch up his pattern. When he did about eight bars in it was fully sick, with the multi-flow and mad imagery. Journal Entry. March 22, 2018.

Levelling Up 163 And Reaps’ lyrics were as follows: REAPS:  I cause and effect shit, point over all is war and deceptive,



Accept it, shell in a lyrical war, this sword is super effective….

Through listening back to the recording, it is apparent that the instrumental’s arrival is met with a substantial rise in volume from Reaps. His heightened presence then combines with a switch-up of flow for his ninth bar. While initially tentative on entry, Reaps repurposes his performance with power and direction. After the drop-in, he proceeded to spit for 32 bars before audaciously quoting one of Razor’s reload bars to get a wheel (audiovisual example 6k, 0:27–1:33). The choice of instrumental and its ‘quick draw’, to lean on DJ Eastwood’s terminology, coincides with Reaps’ entry and brings forth the desired outcome. The novelty of the instrumental, its significant impact on Reaps owing to his prior interactions with it, and the after-effect of his revitalised contribution all fed into the emergent performance, providing momentum and forward movement that resulted in a reload. Further to individual associations, there were also instrumentals that became associated with the group as a whole, eliciting a shared response within its micro-interpretative community. Within hip-hop certain tracks can ‘bind the community together’ (Williams 2013: 180). In this instance, they had a particular meaning for our crew. Sorrow’s 2016 track ‘Mandolin Man’ was a prime example of this. It was a staple of my sets, owing to the potent combination of heavy low-end, string iterations and clarion call horn lines. Because of this association, I decided to drop it in early to add some character to the performance. Eight minutes in, I pushed it through with J River negotiating an intricate 16-bar passage. The way he rode it was remarkable, and it warranted a reload (audiovisual example 6l, 0:36). Just as it began to build up again, the following exchange took place: J RIVER:  Kabz, I know you wanna spit. Let me just KABZ:  I want this riddim, I can’t lie, I can’t lie. J RIVER:  Let me just squeeze one out quickly.

squeeze one out.

True to his word, River spat a 16 and swung the mic. More importantly, though, this exchange demonstrates the effect certain instrumentals can have on performance. For ‘Mandolin Man’, it was compounded by prior interaction with the track on previous sets. In this instance, Kabz took over with one of his signature bars and consequently added to the momentum of the overall performance. After the set, I reflected on how these instrumentals can help structure a set.

164  Levelling Up Drew for Sorrow’s ‘Mandolin Man’ early on. Proper signature beat for the crew now. Worked really well with River’s bars. Spent a lot of time on it too so everyone could get a go. I could see Kabz was proper wanting to jump on it. Kind of vindicates me when this happens. [I] remember a set on Don City a few weeks back when Kabz was like ‘hold that riddim’ but I only had 30 seconds left on the instrumental, so I had to load it up on the other deck and mix it into itself to keep the flow running. Journal Entry. March 24, 2018. This reflection demonstrates how instrumental selection can be critical for affirming a sense of group identity, and for iteratively building energy during a performance. Within a collective, it is the DJ’s responsibility to line up tracks that both complement the MCs and at times challenge them to level up and exceed expectations. Knowing their lyrics, knowing their patterns and knowing how to get the best out of them is a skill that develops over time. It is only through performance—and the pressure of the live radio domain—that this can really be tested. In an interview, contemporary classical composer Cornelius Cardew spoke of performance as a process of accumulation (Devlin 1966: 18). This resonates well with OTE’s practice. Constant refinement and alignment with other performers—through selections and their contextual associations—helped me develop a DJing style that reflects and embodies OTE, and forms part of its wider ideational structure of meaning (Rice 2001: 36). Intermusicality: Over the Edge Flows as Communal Bind While this chapter’s first section focused on the referential employment of crew flows—for both Shellyvnne and OTE—the chapter will close with a more granular study of crew flows in action. Specifically, it focuses on a short example of Kabz’s practice from the Subtle FM showcase, showing how its repurposing by other members of the crew (in this case Razor) is both an example of intermusical practice, but—more importantly—affirms Kabz’s membership within the crew during his embryonic involvement with the collective. Kabz’s first performance with OTE took place on December 14, 2017, at a live showcase in Peckham (see Figure 6.4). His arrival had a huge effect, and the performance was remembered for Kabz’s employment of a lightning-fast semiquaver pattern that combined exponentially with my instrumental choice: a track by Sir Hiss with sparse and hard synth stabs and military-like snare rolls. Two people—Growly and an audience member— threw their hands up towards me, spinning their hand back to indicate a reload (audiovisual example 6m). Kabz’s involvement added renewed vigour to the collective, and this resonates with complexity theorists Davis

Levelling Up 165

Figure 6.4  Flyer for Keep Hush, Peckham, December 2017.

and Sumara, who wrote on the way in which new elements can ‘expand the space of the possible rather than perpetuating entrenched habits’ (Davis and Sumara 2006: 135). This introduction of novelty, however, could have negatively impacted group cohesion, and the intrinsic make-up of OTE. According to Bernhard Burnes, in business the best-run companies—that function in a similarly chaotic environment to grime’s live circuit—‘operate at the edge of chaos by relentlessly pushing a path of continuous innovation’. This push however is dangerous. Burnes also noted that this ‘inject[ion] of so much novelty and change into their normal operations [causes them to] constantly risk falling over the edge’ (Burnes 2005: 80–81). For OTE, the transition from a period of innovation motivated by Kabz’s membership towards an understanding of ‘shared enterprise’ is evidenced

166  Levelling Up

Figure 6.5  Transcription of Kabz’s syncopated flow at Subtle FM, March 22, 2018 (audiovisual example 6n, 0:15–0:30).

in the crews’ use of ‘Over The Edge flows’ on the Subtle FM showcase. Early on, Razor and Kabz’s fledgling relationship is immediately apparent, with both artists delivering syncopated flow styles that offer a flavour of each others’ delivery while possessing their own idiosyncrasies (see Figures 6.5 and 6.6; audiovisual example 6n). Later in the set, Kabz employs a novel tactic in two stages. Whereas referencing within the collective has been documented, here Kabz repurposes a lyrical pattern from outside the crew while providing a distinctly OTE flavour. This adaptation of West London MC AJ Tracey’s hype lyric ‘thought that I missed the drop but I never’, creates both an ‘intrageneric’ reference to another artist within the scene—as mentioned earlier with respect to hip-hop practice—and a wider reference to a style of vocal delivery where the MC’s entry is delayed slightly for dramatic effect (see Figures 6.7 and 6.8). Unlike AJ Tracey’s original lyric, Kabz’s variation takes six semiquavers rest before entry. It does, however, possess a number of commonalities, including a falling semiquaver to dotted quaver on the fourth beat of ‘cheddar’ and ‘whenever’. This usage affirms a connection to, and understanding of, the wider grime performance community, through demonstrating

Figure 6.6  Transcription of Razor’s triplet flow at Subtle FM, March 22, 2018 (audiovisual example 6n, 1:37–1:44).

Levelling Up 167

Figure 6.7  Transcription of AJ Tracey’s signature flow, from ‘Swerve n Skid’.

‘insider knowledge’ of its canon of performance tropes, while also offering an idiosyncratic edge (Williams 2013: 46). This tactics’ development into a quasi-group flow took place over a number of sessions. While Kabz debuted the lyric in early January, he subsequently developed a variation. This variation was therefore a refix of his own initial intrageneric allusion. Its solidification as a group trope, however, only became realised when Razor subsequently developed his own take on Kabz’s version. Importantly, Razor’s version was debuted on the Subtle FM showcase. This offers a critical jump, from an individual intrageneric allusion to an ensemble tactic that is communally meaningful with creative implications. Razor’s debut of his flow had a remarkable effect. As soon as Razor started to perform the lyric, Kabz visibly jumped up and indicated towards me to reload the track. On the recording, you can hear River say ‘had to pull it’ immediately afterwards. These reactions were strengthened by the similarity between Razor’s refix and Kabz’s version, the former paraphrasing Kabz’s pattern, while flipping the lyric order of his opening line. The passage still cadences at the same point (on the eighth semiquaver of bar 2), but the rhyme of ‘catch that’—as opposed to ‘missed it’—resolves upwards (see Figures 6.9 and 6.10). This innovation is crucial for a number of reasons. Firstly, it is demonstrative of how external creative work can become internally meaningful for a collective. Secondly, through Razor’s consequent innovation, it captures the ways in which intermusical allusions can strengthen creative partnerships. Kabz had joined the crew three months prior. Through

Figure 6.8  Transcription of Kabz’s adaptation of AJ Tracey’s signature flow at Subtle FM, March 22, 2018 (audiovisual example 6o, 0:15–0:23).

168  Levelling Up

Figure 6.9  Transcription of Kabz’s refix of his AJ Tracey Flow. Subtle FM, March 22, 2018 (audiovisual example 6p, 0:14–0:22).

Figure 6.10  Transcription of Razor’s refix of Kabz’s flow. Subtle FM, March 22, 2018 (audiovisual example 6p, 0:38–0:45).

Kabz developing a pattern subsequently incorporated by Razor, it shows an acknowledgment of both Kabz’s affiliation with the crew and a level of creative impetus to influence other MCs’ contributions. The overtly indexical capacity of this association therefore acts as a communal bind for the crew, evidenced by Razor’s closing phrase: ‘war Over The Edge, man will back that’. This incident, then, is a prime example of how micro-interpretative communities, such as grime crews, can level up through innovative use of both internal and external stimuli. Razor’s employment of Kabz’s flow offers both a strong intermusical moment that strengthened the ‘interpersonal bonds of the ensemble’, while also presenting an expansion of the improvisatory ensemble’s creative palate that resulted in a moment of climactic energy (Monson 1996: 189).

Over the Edge as a Learning Tool The level of barring, the proficiency of skill in the squad is high. You have to understand it’s so organic in OTE. Most people have just been spitting in their fucking bedrooms for years and that’s how they’ve learned to bar. We learned together. OTE now is a learning tool, we like

Levelling Up 169 to cultivate talent where we see it and give people the opportunity to grow into the MCs they can be J River This chapter explored the practice of two grime crews and their collaborative construction of performance schema. New practice is hard to tie down, but in the case of Shellyvnne and OTE, their ideas were brought forth through hyper-local innovation and intermusical allusion. The development of idiosyncratic phases of play—as opposed to the more established structures explored in Chapters 2 and 3—is vital to both collectives. These phases of play are open form and fundamentally tied to each ensemble. Shellyvnne’s modular lyric structures were incredibly flexible, while OTE’s flow patterns continue to strengthen our communal bind. While the homogeneity of the voice as performance tool can cause friction in the radio domain—through a variety of MCs with different affiliations clamouring for the microphone— it is a key strength for collectives, who can collaboratively fashion intricate lyrical and rhythmic structures that combine in a variety of permutations. In addition, instrumental tracks can become emblematic of a crew. Many crews rely on their in-house producers to solidify a particular sound. OTE folded in tracks from its own producers (IndexOnDecks, Raheim, Growly) alongside outside artists, such as Sorrow, to develop a recognisable group aesthetic. J River’s quote above captures the way in which OTE has been able to cultivate these individual artists’ talent. Prior to joining the crew, all of OTE’s members were deeply passionate about their craft. However, it was within the crew itself that they could really develop. This chapter has also shown how elements can emerge out of performance with artists not quite being able to quantify what they were actually doing when the ideas were made manifest. This was evidenced in J River’s backto-back with Razor, which River struggled to verbalise after its occurrence (audiovisual example 6g). However, the emergence of these ideas—whether cognisant or implicit—is predicated on a continued and committed dedication to improvisatory practice as part of a group. This commitment to a group aesthetic, or ‘sound’, reached its apex with OTE’s showcase show on Subtle FM. The selection of instrumentals was chosen to suit both an overarching theme and the particularities of each MC. MC relationships were demonstrated through OTE flows, and intermusical associations, while Kabz’s membership of the crew was affirmed through Razor’s creative incorporation of his performance suggestions as part of a wider group trope. This performance, although a standalone piece of footage, was part of a wider period of development, with each radio set on Don City offering a space for what Seymour Wright calls ‘self-reflexive group study’ (Wright 2013: 115). Within this, new ideas take shape and flourish.

170  Levelling Up As the chapter draws to a close, then, there are three key takeaways from this examination of the practice of Shellyvnne and OTE. Firstly, how a creative process in grime is afforded by the particularities of its environment, with scope for innovation, learning and practice enabled by weekly radio sets and live shows. Secondly, these environments’ importance for facilitating artists in establishing a recognisable group aesthetic for their collective, or crew. Finally, how the employment of intermusical allusions can stimulate the emergent practice and act as a communal bind, consequently offering scope for levelling up through iteratively building momentum as a collective improvisatory unit.

Audiovisual Example Captions Audiovisual Example 6a Modular Lyrical Units: Shiesty and Glorz on Rinse FM. Audiovisual Example 6b Modular Lyrical Units 2: Voltage and Shiesty on Don City Radio. Audiovisual Example 6c Modular Lyrical Units 3: Shellyvnne MCs and DJ Argue. Audiovisual Example 6d Intra-crew flows 1: MC J Smart. Audiovisual Example 6e Intra-crew flows 2: MC Rudie Rudez. Audiovisual Example 6f Early interactions: Reaps and de Lacey on Don City. Audiovisual Example 6g Back-to-backs: Razor and J River. Audiovisual Example 6h Early interactions 2: Reaps and de Lacey on Don City. Audiovisual Example 6i OTE Showcase: Razor and de Lacey 1. Audiovisual Example 6j OTE Showcase: Razor and de Lacey 2. Audiovisual Example 6k OTE Showcase: Reaps and Intermusicality. Audiovisual Example 6l OTE Showcase: J River and Kabz over Sorrow’s ‘Mandolin Man’. Audiovisual Example 6m Kabz live at Keep Hush. Audiovisual Example 6n OTE Showcase: Kabz and Razor’s flow patterns. Audiovisual Example 6o OTE Showcase: Kabz and Razor’s flow patterns 2. Audiovisual Example 6p OTE Showcase: Kabz and Razor’s flow patterns 3.

Notes

1 See Williams’ Rhymin’ and Stealin’ for an extensive dive into musical borrowing in hip-hop. 2 See de Lacey, “Aesthetic Kid, Esskay, Voltage, J Smart, Shiesty, Growly and Daze the Kid”, Don City Radio, London. October 26, 2017.

Levelling Up 171



3 See DJ Argue, “DJ ARGUE with SHELLYVNNE”, Radar Radio, London. February 5, 2018. https://www.mixcloud.com/RadarRadioLDN/dj-argue-wshellyvnne-sir-hiss-guestmix-residency-5th-february-2018/. Accessed September 2, 2022. 4 See de Lacey, “Over the Edge, Braceman & Mr Sols”, Don City Radio, London. January 11, 2018. 5 During the late 2010s, DJs would load up USB memory sticks with tracks. These would then be inserted into CDJs, from which tracks could be selected during a performance. Vinyl was less popular but still used.

Conclusion

When I joined Don City in the Summer of 2017, I wasn’t quite aware of the magnitude of the endeavour I was embarking on. I had been a huge fan and DJ of grime music for many years, but for the first time ever I felt fully invited into the fold. The following half decade saw me work with hundreds of artists, fashion lifelong friendships, and create memories that will stay with me until my time comes to pass. I began the research with a view to focus explicitly on grime performance, in ways that had not been attended to in previous work on the genre. While initially motivated by a palpable disjunct between media representations of the form—which deemed grime as a visceral yet voyeuristically enthralling—and practice itself, I have sought to offer a holistic understanding of the group creative process, bringing my experiences to bear alongside analysis and interviews with vital figures within the form’s wider ecosystem. This long-term ethnographic engagement with grime’s field of performance has challenged these former readings, and I hope in some way to have set the record straight. Grime is not ‘alien’ or impenetrable (Campion 2004). Rather, it is highly complex. Successful performances depend on adherence to an intricate set of performance conventions, an understanding and appreciation of varying local pragmatic processes and a distinct capacity to innovate within an uncertain territory. The comprehensive model of grime performance that has resulted from this work offers new ways to conceptualise group interaction in the live domain. Its model of levelling up accounts for the multitudinous array of performers invested in grime performance, antagonisms born out of tensions between individuals and the wider emergent trajectory, and its improvisatory nature that demands metapragmatic negotiation. Within this, it has mapped an array of processes that vary in intensity: from the interrelated accumulation of hype towards moments of climactic and irruptive energy to the more deliberated ways in which crews engage in collective social learning to bring forth new practice and idiosyncratic group epistemologies. This conclusion will attempt to bring together some of the key findings from my investigations. DOI: 10.4324/9781003295792-8

Conclusion 173

Key Findings I came into this project with a number of concerns relating to the wider field of performance, not just within grime music. Of course, I sought to question the ways in which grime’s performance processes can offer insight into its musical identity as a genre, however I was also interested in how a greater understanding of these processes could provide a model of group improvisation more widely. And I was also intrigued with how the very spaces in which it is performed—principally pirate radio—have impacted upon the creative process itself for both grime and its antecedent forms like UK Garage, Hardcore and Jungle. Through the course of this research I have come to a number of conclusions about grime’s musical identity and the idiosyncrasies it possesses from other forms of Afrodiasporic performance. These distinctive features are crucial for understanding grime, and the wider spaces in which it is performed. Multidirectionality, Metapragmatic Process and DJ Gesture The first of these is multidirectionality. Within grime performance, multiple MCs are engaged in improvisatory collaboration with the DJ. These artists engage in fervent interactional procedures, all of which necessitate assiduous concentration. The success of the reload, rally and through ball, all dense and fundamentally group-based phases of play, is contingent on the metapragmatic ability of DJs and MCs to listen to others’ performance suggestions and adjust their trajectory while already performing themselves. The capacity to make ‘ongoing micro adjustments’, a technique similarly prized in gamelan performance, enables grime artists to quickly react to alterations and indications, and shift in-and-out of these phases of play (Brinner 1995: 169). Despite an understanding and employment of these practices, the number of artists performing at a grime show—and the extent to which their performance directions are indicative—is continually in flux. The necessity incumbent upon a dancehall deejay to ‘conduct choir’ and enter into an antiphonal relationship with the audience differs considerably from a grime DJ negotiating a set with 12 MCs clamouring for the microphone (Henriques 2011: 158). As such, this book’s mapping of group practice and improvisation within a club and DJ-driven environment both captures the intensity with which grime is often performed, and builds upon existing representations of DJ performance as antiphonal practice in dialogue with an audience’s ‘collective body’ (Fikentscher 2000: 6). This can be seen through comparison to the work of Mark Butler and Kai Fikentscher on DJ practice more broadly. For Butler, the DJ is concerned with ‘what sort of sound or record should follow next’, whereas a grime DJ is preoccupied with a substantial array of options: what sort of instrumental

174  Conclusion might align with the next MC to take the microphone (known as ‘complementation’); how to quickly transition into a different style of instrumental; how the change might affect the MC currently spitting; what specific intermusical relevance the instrumental may have for any of the MCs present and so on (Butler 2014: 106). Similarly, Fikentscher highlights ‘the capacity to engender commmunitas through the ritual of dance’ during UDM1 performance. While this is a consideration, it often contrasts with a grime DJ’s technical cachet. Punching, for example, adds a new percussive layer that is urgent and unrelenting, while the ‘quick draw’ affords an exponential rise in energy through a sudden change in sonic character. It is also important to acknowledge the dynamic afforded by the audience in different settings. When grime artists are performing on radio, this audience makes itself known through a variety of channels. DJs have to listen out for the studio phone, just in case it’s ringing off the hook for a great selection, monitor their Twitter feed, and make sure to shout out the ‘micro massive’ tuned in, be it from their car, living room or (latterly) their mobile device. This contrasts from presenting an audience as a homogenous mass. While crowds can certainly demand the reload in a live setting, this (important) role is one of many in a vastly interconnected, multidirectional array of possibilities and permutations that grime MCs and DJs must consider. Tensions between Individual and Collective Indeed, the sheer number of MCs in this ever-changing negotiation provides scope for creativity but also brings to bear latent tensions surrounding the genre’s performance circuit as a whole. While unrest and confrontation feature extensively in sound system culture, it is typically between rival sounds. For the most part, dancehall deejays are very skilled curators who ‘monitor’ proceedings and act as a mediator with a live audience, and iteratively build the vibe with its array of participants. Grime is also distinct from gamelan in this regard, since it is both more fluid in personnel and the roles that these artists can undertake. Antagonisms arrive in gamelan performance, but these are between clearly defined roles. The kendhang (double-headed drum) is normally in charge of setting the irama (temporal relationships between parts), while many musicians follow the pamurba (overall leader). The gambang (xylophone) player(s), however, typically defer(s) to the rebab’s (bowed spiked fiddle) lead (Brinner 1995: 219). In grime, however, the homogeneity of the voice means tension on sets is often omnidirectional. This continued threat of combative MCing or uninvited guests adds to the challenge, and as a result, antagonisms can arise, resulting in both extramusical and on-air confrontation. The most overt stimulant of creative practice, though, is the tension between individual and collective. The paradoxical mapping of divergent individuality and collective fervour was most acutely demonstrated in Chapter 3, with Dot Rotten’s driving—yet scintillating—performance on

Conclusion 175 Sir Spyro’s Rinse FM Show. Similarly to the hip-hop cipher, grime performance encourages skill acquisition through its ‘communal and competitive’ nature. Unlike the cipher, though, where artists (in general) take turns to spray their best 32 bars, individuals are afforded opportunity to converge and combine, either with a fellow MC or the DJ, often resulting in moments of climactic energy. This occurred when Sir Spyro both accommodated for Dot Rotten’s trajectory, before selecting an instrumental by Dot Rotten, ‘Real Talk 3’, as a means to proceed. This instance, therefore, also captured the way in which intermusical allusions can be utilised to manoeuvre through such fraught negotiations (Alim 2006: 101). The Specificity of the Radio Domain Thirdly, this exchange and interplay was principally realised within the radio domain. Without it, grime’s landscape would be very different. The radio network is rarely attended to in academic work on performance (across all genres). Instead, the practice room and consequent live performances take precedent, with the majority of work on pirate radio concerned with its political potential as a site of ‘alternative media’.2 Larisa Kingston Mann’s work on the radio at the margins has indicated how radio can be a site of ‘collective intimacy’ and this study has sought to advance on her findings to indicate its role as a site for collective creativity, too. Rather than simply being together, artists are being and creating together in this realm (Mann 2019: 383). For the UK context, in particular, the documentation of creative endeavours is often limited. Aside from the work of Monique Charles and Matthew Fuller referenced throughout, and Rollo Jackson’s Tape Crackers—which clearly shows the potential for the study of jungle and grime tapes from the late 1990s and early 2000s, see below—decades of performance history, especially from the United Kingdom, remained untapped. This book’s focus on radio therefore offers substantial advances in the understanding of this medium as a performance arena, and its position within grime’s interrelated network that includes raves and various entrepreneurial ventures, such as visual platforms like JDZ Media and SB:TV. These elements are a critical part of grime’s wider field of cultural production, but it is within the radio sphere that most performative innovation takes place. This was demonstrated through documentation of London’s pirate radio scene. Over a hundred practitioners regularly engaged with the sphere every week during my period of enquiry, many more were eagerly tuned in via their radios. This vast web of stations, artists and listeners builds into an ‘exploratory system of mutual excitation’ that iteratively accrues hype and consequently results in irruptive, new practice (Fuller 2004: 50). This creative thrust is afforded by both the domain itself, and the multidirectional interplay of its participants. As such, the agency of these individuals differs from Fuller’s principal focus on the media ecology at large.

176  Conclusion Active improvisatory interplay between MCs and DJs breeds fervent interchange, be it within temporary group affiliations, or more stable units: from Kraze and Krucial in Chapter 2; through the work of YGG and MTP across Chapters 3 and 4; to the recent practice of Shellyvnne and Over The Edge, radio’s very liveness provided both an edge, and a space to convene. Both the ‘public nature’ of cutting sessions for jazz musicians, yet the consistency offered by DJ’s regular sessions—such as Selecta Impact’s shows for Shellyvnne, and my residency with Over The Edge—allowed for groups to develop and refine their sound and overall aesthetic’. Levelling Up This book’s core intent was to fashion a model of grime’s creative practice, that built upon the distinctive features mentioned above. This modelling of grime’s wide-ranging performance processes—such as the reload, rally and through ball—has demonstrated how artists collaboratively work towards points of climactic energy, wherein they can level up. Levelling up involves furthering one’s individual abilities and group affiliations as part of a wider system of learning and progression. It has four distinctive features. Firstly, resultant moments of climactic energy are resolutely group-based and gestalt in actuation through exceeding the sum of its parts. Secondly, these moments are either built towards iteratively as part of an interrelated improvisatory process, or they can emerge suddenly, ‘in the blink of an eye’, through remarkable points of convergence (Bourdieu 1990: 81). The rally is an example of communal convergence over time, the reload is often quicker to arrive, while the through ball is flexible. The through ball’s defining feature is the prescient ability of improvisatory performers to anticipate the future nature of group interaction and make appropriate amendments. These amendments build into Level Up’s third distinctive feature. Levelling up requires astute metapragmatic negotiation, and it is an emergent characteristic of an improvisatory group. It is both an irreducible property of the collective and is ensured through ongoing adjustments. Finally, its enactment typically results in instances of new practice, fashioned out of complex improvisatory interplay. The process is coloured and augmented by a number of contributing factors. Firstly, the very multidirectionality explored above, and the improvisatory contributions from multiple MCs and DJs. Secondly, the performance setting itself. Radio brings chaos and coherence in equal measure, while its interrelated network engenders group process. Thirdly, the enduring tension between individual and collective that necessitates the ‘sharpening of steel against steel’, as attested to by J River. Finally, there are two features distinctive to stable groups that enable them to level up: intermusical referentiality, refined over an extended period, and each crew’s respective epistemology.

Conclusion 177 Intertextuality is incredibly local in grime, and a full array of musical allusions can be used to infer impending change. These are strengthened as part of an improvising group. Modular lyrical units offer innumerable permutations and prospective pathways, DJ complementation is often imbued with intertextual power owing to prior outings, while intra-crew flows act as a creative invitation and communal bind. Acute understanding between participants consequently fashions a recognisable aesthetic. While radical openness is assuaged, this does not sully improvisatory potential. Instead, each group’s idiosyncratic phases of play, and dense intertextual schema, are malleable and can subsequently adjust to the constraints of the emergent performance at hand. As such, they offer substantial potential for levelling up over extended periods of time, or from—as Krucial describes it—‘genuine bursts of energy’. Levelling up is fundamental to grime practice, and its enactment is ultimately contingent upon collective acts of creativity. And while this model of grime practice has built upon, and with, existing work on a variety of Afrodiasporic practices, it could equally be employed to map—or disentangle—the complexities of other improvisatory performance forms. Most notably, those that endure a rotating roster of collaborators, are multidirectional in scope, and have implicit performance schema, such as improvised theatre, free jazz, shangaan electro—where dancers on stage, the DJ, and audience all interact—and other DJ-based performance forms including—but not limited to—jungle and footwork. Coda: Artists’ Ways of Knowing It has been mentioned throughout this book that level up is a term taken from within the tradition of grime music performance. This is vital and reflects both its in-depth documentation of creative practice in popular music ensembles, and a core commitment to artists’ ways of knowing. I have strongly advocated for the legitimacy of in-house terminology as ways of knowing, both for the artists and for wider (academic and critical) understanding. Using a metaphor borrowed from sport, such as the through ball, for example, breaks down an otherwise highly dense, interactional process into something tangible for the musicians involved, while at the same time conveying the presence of mind needed to ensure its successful enactment. Levelling up is similarly comprehensible, evoking both learning and acquisition, while the rally offers a striking visual correlate, with tennis players hitting the ball back and forth readily mapping onto MCs’ fervent interchange. While theorising is an important endeavour, with much taking place within the book as a whole, it is important to recall Bourdieu’s assertion that ‘practice has a logic that is not of the logician’ (1990: 86). Without artists’ ways of knowing, this genre wouldn’t exist. Because of this, artists’ ideas readily complement the theoretical framework. While both readily evoke the complexity of the processes at hand, framing the practice for grime’s

178  Conclusion community of MCs and DJs is a core aim. There’s no use writing a book on grime performance that isolates the very people who made the form what it is today. Through employing my position as a practitioner, I aimed to foreground artists’ practices and experiences in conjunction with the construction of a comprehensive model that is faithful to the craft, while still elucidating the intricacies and complexities of its performance processes. This book’s fundamental aim was to document grime music and its performance in London. While starting as a modest venture, it has resulted in the formulation of a complex model for group improvisatory practice, based upon the idiosyncrasies of grime’s performance community. Throughout many years of investigation, it attended to grime’s core components, the principal phases of play (the reload, rally, through ball), and its performance network. Ethnographic enquiry has also offered the first extended examination of a grime crew and its creative practice. As the form continues to develop its performance practice will also evolve. Scope for innovation is indicated by the emergence of the ‘through ball’, and the multidirectional interactivity that characterises grime practice and stimulates its performance process. This study will hopefully function as a starting point for future endeavours that seek to determine the ways in which grime artists pursue innovation within this highly contested, yet creatively fertile sphere of performance.

Notes

1 ‘UDM’ is an acronym for Underground Dance Music. 2 See John Nathan Anderson, “Illicit Transmissions: Engaging with the Study and Preservation of Pirate Radio”, Journal of Radio & Audio Media 23, no. 2 (2016): 235; Hayes Mawindi Mabweazara, “‘Pirate’ Radio, Convergence and Reception in Zimbabwe”, Telematics and Informatics 30, no. 3 (2013): 240; Moyo, “Pirate Radio as Empowerment”, 484–500.

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Bibliography 185 Turner, Patrick. 2010. “Hip Hop versus Rap: An Ethnography of the Cultural Politics of New Hip Hop Practices.” Ph.D. dissertation. Goldsmiths University of London, London, UK. Veal, Michael E. Dub. 2007. Soundscapes and Shattered Songs in Jamaican Reggae. Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press. Walser, Robert and Small, Christopher (eds.). 2016. The Christopher Small Reader. Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press. Wang, Oliver. 2015. Legions of Boom: Filipino American Mobile DJ Crews in the San Francisco Bay Area. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Weheliye, Alexander. 2005. Phonographies: Grooves in Sonic Afro-Modernity. London: Duke University Press. Wheatley, Simon. 2010. Don’t Call Me Urban! The Time of Grime. Newcastle: Northumbria Press. White, Joy. 2017. Urban Music and Entrepreneurship: Beats, Rhymes and Young people’s Enterprise. London: Routledge. ———. 2020. Terraformed: Young Black Lives in the Inner City. London: Repeater Books. Wiley. 2017. Eskiboy. London: Penguin Random House. Wong, Deborah. 2019. Louder and Faster: Pain, Joy, and the Body Politic in Asian American Taiko. Oakland, CA: University of California Press. Williams, Justin A. 2009. “Beats and Flows: A Response to Kyle Adams, ‘Aspects of the Music/Text Relationship in Rap.” Music Theory Online 15 (2): 1–7. ———. 2013. Rhymin’ and Stealin’: Musical Borrowing in Hip-Hop. Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press. Wright, Seymour Bevan. 2013. “The Group Learning of an Original Creative Practice: 1960s Emergent—AMM”. PhD dissertation. Open University. Zuberi, Nabeel. 2013. “Vocalizing: MC Culture in the UK,” Dancecult 5 (2).

Discography

67. The 6. 2018. [CD]. 67CD11. UK: Absolute. A Tribe Called Quest. Low End Theory. 1991. [CD]. CHIP 117. UK: Jive. AJ Tracey. AJ’s Stocking Filler. 2015. [Digital]. None. UK: Self Released. AMM. The Crypt—12 June 1968. 1981. [2 x Vinyl]. MR5. UK: Matchless Records. Bengal Sound. Wushu Hand EP. [12" Vinyl]. WPR027. UK: White Peach Records. Big H. Street Crime UK. 2009. [CD]. None. UK: Bloodline Family. Big John and Reece West. Invincibles EP. 2016. [Digital]. None. UK: Spindark Recordings. Big Narstie. Gas Leak EP. 2011. [CD]. None. UK: Dice Recordings. Bliss. Style and Grace EP. 2017. [Digital]. None. UK: namesbliss. BLVCK COVVBOYS. Gunslinger. [Digital]. None. UK: Crown Jules. Bossman Dubz. Bongo Eyes/Eyes on You. 2004. [12" Vinyl]. BM001. UK: Bossman Dubz. Bruza. Bruzin’. 2004. [12" Vinyl]. ASF009. UK: After Shock. ———. Get Me. 2004. [12" Vinyl]. ASF014. UK: After Shock. ———. Doin Me. 2005. [12" Vinyl]. ASF021. UK: After Shock. Charlie Parker. Lover Man. 1946. [Shellac 10"]. 1007. US: Dial Records. Chipmunk. Rap vs Grime—The Mixtape. [Digital]. 2015. UK: Cash Motto Limited. Chronik. Free Chronik. 2011. [Digital]. None. UK: No Hats No Hoods. Combination Gang. The Links Are Too Strong. 2006. [CD]. None. UK: No Label. Crafty893. V_V. 2016. [Digital]. None. UK: None. Davinche. Dirty Canvas the Legacy. 2005. [CD]. None. UK: Paperchase Recordings. Defiant. Red Ritual EP. 2018. [12" Vinyl]. BOOKEY001. UK: Bookey Records. Desmond Dekker & The Aces. Israelites. 1968. [7" Vinyl]. PYR 6058. UK: Pyramid. Devilman. Re-Development. 2008. [CD]. None. UK: Haterproof Entertainment. Devlin. Tales from the Crypt. 2006. [CD]. None. UK: O.T Recordings. ———. The Art of Rolling. 2008. [CD]. DEVLIN001. UK: O.T Recordings. Dizzee Rascal. Boy in Da Corner. 2003. [CD]. XLCD170. UK: XL Recordings. ———. Ho Riddim. 2003. [12" Vinyl]. DS 002. UK: Dirtee Stank. ———. Maths + English. 2007. [CD]. XLCD273. UK: XL Recordings. ———. Showtime. 2004. [CD]. XLCD181. UK: XL Recordings. ———. Tongue ‘N’ Cheek. 2008. [CD]. STANK 007 CD. UK: Dirtee Stank. DJ Scott La Rock and Boogie Down Productions. The Bridge Is Over/South Bronx/ Criminal Minded. 1987. [12" Vinyl]. B-BOY 02. UK: B-Boy Records. DJ Eastwood. Sidewinder UK Collection. Vol 10. 2005. [6 X CD]. UK: Club Sidewinder.

Discography 187 DJ Eastwood w/Dynasty. Sidewinder UK Collection. Vol 11. 2005. [6 X CD + 1 DVD]. UK: Club Sidewinder. DJ Oddz. Bump Dis/Tha Trouble. 2003. [12" Vinyl]. SLIMZOS 003. UK: Slimzos Recordings. DJ Slimzee. Bingo Beats. Vol 3. 2004. [CD]. BINGOCD005. UK: Bingo Beats. Dom Perignon + Dynamite. Hungry Tiger. 2002. [12" Vinyl]. MW-004. UK: Mos Wanted. Donae’o. I/African Warrior. 2008. [12" Vinyl]. ZE-003. UK: Zephron Entertainment. Dot Rotten. R.I.P. Young Dot. 2008. [CD]. GPPCD008. UK: GPP Records. DPM. Ave Some of That. 2004. [12" Vinyl]. DPM-005. UK: DPM Recordings. Dread D and Jammz. 10 Missed Calls. [FLAC]. LOC030. UK: Local Action. End Productions. Are You Really from the Ends? [12" Vinyl]. ENDS002. UK: End Productions. Eskiboy. Tunnel Vision Vol 5. 2008. [CD]. JME CD023. UK: Boy Better Know. Essentials. Jenny. 2004. [12" Vinyl]. PC009. UK: Paperchase Recordings. ———. State Your Name. 2005. [White Label]. RD001. UK: Not on Label. FFSYTHO. Bop Through Ya Manor. 2019. [Digital]. None. UK: FFSYTHO. Giggs. Giggs Starring In: Walk in Da Park. 2008. [CD]. SN1001. UK: Spare No 1 Productions. Guru. Jazzamatazz. 1993. [Cassette]. CTTC34. UK: Chrysalis. Heartless Crew. Sidewinder UK Collection Vol 10. 2005. [6 X CD + 1 DVD]. UK: Club Sidewinder. Huffy. Awakening EP. 2017. None. UK: Huffy. IndexOnDecks. Banshee. 2018. [Digital]. None. UK: None. Jabz. Durashells EP. 2018. [Digital]. None. UK: None. Jammer. Destruction VIP. 2004. [12" Vinyl]. JP15. UK: Jahmektheworld. Jay Z and Kanye West. Watch The Throne. 2011. [CD]. 0602527650579. UK: Roc-AFella Records. J Beatz. Chestplate. 2016. [Digital]. None. UK: Crown Jules. J Beatz. Sega Boy EP. 2020. [Digital]. None. UK: Crown Jules. Jon E Cash. War. 2003. [Vinyl]. JC16. UK: Black Ops. JME. Boy Better Know—Shh Hut Yuh Muh. Edition 1. 2006. [CD]. JMECD009. UK: Boy Better Know. Karnage Kills. Hoe Diaries. 2017. [Digital]. None. UK: British Invasion Records. Kwam. Truth Hurts. 2010. [Digital]. None. UK: None. Kwam X Trends. Rally EP. 2016. [Digital]. MSR006. UK: Mean Streets. KXVU. Cub Inna Caribbean. 2017. [Digital]. STPT020. UK: Southpoint. Lethal Bizzle. Forward Riddim. 2004. [12" Vinyl]. RELTDJ15. UK: Relentless Records. ———. Pow 2011. 2011. [CD Promo]. None. UK: 360 Records. Little Dee. Light Work. 2010. [CD]. OG002. UK: Blue Movement. ———. Eskimo Dance. 2017. [Digital]. None. UK: Little Dee Music. LJ. Set Pace VIP. 2018. [Digital]. None. UK: None. Lorenzo BITW featuring Kwam. Goo. 2017. [Digital]. BITW001. UK: BITW. Ludacris. What’s Your Fantasy. 2001. [CD]. LDCDP1. Europe: Def Jam South. Majestic ft. Bossman and 9 Milli Major. Boss. 2017. [Digital]. None. UK: Random Mandem. Maxsta. East London Is Back. 2010 [CD]. None. UK: Defenders Ent. Ltd. Memphis Bleek. Is That Your Chick. [CD]. DEF 15111-2. US: Roc-A-Fella Records.

188  Discography Merky Ace. All or Nothing. 2013. [CD]. NHNHCD1006. UK: No Hats No Hoods. MIK. Lord of the Hypes. 2012. [Digital]. None. UK: None. MJK. Chop Pack 001. 2017. [Digital]. None. UK: None. Mr Virgo. Savage EP. 2017. [Digital]. BB02. UK: Big Bass. Musical Mob. Pulse X. 2002. [12" Vinyl] MMR001. UK: Musical Mob Royale. namesbliss. Style and Grace EP. 2018. [Digital]. None. UK: namesbliss. Newham Generals. Generally Speaking. 2009. [CD]. STANK004. UK: Dirtee Stank Recordings. Nikki S and Nyke. Milkymans Ska Project. 2005. [White Label]. DIR001. UK: Direction Records. Onyx. Slam. 1993. [12" Vinyl]. JMJ 42 74882. US: JMJ. Pay As U Go Cartel. Know We. 2001. [12" Vinyl]. Solid 004. UK: Solid City Records. P Money. Live + Direct. 2016. [CD]. RINSECD036D. UK: Rinse. ———. Money Over Everyone. 2009. [CD]. AMCD002. UK: Avalanche Music. Platinum 45 featuring More Fire Crew. Oi! 2002. [CD]. GOBCD48. UK: Go! Beat. Popzzy English. Dunkee Kong vs King Kong. 2018. [Digital]. None. UK: ONE EIGHT RECORDS. Razor. Homegrown. 2018. [Digital]. STPT004X. UK: Southpoint. ———. Go. 2018. [Digital]. RZR001. UK: Southpoint. Rebound X. Land of X. [10" Vinyl]. RBX 007. UK: Land of X. Roadside Gs. Lesson 1: Curb On Smash. 2004. [CD]. UK: Road Side Records. ———. Lesson 2: Gangsta Grime. Unknown. [CD]. UK: Road Side Records. ———. Lesson 3: The Key 2 The Game. 2008. [CD]. UK: Road Side Records. Roll Deep. Bounce. 2002. [12" Vinyl]. WK 005. UK: Wiley Kat Records. Ruff Sqwad. Guns N Roses Volume 1. 2005. RS001. UK: Ruff Sqwad Recordings. ———. Guns & Roses Volume 2. 2006. [CD]. RS002. UK: Ruff Sqwad Recordings. ———. White Label Classics. 2012. [CD]. NHNHCD1005. UK: No Hats No Hoods. Sir Hiss. Ho Riddim. [Unreleased]. None. UK: None. ———. Saturn V. [Unreleased]. None. UK: None. ———. Seduction. [Unreleased]. None. UK: None. ———. Velociraptor. [Digital]. None. UK: None. Skepta. Duppy. 2006. [12" Vinyl]. JME010. UK: Boy Better Know. ———. Konnichiwa. 2016. [CD]. BBKS004CD. UK: Boy Better Know. Slimzee, Wiley and Dizzee Rascal. Sidewinder Promo Mix. 2002. [CD]. Unknown. UK: Unknown. Sirus vs Osmosis. Keep Right. 2002. [12" Vinyl]. LIMELTD 007. UK: Lime Limited. Sharky Major. Major League. 2009. [CD]. ADECD001. UK: Major Music ———. Da Shark and Da Major. 2011. [CD]. NONE. UK: None. ———. Resurgence. 2017. [CD]. None. UK: Major Muzik Entertainment. Sir Spyro. Tekkerz. 2014. [Digital]. None. UK: Dragon Punch Records. Slew Dem Mafia. Better Realise/Champions Inna Dis. 2005. [12" Vinyl]. SDM001. UK: Slew Dem Productions. Slew Dem Crew. Non Stop Working. 2006. [CD + 2xDVD]. UK: None. SLK. The Lost Tapes. 2012. [Digital]. UK: Pitch Controller. Spooky. Ghost House Dubz. Vol 3. [12" Vinyl]. GHD003. UK: Ghost House. So Solid Crew. Oh No (Sentimental Things)/Dilemma. 2000. [12" Vinyl]. RELENT8T. UK: Relentless Records. Southside Allstars. Southside. 2005. [White Label]. SSA 001. UK: Not on Label. Stormzy. Gang Signs & Prayer. 2017. [CD]. MRKY001CD. UK: Merky Records.

Discography 189 Sunship. Almighty Father. 2004. [12" Vinyl]. LOUPE 011T. UK: Casual Records. Swimful. PM2.5. 2016. [Digital]. SBKT006. China: SVBKVLT. Teddy Music feat. Wiley. What Do You Know? 2015. [Digital]. TMDD010. UK: Teddy Music. Tempa T. Next Hype. 2009. [12" Vinyl]. NHNH100. UK: No Hats No Hoods. The Square. The Formula. 2014. [Digital]. None. UK: No Hats No Hoods. The Streets. Original Pirate Material. 2002. [CD]. 679003CD. UK: 679 Recordings. Three 6 Mafia. Stay Fly. [12" Vinyl]. 44 080076. US: Columbia. Timbaland. Shock Value. 2007. [CD]. 0602517266056. UK: Interscope Records. Treble Clef. Cake and Bread EP. [12" Vinyl]. KWR 001. UK: Kyote World Records. TNT Presents Outlaw Breaks. Nissi/Unique. 2002. [12" Vinyl]. VTNT005. UK: Left Records. Various. Liquid Ritual. Vol 01. 2018. [Digital]. None. UK: Liquid Ritual. Various. London to Addis. 2019. [Digital]. None. UK: No Hats No Hoods Records. Various. Peach Bits. Vol. 1. 2014. [12" Vinyl]. WPR003. UK: White Peach Records. Various. Peach Bits. Vol. 4. 2016. [12" Vinyl]. WPR011. UK: White Peach Records. Various. Powered by Inspected #2. 2016. [Digital]. None. UK: Inspected UK. Various. Slimzos All Stars Digital 003. 2016. [Digital]. Slimzos Digital 003. UK: Slimzos Digital. Virus Syndicate. Digital. 2002. [12" Vinyl]. CONTAGIOUS002. UK: Contagious Recordings. ———. The Work Related Illness. 2005. [CD]. ZIQ120CD-P. UK: Planet Mu. Wardell Grey and Dexter Gordon. The Chase and the Steeplechase. 1952. [10" Vinyl]. DL 7025. US: Decca. Wiley Kat. I Will Not Lose. 2001. [12" Vinyl]. WK001. UK: Wiley Kat Records. Wiley. Treddin on Thin Ice. 2002. [CD] XLCD178. UK: XL Recordings. ———. Wot Do U Call It? 2004. [12" Vinyl]. XLT 179. UK: XL Recordings. ———. Playtime Is Over. 2007. [CD]. BDCD104. UK: Big Dada Recordings. ———. 50/50 Bow E3. 2007. [12" Vinyl]. BD105. UK: Big Dada Recordings. ———. 100% Publishing. 2011. [2XLP]. BD180. UK: Big Dada Recordings. ———. Snakes & Ladders. 2014. [DL]. BDDNL255. UK: Big Dada Recordings ———. The Godfather. 2017. [CD]. CTA001. UK: CTA Records Wiley/Ruff Sqwad. Jam Pie. 2005. [12" Vinyl]. WK031. UK: Wiley Kat Records. Wretch 32. Wretchrospective. [CD]. HHV0010. UK: Hip Hop Village. Young Dot. Young Dot EP 3. 2007. [CD]. None. UK: None.

Filmography

Babylon. 1980. Directed by Franco Rosso and Martin Stellman. UK: Diversity, National Film Trustee. BBC Four. “Reggae Fever: David Rodigan”, BBC iPlayer, November 16, 2018. https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b0brzpsb. Accessed January 15, 2019. BBC Radio 1Xtra. “Fire in the Booth – AJ Tracey”, YouTube, February 27, 2016. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EU3ylQOWw_Y. Accessed February 8, 2018. ———. “DJ Jack Dat with Sian Anderson”, YouTube, March 9, 2016. https://www. youtube.com/watch?v=I1dmzDUZhi8. Accessed February 8, 2018. ———, “Trim, Rocks FOE, Nico Lindsay, 140Aks, Realz and DJ Jack Dat with Sian Anderson”, YouTube, March 9, 2016. https://www.youtube.com/watch? v=6JzG-g8Yrs0. Accessed February 8, 2018. Boiler Room. “Spooky – Boiler Room Collections – London”, YouTube, September 7, 2015. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X0JYShDyUU4. Accessed March 27, 2019. ———. “Last Japan Boiler Room London DJ Set”, YouTube, October 22, 2015. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3wO3u87T4mE. Accessed February 8, 2018. ———. “AJ Tracey x General Courts Boiler Room London Live Set”, YouTube, July 11, 2016. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6mni3wB7E4c. Accessed February 8, 2018. BRMG. “General Courts’ Wigmas Special On Radar Radio”, YouTube, December 26, 2015. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LWmfmap5PIM. Accessed September 2, 2022. Conflict. 2003. Directed by Troy ‘A Plus’ Miller. [DVD]. UK: Unknown. DJ Argue. “Grime History Lesson with A Plus (Practise Hours DVD Founder)”, YouTube, November 11, 2018. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dXAA66sN4PI& feature=youtu.be. Accessed June 21, 2019. duppymon20. “Krucial v Yunga SLK Video”, YouTube, August 9, 2008. https:// www.youtube.com/watch?v=8iZy1AQBeSg. Accessed February 8, 2018. Emma Finnamore. “BBC – Straight Outta Brum: How Birmingham Music Is Pushing Things Forward”, BBC, September 7, 2018. https://www.bbc.co.uk/ programmes/articles/1m0wX87SxnTMCprrFrxlzcz/straight-outta-brum-howbirmingham-music-is-pushing-things-forward. Accessed April 15, 2019. Fr33d00m. “Dizzee Rascal v Crazy T”, YouTube, October 10, 2007. https://www. youtube.com/watch?v=il8dXEfXerc. Accessed April 27, 2017. Hip Hop Evolution. 2016. Directed by Darby Wheeler and Sam Dunn. [TV Series]. Canada: Banger.

Filmography 191 HOT 97. “Dizzee Rascal and Rosenberg Discuss the History of Grime, Skepta, and the Whole UK Scene”, YouTube, January 20, 2016. https://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=-8dOAYpWass. Accessed February 19, 2019. jakfrsh. “Wretch 32 Ft. Badness & Ghetto - INA DI GHETTO (Official Video)”, YouTube, December 8, 2008. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oYgmsCBKmLM. Accessed May 9, 2019. Kiss FM UK. “The KISS Grime Xmas Special with Rude Kid feat. Novelist, Discarda, YGG, Prez T & many more”, YouTube, December 18, 2016. https:// www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fb7vU5GivhU. Accessed February 8, 2018. Lady Leshurr. “The Queen’s Speech Ep. 4”, YouTube, August 1, 2015. https://www. youtube.com/watch?v=FyodeHtVvkA. Accessed February 8, 2018. Link Up TV. “Lethal Bizzle’s #STORYOFPOW 1/5 (How It Started) | Link Up TV”, YouTube, October 7, 2016. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wuKbSIAyY8s. Accessed November 13, 2019. Lord of the Decks 3. 2005. Directed by Capo and Ratty. [DVD + 2XCD]. UK: Hotheadz Promotions. Lord of the Mic Battle Arena Vol 1. 2004. Directed by Capo and Ratty. [DVD + CD]. UK: Hotheadz Promotions. Lord of the Mic 2. 2006. Directed by Capo and Ratty. [DVD + CD]. UK: Hotheadz Promotions. Lord of the Mics 6. 2014. Directed by Jammer and Ratty. [DVD + 2XCD]. UK: Lord of the Mics. Lord of the Mics (Official). “Lord of the Beats: Logan Sama Vs DJ Big Mikee [@djlogansama @djbigmikee]”, YouTube, October 28, 2013. https://youtu.be/ gdKsACbkOVs. Accessed May 2, 2019. Midi Music Company. “GRIT STORY: Still Risin’ from the Dust”, Vimeo, April 20, 2010. https://vimeo.com/11077790. Accessed February 15, 2019. Noisey. “The Police vs Grime Music”, YouTube, May 29, 2014. https://www.youtube. com/watch?v=eW_iujPQpys. Accessed February 8, 2018. NFTR. “J2k - Crep Protect, Crazy Titch, Roll Deep and More [NFTR]”. February 11, 2016. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WAmav7gJeoM. Accessed December 22, 2019. P110. “P110 - Bliss | @NamesBliss #1TAKE”, YouTube, June 7, 2017. https://www.youtube. com/watch?v=Y6-tjBRr55U&feature=youtu.be. Accessed February 8, 2018. Pirate Mentality: When Pirates Made Grime. 2017. Directed by Frisco and Risky Roadz. [TV Series]. UK: Channel 4. Radar Radio. “Nikki S & Nyke w/Kenny Allstar”, YouTube, February 22, 2017. https:// www.youtube.com/watch?v=KaOTFGTHzpM. Accessed February 27, 2017. ———. “DJ Argue w/Renz VS M3 (Clash)”, YouTube, July 6, 2017. www.youtube. com/watch?v=8P7AAPSzNWo. Accessed February 8, 2018. ———. “DJ Argue B2B Slimzee w/U19s”, YouTube, August 27, 2017. https://www. youtube.com/watch?v=1cXeKoev1g0. Accessed July 27, 2019. ———. “Flirta D – Grime History Lesson | DJ Argue”, YouTube, February 1, 2018. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2e4c9zIoCcc. Accessed February 14, 2019. ———. “Set Pace w/Razor”, YouTube, January 21, 2018, https://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=FyJbMzbYm5c. Accessed December 6, 2019. Red Bull Music Academy. “Dizzee Rascal Lecture (London 2016)”, Red Bull Music Academy, December 8, 2016. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VLTXd9KYIq4. Accessed April 27, 2017.

192  Filmography Rinse FM. “Grime Show: AJ Tracey, Big Zuu, PK, Lyrical Strally, Saint P, Ets & Dee 7 (MTM)”, YouTube, December 30, 2016. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v= u5lO-yuSDCE. Accessed September 2, 2022. ———. “Grime Show: Shellyvnne”, YouTube, July 12, 2017. https://www.youtube. com/watch?v=vjlDzIxPEIk. Accessed February 8, 2018. Rollo Jackson. “Tape Crackers: An Oral History of Jungle Pirate Radio”, FourThree, 2011. https://fourthree.boilerroom.tv/film/tape-crackers. Accessed May 5, 2019. SB:TV Music. “Spyro | DJ Mix [SBTV Beats]”, YouTube, March 14, 2014. https:// youtu.be/5_rJpXkHtP8. Accessed May 1, 2019. ———. “GHYSTLY XXVII | Who Do You Think You Are?”, YouTube, January 21, 2016. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gZ3uSjvtPw0. Accessed February 8, 2018. Silver Drizzle. “South Soldiers and Fatal Assassins on OnTop FM”, YouTube, January 24, 2017. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NNL7YiBtPUM. Accessed April 27, 2017. The Nu Era Presents: Pow Pow. 2005. Directed by Colin Ozoemena. [DVD + CD]. UK: Nu-Era Productions. toes11. “Fire Camp Westwood Freestyle (Slewin Roll Deep), YouTube, September 7, 2008. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oHrZ5Yy5b6U. Accessed February 8, 2018.

Radio Broadcasts

A.G, “The Grime Show: A.G with Mob Set, Agz, Tommy B and Jammz”. Rinse FM. London, UK. June 10, 2018. 21:00. Aidan, DJ Umpah, “Cream on Deja – Charlie Trees Birthday Set”. DejaVu FM. London, UK. November 23, 2016. 21:00. Aidan, “Cream on Deja – Bang GK Birthday Set”. DejaVu FM. London, UK. June 12, 2017. 21:00. Author Unknown, “East Is East”. BBC Radio 1. London, UK. May 24, 2004. 23:15. Charisma, “Charisma with the Collective”. Mode FM. London, UK. September 11, 2016. 19:00. de Lacey, “Beats, Rhymes and Strife w/Kwam MC – 21/02/17”. Wired Radio. London, UK. February 21, 2017. 20:00. ———, “Beats, Rhymes and Strife – PK Brako Birthday Set”. Wired Radio. London, UK. March 7, 2017. 20:00. ———, “Beats, Rhymes and Strife”. Don City Radio. London, UK. August 3, 2017. 23:00. ———, “Beats, Rhymes and Strife w Krabs, Index and Over The Edge”, Don City Radio. London, UK. September 21, 2017. 23:00. ———, “Beats, Rhymes and Strife w/PK Brako, Razor, Reaps and Charlie Trees”. Don City Radio. London, UK. October 5, 2017. 23:00. ———, “Aesthetic Kid, Esskay, Voltage, J Smart, Shiesty, Doubtey and Daze The Kid”. Don City Radio. London, UK. October 26, 2017. 23:00. ———, “de Lacey with Over the Edge”, Don City Radio, London: December 7, 2017. 23:00. ———, “Over the Edge, Braceman & Mr Sols”. Don City Radio, London. January 11, 2018. 23:00. ———, “Metaphysics EP Launch with Fugi, Braceman, Voltage, J River, Razor, Kabz and CA$TLE”, Don City Radio, London. January 25, 2018. 23:00. ———, “Homegrown EP Launch with Razor, Kabz, Tips, Geo and Index”, Don City Radio, London. February 15, 2018. 23:00. ———. “Birthday Set w/Eat My Beat, Over the Edge, WAVE Gang, Rolla, Tintz & Joe Fire”, Don City Radio, London. November 22, 2018. 21:00. DJ Argue, “DJ Argue w/Jammz, Black Ops, Renz, M3”. Radar Radio. London, UK. June 17, 2017. 20:00. ———, “DJ Argue w/Special Guests Logan Sama Mode FM Founders and JP”. Radar Radio. London, UK. September 4, 2017. 20:00.

194  Radio Broadcasts ———, “Hell in a Cell w/DJ Argue and Guest MCs”. Radar Radio. London, UK. December 18, 2017. 20:00. ———, “Clash - Payback ENT vs The Otherside”. Radar Radio. London, UK. February 26, 2018. 20:00. DJ Big Beatz, “DJ Big Beatz w/Over the Edge”. Mode FM. London, UK. December 4, 2017. 23:00. DJ Big Jim, “Untitled”. OnTop FM. London, UK. May 17, 2005. Time Unknown. DJ BPM, “Grime for the Unconverted – 13th September 2016”. Resonance FM. London, UK. September 13, 2016. 00:00. ———, “Grime for the Unconverted – 7th January 2017”. Resonance FM. London, UK. January 7, 2017. 00:00. DJ Capa, “Kraze, Royal, Triple Threat, S Kid and Hoodlum”. Unknown Station. London, UK. 2005. Time Unknown. DJ David. “DJ David Show”. Mode FM. London, UK. 2017. 19:00. DJ Eastwood, “DJ Eastwood B2B DJ Rema D with Cold Blooded Combination Camp”. Heat FM. London, UK. April 30, 2004. Time Unknown. DJ Garna, Mondie, Roll Deep, SLK, Slew Dem, Dynasty, “DJ Garna and Guests”. Manic FM. St Albans, UK. June 8, 2005. Time Unknown. DJ Jampak, “DJ Jampak with Fuda Guy, Funky Dee, Kabz, MicOfCourse, Razor, RD and More”. Rinse FM. London, UK. August 9, 2018. 23:00. DJ Kaylee Kay, “Grime Originals: The Female Takeover”. Rinse FM. London, UK. May 22, 2018. 21:00. DJ Mak 10, “Jammer’s Birthday Set”. Deja Vu FM. London, UK. 2003. Time Unknown DJ Maximum, “DJ Maximum with Wiley”. Rinse FM. London, UK. December 12, 2006. Time Unknown. DJ Oblig, “Oblig Christmas Showcase 2021 w/Novelist, Scrufizzer, Jammz, Tia Talks, Manga Saint Hilare & Logan”. Rinse FM. London, UK. December 24, 2021.21:00. DJ Skepta, “Meridian Crew”, Heat FM, London: 2002. Time Unknown. DJ Slimzee, “Simzee, Wiley and Dizzee Rascal”. Sidewinder Promo Mix. 2002. ———, “Slimzee w/Wiley, Dizzee Rascal, Gods Gift, Dirty Doogz & Dogz”. Rinse FM. London, UK. November 24, 2002. 15:00. ———, “Slimzos Sessions 001 – Slimzee b2b Logan Sama w/Riko Dan and Flow Dan”. NTS Radio. London, UK. April 24, 2014. 22:00. ———, Wiley, “DJ Slimzee and Wiley”. Rinse FM. London, UK. February 22, 2016. 21:00. ———, Trends, “Slimzee w/JLSXND7RS”. Rinse FM. London, UK. August 15, 2017. 23:00. ———, “Slimzee w/Boylan, DJ Garna and Wave Gang”. Rinse FM. London, UK. September 19, 2017. 23:00. DJ Spooky, “Youngers Clash”. Raw Blaze. London, UK. December 29, 2004. Time Unknown. DJ Target, “DJ Target in Depth with Flow Dan”. BBC Radio 1Xtra. London, UK. May 17, 2017. Time Unknown. DJ Total, “Midlandz Mafia”. Silk City Radio, Birmingham: May 21, 2006. Time Unknown. DJ Trend, Riko and Wiley, “DJ Trend”. Rinse FM. London, UK. April 8, 1997.Time Unknown.

Radio Broadcasts 195 General Courts, “PK Birthday Set”. NTS Radio. London, UK. October 18, 2018. 23:00. General Courts, “General Courts with American Grime”. Flex FM. London, UK: January 26, 2019. Kenny Allstar, “Voice of the Streets w/Kenny Allstar, F3Fibbz & Roadside Gs”. Radar Radio. London, UK. January 6, 2017. 18:00. ———, “Voice of the Streets w/Kenny Allstar, Nikki & Nyke”. Radar Radio. London, UK. February 17, 2017. 18:00. Kirby T, “Kirby T w/Guest MCs”. Radar Radio. London, UK. May 8, 2017. 20:00. ———, “Grime Sessions – Kirby T Birthday Set”. Westside Radio. London, UK. August 22, 2017. 23:00. ———, “Grime Sessions – Melvillous, Shiesty, Jsmart, Esskay, Rudie, Ninja”. Westside Radio. London, UK. October 10, 2017. 22:00. Logan Sama, “Dot Rotten”. Kiss FM. London, UK. July 14, 2008. 23:00. ———, “Money over Everyone Launch”. Kiss FM. London, UK. September 7, 2009. 23:00. ———, “After Hours Ft. MIK, Discarda and Friends”. Kiss FM. London, UK. January 4, 2012. 23:00. Mistajam, “#SixtyMinutesLive – StayFresh and Invasion Alert”. BBC Radio 1Xtra. London, UK. November 6, 2014. 19:00. Over the Edge, “Over the Edge Showcase”, Subtle FM, London: March 20, 2018. PDS, “So Solid Crew”. Delight FM. London, UK. December 25, 2002. Time Unknown. Rival, “It Might Just be That Podcast – Episode 18: The Scope – Marco Grey”. It Might Just Be That. London, UK. November 10, 2016. Podcast. Rude Kid, “The Kiss Grime Special”, Kiss FM, London: December 8, 2016. Time Unknown. Selecta Impact, DJ Argue, “DJ Argue with Shellyvnne”. Radar Radio. London, UK. February 5, 2018. 20:00. Shan, “Shan with Guests Debut Show”. Mode FM, London. September 5, 2016. Time Unknown. Sir Spyro, “Sir Spyro”. Rinse FM. London, UK. November 12, 2005. Time Unknown. ———, “Sir Spyro and Butterz”. Rinse FM. London, UK. September 28, 2014. 21:00. ———, “The Grime Show with Lyrical Strally, PK and Saint P”. Rinse FM. London, UK. September 15, 2015. 21:00. ———, “The Grime Show with RD, J Dot, Kyeza and Mr X”. Rinse FM. London, UK. January 3, 2016. 21:00. ———, “The Grime Show with Stormzy, Izzie Gibbs, Dapz on the Map & Jaykae”. Rinse FM. London, UK. February 26, 2017. 21:00. ———, “The Grime Show with Firmer D, Dot Rotten, Maxsta, Grim Sickers, Scrufizzer, Rawza, Narxx, Slam & Ace”. Rinse FM. London, UK. June 4, 2017. 21:00. ———, “The Grime Show: AJ Tracey, Big Zuu, PK, Lyrical Strally, Saint P, Ets and Dee 7 (MTM)”. Rinse FM. London, UK. June 16, 2017. 21:00. ———, “The Grime Show w/Sir Spyro & Shellyvnne”. Rinse FM. London, UK. July 9, 2017. 21:00. Stay Free, “Stay Free w/Brasil Grime Show”. Reprezent Radio. London, UK: January 16, 2019

196  Radio Broadcasts Trends, “Trends w/Special Guests: Spooky, Mez, Mic Ty, Big Zuu”. Radar Radio. London, UK. June 15, 2015. Time Unknown. Triple J Hip-Hop Show. “Australian Grime Cypher”. Triple J. Sydney, Australia. November 16, 2018. Time Unknown. Unknown DJ, “NAA”. On Top FM, London. 2004. Time Unknown. Wigpower, “General Courts’ Wigmas Special on Radar Radio”. Radar Radio. London, UK. December 22, 2015. Time Unknown.

Appendix—Glossary of Terms

This glossary is by no means an exhaustive list, nor is it necessarily indicative of the way in which all artists speak about their practice. However, it contains terms that are used regularly throughout the book. Accordingly, their usage throughout should be understood with respect to these definitions. Back-to-back:  Where two MCs engage in a rally (see below) that features rapid interchange between the artists, often in the middle of bars. These are usually pre-composed and moved into as part of a performance. Clanging:  When a DJ brings in an instrumental that is out of time with the existing instrumental. DJs can ‘clang’ a mix or a blend, for example. Chopping and Cutting:  These are DJ techniques, where the DJ quickly pulls the channel faders up and down, bringing instrumentals in and out of the mix. They can choose to chop a new track in, or cut between two instrumentals. Cypher (or cipher):  A live improvisatory performance between a collection of MCs. In grime music—and unlike hip-hop—lyrics are typically pre-­ composed but chosen to fit either the instrumental or the situation at hand. Drop:  The point at which an instrumental enters into its main passage. Typically, it is built towards through rhythmic tension and heightened synth lines. Drop-in:  Drop-ins take place when a DJ brings in a new instrumental at the point where the track enters into its main passage. Dubplate:  Historically understood as a test pressing or acetate of an unreleased track. In Grime, dubplates don’t necessarily have to be on record: as long as they are exclusive or unreleased they are considered to be a dub. Dubplate Special:  A dubplate, typically re-recorded to feature the name of the sound, MC or DJ who is playing out the record. Flow:  An MCs idiosyncratic performance of musical material. Unlike Adam Krims’ definition that pinpoints ‘an MC’s rhythmic delivery’, a flow can also incorporate cadential figures, and be stylised with reference to the content. There are grime artists, for example, with a recognisable ‘yardie flow’ or ‘cockney flow’ that is influenced by the artists’ lexicon and projection of the specific sonorities of that lexicon.

198  Appendix—Glossary of Terms Freshers:  New bars that an MC often debuts and tries out on a radio show. MCs tend to acknowledge that they are ‘freshers’ or ‘new ones’, particularly if they made a mistake while delivering them. Hype Bars/Lyrics:  Typically an MC’s most famous set of lyrics. They are punchy and direct, and are rarely syncopated or skippy. Examples include Tinchy Stryder’s ‘We’ve got tings in boots, under the seat nah tings in boots’ or Skepta’s ‘I’m doing it again, they tried to stop me I’m doing it again. Skepta, yeah, I’m doing it again. Boy better know I’m doing it again, I’m…’ These terms are used interchangeably throughout the text, although ‘hype lyric’ is favoured since discussions often include musical bar numbers and the use of ‘hype bar’ can result in slight confusion. Instrumental:  The principal term used for a grime track that doesn’t feature vocals. DJs use instrumentals on sets that MCs spit over. Merk:  To get one up on someone, or kill them lyrically. Truncated form of ‘mercenary’. Alternatively, it can mean to perform well. Often MCs are described as ‘merking’ a set. Multi MC:  An MC whose delivery is characterised by using multisyllabic patterns with internal rhyme as a prevailing characteristic. For example, Darkos Strife’s lyrics ‘real time strategy command and conquer, this scene enemies wanna try harm this monster’, or ‘me boy fi try sekkle like Jamakabi’s old bar, straight if you panic it’s over’. Punch Rhythms:  These are similar to a cut or chop, but they occur with regularity on the same beat in the bar. Typically a DJ will punch in a track on Beat 1 of the bar. This technique can be utilised to bring in a new track or to foreground the performance of an MC by providing them with greater room and space to deliver their bars as presented in Chapter 4, Section 2. Rallies:  Rallies consist of fixed-length exchanges between MCs. They are typically eight bars long and can either be explicitly announced or entered into as part of an unfolding performance. Reload, Wheel, Jackum, Pull Up, Edge, Forward:  Enacted by the DJ, this is a technique where the instrumental is pulled back on the deck and restarted from the top. This can be enacted owing to the beat selection, an MCs performance or a mixture of the two and is typically instigated owing to a substantial audience response, although there are a multitude of power dynamics that can affect this (see Chapter 4, Section 1). Rushed:  To be attacked, often by a group of people. Sending:  Lyrically provoking another artist or crew. Artists regularly send for each other on recordings or on radio sets. Set:  A term that is interchangeable with performance. MCs and DJs regularly perform at radio ‘sets’ or live ‘sets’ at venues. Shell, Spit, Spray:  Alternative terms for performing lyrics. All three capture the attack and presence of an MC’s delivery.

Appendix—Glossary of Terms 199 Sixteen:  A 16-bar length lyrical passage. MCs often write lyrics in blocks of 16. This allows for a rise and fall across the passage, and scope for microphone rotation as part of a radio or live performance. Snakey:  Typically refers to the unsporting conduct of MCs. Being ‘snaked’ occurs when an MC jumps the queue and spits before another MC, who was meant to be up next. Artists can also ‘snake’ by pretending to pass the microphone, then ‘blocking’ the other artist by turning away from them. Tekkie/Tekkers:  Truncated terms for something being technical. Typically utilised in football but widely incorporated in grime music. Sir Spyro released a track called ‘Tekkerz’ in 2014. Through Ball:  The through ball is a technique where a performer indicates an impending change to another performer, allowing them to arrive at the drop. Its etymology lies in the footballing term for a pass that arrives at the projected position of a fellow teammate. They can be enacted by DJs who tease or chop in a track—informing an MC of the impending change—or by a fellow MC who can tee the MC up for the drop. It is a dense metapragmatic process and is fully detailed in Chapter 6. Transition Lyrics:  A small unit—typically four bars—that an MC can use to their advantage whilst a DJ is moving between tracks, or alternatively, to provide them with breathing room before entering into a new passage. These transition lyrics can be looped and reworked until the MC is ready to proceed with their performance. VIP:  This acronym stands for ‘variation in production’. DJs often produce multiple versions of their own tracks. Alternatively, a producer can be given the stems of a track to make their own VIP. WIP:  This acronym stands for a ‘work in progress’. These tend to be tested out on radio sets or teased out through 30-second teasers on Soundcloud or Instagram.

Index

Note: Page references in italics denote figure and with “n” endnotes. 3PM 15 ‘3 Wheel Ups’ 95 ‘21 Seconds’ 11, 19 academy: class and 32–36; race and 32–36 active listening: in free jazz 82–83; in gamelan 82–83 ‘Act Like You Know’ 2 Adams, Kyle 96 Adenuga, Joseph Junior see Skepta Adenuga, Jamie see JME Adenuga, Julie 37 African-Caribbean diaspora 11 African diaspora 5, 11, 14; and BBK 14–15; selectors assemble/critical routes through 12–17 ‘African Zulu Warrior’ 14 Afrobeats 14 Afrodiasporic: artistry 7; creativity 85; performance 173; practice 4, 7– 9, 41 Afroswing 14 ‘After Hours’ 92 Aftershock 53 Aidan 126, 137, 139–143, 145 Aizlewood, John 5 AJ Tracey 100–106, 127, 166, 167, 168 Alim, H. Samy 58 ‘Almighty Father’ 112 alterity 131–133 alternative media 175 AMM 83, 148, 149, 154, 158 Anderson, Leon 29 Anderson, Marian 7 Anderson, Sian 37

antiphony 85 ‘Are You Really From The Ends?’ 19 Argue 68, 150–151, 170 artists’ ways of knowing 177–178 Arts and Humanities Research Council (United Kingdom) 34 Association for the Advancement of Creative Musicians (AACM), Chicago 148 audiovisual example captions 170 authenticity 36–38; hip-hop 37 autoethnographers 29 autoethnography 27–32 Ayo Technology 16, 43n8 back-to-back 2, 26, 28, 41, 66, 101, 104–105, 142, 149–151, 155 Badness 20 Bagel Factory 1 balungan 82 Barron, Kenny 111, 114 ‘bashment gal’ 75 battle rap 15–16, 19 BBC Radio 1 70, 146 BBC Radio 1Xtra 10n3, 21, 37, 41, 120 Beats One 37 Bebop to Hip-Hop 7 begging the reload 93–94 begging the wheel 93–94 Berliner, Paul F. 106–107 Bernard, Jesse 14 Biggie Smalls 148 Big H 5 Big Narstie 127 Big Zuu 100–106, 122, 127; ‘What Comes Around (Dub)’ 125–126

Index 201 Bionics 10n7 biting styles 58 Black Atlantic 20, 21, 25 Blackford, Lloyd 12 Blackness, and grime artists 7 Black Public Sphere 36 Blak Twang 15 Blessed 141–142, 146 Bliss 92, 96 blocking acts 57, 59–60 Blondie 15 BLVCK COVVBOYS 162 Boakye, Jeffrey 36–37 body language: of grime artists 57–60; MCs 57–60 ‘Bongo Eyes’ 115 Borgo, David 31, 83, 98–99, 102, 139, 147 Bossman 115 Bossman Birdie 5 ‘Bounce’ 20 ‘bounce’ bars 58, 59 Bounty Killer 13 Bourdieu, Pierre 31–32, 42, 63, 111, 125 bourgeois intimacy 132 Boy Better Know (BBK) 14–15, 56, 115, 117 Boy In Da Corner (album) 19 Boyz in Da Hood 136, 137 Braae, Nick 119 Bramwell, Richard 7, 25, 36, 52 Brazen 10n7 Breeze 10n7 Brinner, Benjamin 22, 88, 138, 141; ‘complementation’ 140 British African diaspora 8 British popular culture 4 British youth culture 3 Browning, Barbara 5 Bruza 33 Burnes, Bernhard 165 Burton, Justin aDams 7 Butler, Mark 68, 162, 173 ‘Buzz Lightyear’ 115 Calvin Harris 4 Campion, Chris 4 Capleton 13 Capo Lee 94 C.A.P.S 117–119, 118, 121, 125 Cardew, Cornelius 164 C Cane 37, 55, 56, 73, 90 Channel One 12

Charisma 137, 143–146, 146n2 Charles, Monique 7, 25, 36, 37, 133, 175 Charlie Trees 141–143, 145, 155 ‘The Chase’ 106 Chimpo 121 Chip 114 Chipmunk see Chip chopping 71–74, 78n6, 81, 97, 104, 111–112, 114–115, 121, 131, 157, 159–160 chopping-in 114 Chronik 86, 112 Chu 54 Clashing 13 class: and the academy 32–36; and grime music 32–36 codification of performance technique 119–120 Cold Blooded 114, 120, 131 Cole, Cheryl 4 collective creativity 147–170 collective improvisation 98, 100, 106 collective intimacy 130, 131–133 collective listening 132 Collins, Hattie 4 Combination Camp 114 community 131–133 compact disc jockey (CDJs) 120–121 competence 139, 142–143, 145; acquisition of 131; and complementation 136–139; and constructive enterprise 136–139, 144; musical 22, 138 complementation 136–139, 140, 141–143, 145, 155, 174, 177 Complex 34 constructive enterprise 134, 136–139, 144 continuing process 81–82 corollary epistemology 154 Cottrell, Stephen 28 Count Suckle 12, 21 Coxsone, Lloyd 21 Coxsone Sound System 12 Crafty 893 156 Crawley, Ashton T. 85 Crazy Titch 36, 62, 136, 137 Cream Collective 139–143 creative borrowing 151–154 creative process 80 creativity: collective 147–170 critical analysis 27–32

202  Index dancehall 12–14, 18–20, 36, 46, 143, 173, 174 Danny Weed 10n7 Darkos Strife 140, 143 Dart Adams 15 David, Craig 19 Davinche 115 Davis, Brent 164 D Dark 52–53 D Double E 7, 19, 84, 108n3 Dee 7 102 Defiant 157, 159 Deja Vu FM 2, 23, 24, 36, 135, 140, 141 de Johnette, Jack 149 Dekker, Desmond 12 denotational musical communication 81 Denzin, Norman 29 de Paor-Evans, Adam 15 DET 18, 43n12 Devlin 23, 79 Devlin, Polly 164 Dirty South 16 Dizzee Rascal 4, 10n7, 11, 16–17, 19, 20, 22, 50, 130 DJ: gesture 71–74, 173–174; perspective on intermusicality 161–164; wheel 89–91 Djokovic, Novak 97 ‘Doin Me’ 33 Don City Radio 1, 24, 41, 147, 149 Don’t Call Me Urban! The Time of Grime 52 Don’t Flop 16 Dot Rotten 88–89, 91, 97, 106, 140, 175 Dreem Teem 19 drop wheel 85–87 ‘DTI’ 36 ‘D-T-OI’ 160–161 ‘Dubplate’ culture 13 Dubzta 146n2, 150 Dynamic Rockers 15 Dynasty 71–73, 115 ‘East is East’ 13 Eastwood 13, 18, 39, 41, 46, 61, 69–74, 76, 79, 80, 121, 130, 162, 163; and C.A.P.S 117–119, 118; on chopping 81; performance suggestions 115; performance technique 119–120 ‘An Ecology of Practices’ (Stengers) 134 Eidsheim, Nina Sun 7–8, 62, 85 Eklipse 151

electronic dance cultures 3 emergence 17, 30, 98, 100–101, 104, 110, 148, 169, 178 Empire Windrush 12 End Productions 19 ensemble ways of knowing 154–158 Ergatoudis, George 21 Eskimo Dance 14, 48–49, 49, 65, 85, 93 Esskay 79, 150, 155 ethnography: evocative 29; visual 52 Ets 101, 104, 122 Eva 808 156–157 Evening Standard 5, 83 evocative ethnography 29 exclusionary tactics 57 Fabric 23 Face 66 Fatman Sound 12 Faultsz 95–96 Fikentscher, Kai 85, 173–174 Fire Camp 66 Firmer Dee 88 Fish 54 Five Miles 29 Flirta D 191 Flow Dan 10n7, 43n13 flows 149–154; intra-crew 151–154; Shellyvnne 149–154 Footsie 13 forcing the reload 91–93 Form 696 5, 36 ‘Forward Riddim (Pow!)’ 20, 22 free improvisation 81–82; British group 82–83 free jazz: active listening in 82–83; and improvisation 82–83 Frisco 14 Fuller, Matthew 62, 134, 175 Fumin 20 Funky 4 + 1 15 gambang (xylophone) 174 gamelan 22; active listening in 82–83; Balinese 82; and free improvisation 82; Indonesian 81 Gang Signs and Prayer (album) 4 garage 3, 11, 16, 17–21, 69, 119, 127, 130, 134, 173; see also UK garage Gare, Lou 83 ‘Gash By Da Hour’ 66 ‘Gas Leak’ 127 G Double E 70

Index 203 gender 36–38 gendèr barung 82 General Courts 122, 125 Geo 24 geographical claustrophobia 52 Ghetts 72, 84 Giggs 5, 36 Gilroy, Paul 7, 21 Glastonbury 4, 10n4 Glorz 150, 151 God’s Gift 19 Goodman, Steve 62 Gordon, Dexter 106 Gordon, Kenneth 12 Goulding, Ellie 4 Gray, Wardell 106 Greek mythology 156 ‘greeze’ 68 grime: and academy 21–38; body language 57–60; code of practice 47–60; introducing 11–21; in the Midlands 44n20; multidirectionality 9; performance ecology of 130; radio performance network 130–146; radio vs. rave 48–51, 49, 50–51; rhythmic regularity 51; role of MCs 63–67; session management 60–75; ‘sonic geography’ of 19 grime artists 9, 15, 34, 36, 39, 42, 46–47; body language 57–60; and Christian education 25; competence 136–139; complementation 136–139; constructive enterprise 136–139; creative protocol of 8; and home turf 52–54; lived experience of 8; and live rave setting 49; and technology, use of 7 Grime Forum 23 Grime Originals 93 grime raves 48–51 ‘The Grime Show’ 45, 88 grooving 81 group aesthetic: developing 158–168; recognisable 169–170 group cohesion 149–154; Shellyvnne 149–154 group flow 63–64, 76, 81–82, 83, 88–89, 91, 100, 107, 119 group improvisation 28, 63, 102 The Guardian 4, 6, 7, 20 Hackney Wick 1, 24 Hancox, Dan 14, 19, 21, 33, 70, 146 hardcore 17–21, 132, 173

hardcore continuum 17–21 Harrison, Anthony Kwame 22, 27, 33, 37 Heartless Crew 19, 85 Heat FM 114–115, 131 Henriques, Julian 13, 46, 51, 54–55, 63, 74–75, 133, 135 Henry, William ‘Lez’ 40, 133 Hijack 16 Hingis, Martina 80 hip-hop 3, 15; authenticity 37; ‘battle rapping’ 15; biting styles 58; ciphers 58; impromptu battles 47; intertextuality 148, 152; pedagogy 47; turntablism 69; ‘writtens’ 16 Hitman Tiga 71 Hold Tight (Boakye) 36 Homegrown 162 homosociality 36–38 Huffy 156 Hypa Fen 71, 76 hype 133–135 ‘hype bars’ 50–51 hype lyrics 67, 92–93, 105, 140 hyper local demarcation 52 hypermasculinity 36–37 ‘I Can C U’ 36 ‘Ice Pole’ 125 I.E 70 ‘I Luv U’ 17 ‘I’m a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here’ 4 impromptu battles 47 improvisation 9–10, 81–82; collective 98, 100, 106; and free jazz 82–83; group 28, 63, 102 ‘Ina Di Ghetto’ 20 In at the Deep End 22 IndexOnDecks 25 individual and collective 174–175 Inner City Pressure (Hancox) 14 intensification, in musical events 81 ‘Intensive Snare’ 14 interactional semiotics 81 inter-crew power dynamics 57 intermusical: allusions 147, 167, 169–170, 175; associations 169; dialogue 155; flow 152; referent 158; referentiality 146–148, 176; tactic 162 intermusicality 148; creative borrowing 151–154; DJ’s perspective 161–164; intra-crew flows 151–154; Over

204  Index the Edge flows as communal bind 164–168 intertextuality 177; hip-hop 148, 152 interviews 39–40 intra-crew flows 151–154 Invasion 4, 10n3 Invasion Crew 44n20 I.Q 70 irama (temporal relationships between parts) 174 Ironik 52 ‘Is That Your Chick’ 17 J2K 56, 60, 68 Jabz 35 Jack Dat 94 Jah T 12 Jamaican culture 14 Jamaican music 12–13, 40 Jamaican Sound System culture 21, 48, 132, 133 Jamakabi 20, 22 James, Malcolm 132 Jammer 14, 15, 56, 60 Jay Amo 125 J Beatz 43n7, 101 JDZ Media 6, 175 Jendor 55, 88 J Hus 14 JME 5, 10n7, 14, 52, 114 Jonson Terrorist 117 Joseph, Nereus 13 JoSoSick 99 J River 10, 24, 49, 136, 153, 155, 155–159, 163, 169, 176 J Smart 150, 151, 152, 153 Judd, Rebecca 37 Juice FM 69 jungle 4, 17–21, 173, 175, 177 jungle pirate radio 134 Kabz 24, 41, 158–159, 161, 163–169, 166, 167, 168 Kamakaze 127 Kano 72, 84, 95 Karnage 10n7 Kautny, Oliver 42 Kay, Janet 21 Kay, Kaylee 37, 78n6, 90 kebyar style 82 Keep Hush 41 Keith, James 52 kendhang (double-headed drum) 82, 174 King Original Sound 13

Kirby T 66 Kiss FM 2, 41, 55, 57–58, 60, 92, 93, 121, 146 knowing: artists’ ways of 177–178 ‘Know We’ 19 Kode 9 see Goodman, Steve Kraze 1, 49, 54, 76, 86–87, 92, 94, 97, 106, 112–114, 119, 176 Krucial 52–54, 60, 65–67, 66–67, 71, 76, 86, 95, 98, 176, 177 Kwam 64–65, 67, 74, 96, 97, 98 Lady Fury 44n24 Lady Leshurr 37 Lady Sovereign 44n24 language 41–42 learning tool, Over the Edge as 168–170 Leimert Park 47 Lethal Bizzle 19–20, 22, 66, 136, 137 Levan, Larry 19 Levelling Up 6–8, 147–149, 176–177 Lewis, George E. 148 Lightning 86, 94 Lil Tracey EP 100 Lioness 44n24 Logan Sama 2, 23, 33, 41, 55–56, 68–69, 92, 94, 121 Logic of Practice (Bourdieu) 63, 125 London Olympics 122 London Posse 15 London to Addis 43n7 Lord of the Mics 15 Lost Souljah 37 Luciferian 140, 143 Lusionist 99 Lyrical Strally 59, 100–105, 126 Madders Tiff 37 Made in the Manor (album) 95 Major Ace 19 Mak 10 84 ‘Mandolin Man’ 163–164 Manga 10n7, 55 Mann, Larisa Kingston 132, 135, 145, 175 Marcie Phonix 72, 76 Marley, Damian 40 Marozsán, Dzsenifer 110 Marsden, Alex 51 Master Peace 99 Maximum 33, 68 Maxwell D 19 McLeod, Kembrew 37 MC’s wheel 87–89

Index 205 Melville, Caspar 11 Melvillous 45, 151 Mercury Music Prize 19, 44n17 metapragmatic: musical communication 81; process 173–174 Mez 96 Mic of Course 99 Mighty Moe 85 MIK 92 Mikey Dread 12 Ministry of Sound 23 Mischief 43n8 ‘Mission Riddim’ 53 Mitchell, Roscoe 148, 149 MJK 160 Mob Set 99 Mode FM 36, 41, 135, 137, 143 modular lyrical units 149–151, 177 Money Over Everyone 55, 94, 121 Monson, Ingrid 35, 39, 67, 148; on intensification in musical events 81 Moose 18 More Fire Crew 19, 136, 137 Morgan, Marcyliena 6, 47 ‘Mr Skeng’ 139 Mr Virgo 144 MTM 100, 107, 111, 122 MTP 100, 107, 176 Muggs, Joe 61–62 multidirectionality 9, 42, 83, 85, 107, 131, 173–174, 176 Murray, Andy 97 music: Black 7–8, 21; Jamaican 12–13, 40; see also specific types musical communication: denotational 81; metapragmatic 81 Musical Mobb 11 Musicking 133 Mwamba, Corey 132 MySpace 23 N.A.S.T.Y 84, 86 Nelson, Alondra 7 Neptunes 16 Newham Generals 23 ‘Next Tune’ 144 No Lay 44n24 ‘North Weezie’ 51, 52 Notting Hill Carnival 13 Novelist 120 ‘Number One’ 4, 122 Obese 93 Oblig 120, 121

Oddz 117 ‘Oi’ 19 ‘Oni’ 156 Orchestras 28 OT Crew 136 ‘Outburst (Remix)’ 87, 112 Over the Edge (OTE) 2, 9, 22, 24–25, 27, 30, 41, 146, 164, 176; ensemble ways of knowing 154–158; as a learning tool 168–169 Over the Edge flows 153, 158; as communal bind 164–168 Over the Edge ‘Sound’ 158–168 ‘Over the Wot Mate?’ 25–26, 27 Pakin 39 pamurba 82, 174 Paradise Garage 19 ‘Pass Out’ 4, 23, 122 patterning 96 Paul McCartney 58 Pay As U Go 19, 136, 137 Payback 66 Peckings 12 Peel, John 70 performances 40–41; Afrodiasporic 173; Black 7; -centred research 27–32; communities 33; and hypermasculinity 37 performance technique: codification of 119–120; Eastwood 119–120 Peter Kind 18 ‘Phantom Creeper’ 105 Pharma G 16 phase spaces 98 pirate radio 4, 7, 36, 131–146, 173, 175; alterity 131–133; callers 18; circuit 147; community 131–133; dual functionality of 148–149; environment 140; hype 133–135; and interactivity 133; jungle 134; network 135–136; rites 133–135; sites 133–135; specificity 149; stations 17, 21, 37; studios 52 Pirlo, Andrea 110 PK 95 Plan B 52 Plastician 14, 23 P Money 55, 57, 68, 88, 94 Posthuman Rap 7 power relationships 97 Preditah 10n3 ‘pre-technological orality’ 7 Prévost, Eddie 83 Price, George ‘Peckings’ 12

206  Index Primal Scream 44n17 Project Blowed 47, 54 Project Pat 16 proto-taxonomisation 141, 143 Provincial Headz (de Paor-Evans) 15 punching, as DJ gesture 71–75, 174 Purple 70, 72 Pyro Radio 37 quasi-group flow 167 ‘quick draw’ 70–71, 75, 160, 163, 174 race: and the academy 32–36; and grime music 32–36 Radar Radio 41, 66, 99, 122, 151 radio: as constructive enterprise 143–145; domain, specificity of 175–176 Raheim 25 rallying/rallies 80, 97–106, 176; artificial 98; back to backs 104–105; defined 97–98; emergent 98; entry and solidification phase 101; exit and transition 105–106; rally phase 102–103, 102–104; rally refrain 105 Ramsden, Ellie 37 Ramsey, Guthrie P. 7 Ratty 15 Rave 17–21 Raw Blaze 86, 94, 97, 112 Razor 2–3, 24, 25, 30, 41, 153, 154, 157, 159–164, 166–169, 166, 168 React FM 74 ‘Real Talk 3’ 175 Reaper (Reaps) 3, 24, 25, 30, 147, 154–158, 161–163 Rebound X 90 referentiality 149–154; intermusical 146–148, 176; Shellyvnne 149–154 reggae 3–4, 12–13, 15, 17–20, 36, 40 reload 83–91, 176; begging the 93–94; climactic moments 96–97; collaborative building 96–97; DJ’s wheel 89–91; drop wheel 85–87; forcing 91–93; in the live domain 84; MC’s wheel 87–89; tactics 91–97 Renegade Boys 115 Renz 99 representation 42–43 Reprezent Radio 41 research 27–32; performance-centred 27–32 ‘The Return’ 49, 49 Reynolds, Simon 17, 62

‘Rhythm ‘n’ Gash’ 90 Rice, Timothy 152 Riko Dan 10n7, 13, 17, 21, 91 Riley, Mykaell 36 Rinse FM 2, 17, 23, 45–46, 79, 100, 126, 133, 136, 149–151, 175 Risky Roadz 23 Rita Ora 4 rites 133–135 Roaring Twenties 12 Rock Steady Crew 15 Rodigan, David 40, 84 Roll Deep 8, 10n7, 13, 16, 20, 22, 47, 56, 91; In at the Deep End 22 Rollo Jackson 175 Roots Manuva 16 Rosenberg, Peter 16 Rowe, Keith 83 Royal 52 Rude Kid 58, 60 Rudie Rudez 152 Ruff Sqwad 79 Rules and Regulations (album) 47 ‘Rules and Regulations’ 54 RWD Forum 23 RWD Magazine 137 Saint P 58–60, 61, 95–96, 105–106, 140; through ball 122–125, 123–124 Saturday Night Live 15 Sawyer, Keith 31, 57, 63–64, 81, 108n1 Saxon Sound System 12 SB:TV 175 Schloss, Joseph 40, 47–48 Scratchy 10n7 Scrufizzer 120 second coming 110, 122; see also through ball Sega Boy EP 43n7 Selecta Impact 1, 9, 45, 79, 146, 149 ‘self-reflexive group study’ 169 session management: accumulation of energy 68–74; grime music 60–75; mapping energy 61–63; role of MCs and DJs 61 Shaarawy, Stephan El 127 Shaka, Jah 12 shangaan electro 177 ‘Shanghai’ 141 Shellyvnne 9, 31, 45–46, 48, 66, 76, 79, 80, 148, 176; flows 149–154; group cohesion 149–154; referentiality 149–154

Index 207 Shiesty 79–80, 150, 151 Shorty Smalls 86, 97, 112–114, 113, 125 Shystie 44n24 Sidewinder 70–73, 85 Sir Hiss 156, 164 Sir Spyro 13, 45–46, 48, 76, 88–89, 97, 100–107, 126, 146, 175 sites 133–135 Skepta 5, 10n7, 36, 56, 83–84, 114–115 Skibadee 18 Slew Dem Crew 1, 23, 33, 86 Slimzee 17, 19, 33, 69, 133 Small, Christopher 133, 154 Smiley Culture 18 ‘snaked’ 57 snaking 95 Sneakbo 14 Sonic Intimacy (James) 132 Sorrow 163–164, 169 So Solid Crew 11 soul 4 Sound 148 sound system culture 61–63; Jamaican 48, 132, 133 Southern Hip-Hop 16 ‘South Side Allstars’ 52 specificity of the radio domain 175–176 Spitz 143–145 Spooky 33, 86–87, 97, 112, 114, 121, 140 The Square 4 SS Orbita 12 ‘Stay Fly’ 20 StayFresh 10n3, 44n20 Stengers, Isabelle 134 Stevie Hyper D 18, 21 Sting 108n7 Stone Love Sound System 14, 15, 133 Stormzy 4, 10n5, 139 Sublow Records 11 Subtle FM 36, 41, 158 Sumara, Dennis 165 Sunship 112 Supreme 23 Swarvo 13, 14, 42, 48, 50, 50, 50–53, 51, 64, 69, 80 Sweetie Irie 19 Swimful 141 S-X 10n3 synchronous experience 135

Tape Crackers 175 Target 10n7, 47 ‘Tekkerz’ 101, 104 Tempa T 75 Terminator 127 Terror Danjah 13, 43n13 ‘Tha Trouble’ 117 They Don’t Know (album) 19 Three 6 Mafia 16, 20 through ball 110–128, 149, 159, 161, 173, 176, 177–178; DJ’s 114–115; MC’s 114; Saint P 122–125, 123–124; stylistic developments 120–121; technological affordances 120–121; usage in 2004 111–119; usage in 2015 122–126 Tia Talks 120 Timbaland 16, 20, 43n8 Tinchy Stryder 4, 122, 198 Tinie Tempah 4, 23, 53, 122 Tippa Irie 18 ‘T.L.C.O’ 162 Tottenham 20 ‘Touch Ah Button’ 14 track selection 68 transition lyric 65–67, 66, 92–93, 96, 101, 113–114, 123, 125, 150 Travis-T 122–125, 123–124; ‘What Comes Around (Dub)’ 125–126 Tre Mission 90 Trim 16, 54–56, 68–69, 90 Tubby 23 Tupac 148 Turner, Patrick 21

Taliifah 37 ‘Talkin the Hardest’ 36 Tape Crackers 18

Wang, Oliver 48, 50 WAVE Gang 141 Weheliye, Alexander 75

‘U Ain’t Ready’ 70 UK Drill 78n2 UK garage 11, 17–21, 173 Underground Dance Music (UDM) 174, 178n1 unexamined truisms 7, 85 ‘Velociraptor’ 156 vibe 61–63, 67, 75, 81 Village Voice 15 vinyl turntables 120 virtuosity 74 visual ethnography 52 Voltage 80, 82, 150, 151 voyeurism 7

208  Index West, Reece 55–56, 58–60, 59, 61, 95 Westside Radio 37, 152, 152, 153 ‘We are I.E.’ 17 ‘What Comes Around (Dub)’ 125–126 ‘What’s Your Fantasy’ 16 Wheatley, Simon 52 ‘Where Ya From?’ 52 White, Joy 25, 36, 43n5 White Lion 52–54, 86 Wicked Skengman 4 Wiley 10n7, 11, 14, 19, 21, 91, 125, 127, 130, 136, 137, 141 Williams, Justin 42, 96, 152 Williams, Serena 80 Windrush generation 8 ‘Wonderful Christmas Time’ 58

Wong, Deborah 28, 30 World War II 12 Wretch 32 20 Wright, Seymour 148, 154, 158, 169 ‘writtens’ (hip-hop) 16 ‘Xtra’ 79 Yeboah, Tony 127 YGG 4, 58, 95, 100, 140, 176 Younger Nasty 86 Youngers Clash 121 Younger Slew Dem 112 Younger SLK see Yunga SLK YouTube freestyles 4 Yunga SLK 53, 86