A Quick Ting On: Grime E-Book

Franklyn Addo

• Herausgeber: Jacaranda Books
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Serie: AQTO
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 239

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

From pirate radio to Glastonbury's Pyramid Stage, journalist and rapper Franklyn Addo pens an extraordinary narrative of the history, present and future of Grime music. The influence of Grime on contemporary British culture is difficult to understate. From fashion trends and evolving language to potent political statements, Grime is a musical juggernaut that has reverberated far throughout British society. Chronicled for the first time in powerful literary prose, Addo intelligently documents the genre's cultural explosion and investigates how it became the voice of a generation. A phenomenal insight into the captivating and electrifying genre that has taken the British music scene by storm, A Quick Ting On: Grime is an essential and long-awaited read for Stormzy aficionados and grime newcomers alike.

Leseprobe

PRAISE FORA QUICK TING ON…

‘Groundbreaking,’ The Guardian

‘Amazing,’ The Metro

‘Timely and needed,’ BBC Radio 5

‘Spearheaded by the hugely impressive Magdalene Abraha, the heartening launch of a phenomenal new series,’ Mellville House

‘There is nothing like this,’ The Bookseller

‘What better way to begin Black History Month than with the announcement of a book series celebrating Black British life?’ Bustle Magazine

‘Magdalene Abraha will launch her long-awaited book series, A Quick Ting On… it’s brilliant,’ Elle ‘Exciting,’ Refinery29

‘The first ever non-fiction book of its kind’, The Voice

‘A Quick Ting On… is set to be behind some of the most exciting books.’ Stylist Magazine

‘A game changer,’ BBC World Service

‘Bringing Black Britishness to the fore,’ The Blacklist

‘How much do you know about plantains? Or Black British Businesses? Or Afrobeats? If your answer is not enough, that could soon be rectified,’ Evening Standard

A QUICK TING ON……ABOUT THE SERIES

A Quick Ting On is an idea rooted in archiving all things Black British culture. It is a book series dedicated to Black Britishness and all the ways this identity expands and grows. Each book in the series focuses on a singular topic that is of cultural importance to Black Britishness (and beyond), giving it the sole focus it deserves. The series was inspired by everyday conversations had with Black British folk far and wide, whether that be in WhatsApp group chats, in person, on social media, at parties, barbecues and so on.

A Quick Ting On is about providing an arena for Black people to archive things that they deem important to them and in turn allowing these explorations to exist long after we are here.

A bundle of joy, learning, nostalgia and home.

Magdalene Abraha FRSA (Mags)

xx

This edition first published in Great Britain 2024

Jacaranda Books Art Music Ltd

27 Old Gloucester Street,

London WC1N 3AX

www.jacarandabooksartmusic.co.uk

Copyright © Franklyn Addo 2024

The right of Franklyn Addo to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the copyright owners and the publisher.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN: 9781913090524

eISBN: 9781913090555

Cover Illustration: Camilla Ru

Cover Design: Baker, bplanb.co.uk

Typeset by: Kamillah Brandes

TABLE OF CONTENTS

PREFACE

CHAPTER 1

MY PERSONAL RELATIONSHIP WITH GRIME

CHAPTER 2

277 TO LEAMOUTH

CHAPTER 3

I DON’T CARE ABOUT GARAGE

CHAPTER 4

DAVID CAMERON IS A DONUT

CHAPTER 5

THE TECHNOLOGY OF GRIME

CHAPTER 6

NO HATS, NO HOODS

CHAPTER 7

WHITE LABLE CLASSICS

CHAPTER 8

HOOD ECONOMICS

THE DISTRIBUTION AND CONSUMPTION OF GRIME

CHAPTER 9

WHO’S GOT THE LYRICS

CHAPTER 10

CAN THE UNDERGROUND GO MAINSTREAM?

CHAPTER 11

THE FUTURE OF BLACK BRITISH MUSIC

ESSENTIAL LISTENING

REFERENCES

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

PREFACE

Throughout the process of writing this book, the landscape of UK music has continued to evolve as rapidly as the tempo of Grime. The saturation of the streaming era means that the slew of new releases can sometimes even be challenging to keep up with. Though it’s no longer the most popular genre of today, many new events have continued to highlight Grime’s impact and stunning success since its grassroots origins. Grime got its first Grammy in February 2024; Flowdan and Skrillex’s song ‘Rumble’ won the award for Best Dance/Electronic Recording. Grime’s spirit remains discernible today, whether in young MCs’ instrumental selection, or in the DIY approach of independent new-gen artists. The genre grew from the ground up in hostile conditions, and has ended up proving instructive. It demonstrated the success that can be achieved on artists’ own terms, with gruelling graft, without any external investment. Today, the careers of veteran Grime artists like Skepta and Kano are still fruitful, with forays into fields like fashion and TV.

Such success may seem unlikely given Grime’s humble and obscure origins, which are narrated in this book. But commercial performance and mainstream validation are not true barometers of success. Grime’s cultural impact is indelible. The genre both reflects and has garnered a committed community. Before producing such significant profits or attracting widespread accolades, Grime has long been dear to people like me, those of us really from the ends, who can relate to its gritty sound and unflinching attitudes. We intimately understand its culturally specific references. We were fashioned of Grime, in that our tastes were informed by its aesthetic from early on. Grime represented our lives, our social circumstances, our lingo, our style. Grime was our very own proudly homegrown sound, which blossomed into a vibrant scene.

Since Grime was so momentous and foundational, it’s only right that it would feature in a book series archiving Black British culture. I was honoured to have been trusted by my peoples Mags, who I went to college with, to write this contribution. I felt equipped for the undertaking because of my lived experience of Grime, my own participation in music, and academic background in Sociology and Cultural Studies. All these factors informed my perspective and approach.

I was born in ‘93; I was just entering double digits in age by the time Grime had germinated and was settling into its golden era. Although I was still in secondary school and not quite ‘outside’ when Grime blew up, I lived and loved it all the same. For those who may be unaware of Grime, this book endeavours to communicate the genre’s essence, although I fear that mere description ultimately won’t suffice. Grime was an experience. You kinda had to be there, still. I do my best nevertheless to distil Grime into some of its core elements and present them in this book. For those of us lucky enough to have grown with Grime, this is a memoir of all its glory. I trust this book will bring to mind fond memories of the golden age of a generational genre.

A Quick Ting On: Grime explores how the genre first came to be, in the transitory period between the late ‘90s and early 2000s. It emerged in unique circumstances at the turn of the millennium, but Grime is timeless. This book examines the sociopolitical landscape that the genre was incubated in, as well as the musical context that it evolved from. One chapter examines underground sounds like UK Garage and Jungle, which mutated into Grime. Another traces the transition from the analogue age and from platforms like pirate radio into the digital era. The ubiquity of the internet, which may be unremarkable for younger readers, is a far cry from the time when Grime was first born. This book describes how the advent of new digital technologies democratised access to creativity and were critical for Grime’s aesthetic and ascent.

Culture chronicles the times. If one listens to Grime lyrics intently, incisive social commentary can be heard in abundance. Although Grime is distinctly, patriotically British, this book acknowledges the context of migration and the African and Caribbean influences which Grime could not exist without. Themes of race and class are necessarily engaged with throughout. Grime is a product of multiculturalism, spearheaded by young Britons from working-class backgrounds. The innovative youngsters behind Grime did not have ready access to the formal entertainment industry. Nevertheless, they resolved to express their truths and share their art with the world. They went on to produce records which are now certified classics.

One of the things that most excites me about this book is its spotlighting of some of the greatest Grime records, from seminal instrumentals, to famous dubs. I encourage readers to get lost in the playlist the prose produces, compiled of all the songs mentioned across the chapters.

Many of us will now forever cherish many of the gems which make up the Grime catalogue. Although Grime is now taken for granted and widely celebrated, it’s important to remember that this was a genre that was first rejected by the mainstream. From its inception, Grime was misunderstood, much like the group of people who produced it. In any case, the genre was unstoppable. Grime is a formidable force, whose impact has inspiringly been intergenerational, and extended beyond sound.

I enjoyed writing, for instance, about the style of Grime. Grime’s style still informs fashion today, not just in the UK but globally, both on an individual level and in terms of influencing the industry. The aesthetic and attire of Grime are articulated and appreciated within this book. This book also celebrates the enterpreprenurialism of Grime’s pioneers, who established a commercial infrastructure to attract attention and investment to a budding scene. Today, British rap music is proving profitable for participants. Grime ascended from grassroots obscurity to become a national treasure, helping to kick down doors and shatter glass ceilings for subsequent subcultures.

This book doesn’t claim to be a complete history of Grime. It’s c. 50,000 words written from the inevitably subjective perspective of a fan. It’s not exhaustive or encyclopaedic, it probably only scratches the surface of such a rich scene. I couldn’t possibly have featured every Grime artist or release there’s ever been. So if I missed out your favourite MC or record, you’re gonna have to allow me. This book is but a contribution to a small but growing canon of literature that commemorates Grime, chiming in alongside the works of Jeffery Boakye, Dan Hancox and Aniefiok Ekpoudom, whose in-depth history of rap is immersive and intimate.

AQTO: Grime is a documentation of what Grime meant on an individual level, a homage to a culture whose impact is enduring. This book is a celebration of the community that Grime came from. It honours the foundational acts and actors of the Grime scene. I hope that those who feature within it are proud to be immortalised in literature. The hope is that this book contributes to the preservation of Grime’s history. Our work deserves proper archiving instead of remaining as disparate fragments dispersed across dusty corners of the internet. But this is more than just a work of mere nostalgia.

Grime is not dead; it lives on in the DNA of British music. And Grime is much more than just a music genre. It was a moment, and remains a movement. Grime provided a blueprint for subsequent subcultures to follow. Grime is an essence, an identity. It may sound grandiose, but some of us wouldn’t be who or where we are today without Grime’s influence. It contributed to our self-esteem at a critical time of coming of age, enabling us to assert our existence and articulate our experiences. Grime compelled some of us to venture along our own creative pathways. When I started making my own music, the first genre I ever experimented with was Grime. Similar to how I learned basic HTML coding and graphic design to customise my Piczo profile, I started producing instrumentals for fun. I emulated my favourite MCs like Kano as I learned to use lyricism to express my own thoughts and feelings.

1

MY PERSONAL RELATIONSHIP WITH GRIME

NEEDLE DROP: N.A.S.T.Y. CREW, ‘TAKE YOU OUT’

Three things that have always been important to me: words, music, and community. Words came first. English was my favourite subject in primary school. I found peace in the stillness that reading requires, and appreciated the art of communicating through language. Music came second, although it was still the writing that drew me in first and foremost.

As much as many are moved by its explosive sound, Grime is a genre which equally embraces lyricism. This is perfect for someone like me, whose brain foregrounds words. I keep a lyrical reference on deck. I really do reflect on artists’ words, and retain those which resonate with me. When I interact with others, I amuse myself with my own ability to have whole conversations using just song lyrics.

Anyone who knows me well will know. I’ve often said only half-jokingly that I might prefer headphones over humans. More time, I’m definitely doubling back home to grab my headphones if I happened to forget them as I left out. I’d probably pick being late wherever over the prospect of going without music for the day.

With age, I’ve come to appreciate a real range of genres. I recall first being exposed to Soul songs from groups like En Vogue, or Soul II Soul, whose Britishness surprised me given the scale of their success. I engaged even more with American Rap. I was impressed by Ludacris’ flows, and moved by Tupac’s conviction. I vibed with Ja Rule’s fusion of Hip Hop and R&B, and was amused by Eminem’s hyperbolic performances. I started buying copies of albums from the barbershop across the road from my house. Colin, the bossman who owned it, was a bonafide hustler. He diversified his services from offering haircuts and grooming products to selling bootleg CDs and facilitating international money transfers.

The first genre I really became obsessive about was Grime. Perhaps this was a rite of passage, growing up as a young Black boy on an East London council estate. It was around 2004. Dial up internet had just phased out. We were broadband babies; our horizons had been broadened by the internet’s boundless possibilities. Outside of first hearing Dizzee Rascal’s debut album on CD in 2003, it’s hard to pinpoint the exact moment I became aware of Grime. It was just a fact of life. At some stage, it would become basically omnipresent around my peers and I. We found ourselves almost inevitably immersed in it.

Another passion of mine, and pillar of this book, is community. Community has been crucial for Grime. Some artists like Wiley are self-sufficient and can manage their own musical process from production through to release. But Grime has always been a collaborative effort, thriving precisely because of this collective approach. Grime exemplifies the old adage of there being strength in numbers. Grime crews cliqued up, pooling their talents, resources and networks to extend their reach and magnify their impact. Producers, DJs and MCs were all crucial collaborators in the process of making and breaking new riddims, as were promoters, who provided lively spaces for the scene to congregate in.

Indeed, Grime is also consumed largely in community. Raves and clashes channel Grime’s eruptive energy. In school playgrounds or on commutes, young people grouped together around Grime music. My bredrins and I excitedly shared early instrumentals and freestyles between our devices. It was Nokias and Sony Ericsons. It was via infrared before bluetooth became popular. We swapped songs in manic group chats on MSN messenger, as well as funny videos, and excerpts of Keisha Da Sket (a series of sultry stories which went viral before the term existed). These early experiences of sharing digital content is how instrumentals like Rhythm and Gash by Rebound X have become permanent fixtures in the museum of my memory. We insatiably consumed Grime wherever and whenever we could, whether through downloading dubs onto our PCs, or watching Channel U on Sky TV for hours on end.

Grime soundtracked our youth. MCs became community celebrities, OG influencers long before the Instagram era. A distinguishable culture grew around Grime, which informed how we spoke, dressed and carried ourselves. We connected with Grime aesthetically and attitudinally. Up until today, you’re still liable to see me cutting through in a Nike trackie and Black TNs, probably my favourite creps of all time, next to White Air Force 1s. I couldn’t tell you when I last wore a hard sole shoe, and I could count on one hand the occasions I’ve put on a collared shirt. My commitment to comfort and to remaining as authentic as possible in any space I might find myself in was encouraged early on by Grime. COVID is only the most recent reason I roll around masked up. Long before the 2020 pandemic, my head stayed in a hood, just how Grime and the ends had taught me. Anonymity is the preference. The idea is to be inconspicuous, although recently, I’m reluctantly starting to concede that the effect is probably the opposite.

Beyond aesthetic appreciation, I connected with Grime even more deeply when I understood how the music intimately reflected our social circumstances. MCs compellingly described both the mundane aspects of the ends, as well as the more sensational, and sometimes, sinister. Grime often emits a wholesome, youthful energy, with its singalong sensibilities and regular references to video games, for example. At the same time, it can be saturated with depictions of robberies, drug-dealing, and violence, all unfortunate realities which have disproportionately affected relatively impoverished areas like my own, Hackney, or Tower Hamlets, where Grime was born.

I can see how Grime could sound grating and gruesome to the unfamiliar ear. Devoid of context, some songs might alarm some listeners. Apart from being harmonically harsh, Grime is unconcerned with euphemism or etiquette as it openly grapples with the taboo. If Grime’s content is unsettling, however, this is but a reflection of the society that it is birthed in. While there may be important internal conversations to be had about artists’ responsibility to make thoughtful, progressive work, it’s reductive and all but racist to claim that genres like Rap and Grime only glorify violence. Far from being exclusive to our genres, geographies or demographics, violence, drugs and sex have long been themes and features of society and popular entertainment.

There are many examples of substance and sophistication in Grime which are overlooked to focus on its more graphic moments. I recall, for example, having Kano’s ‘Over and Over’ on repeat for quite some time from Winter 2007. The track deserves its title. Instead of thoughtlessly glamorising the streets, Kano on ‘Over and Over’ presents ‘knowledge and facts for the youths’, as ever. At a laid back rap tempo of 99 bpm, ‘Over and Over’ isn’t strictly Grime, but the London Town album whose tracklist it features on is by all means a product of the scene. Kano sounds listless and disaffected on the tune. His lethargic energy proved relatable. The track embodies a sense of monotony as Kano describes feeling trapped within an empty routine he seems to want to transcend. Kano sounds pensive and philosophical; ‘Over and Over’ is like a confessional. Kano’s references to being sent home from school and feeling conflicted about religion resonated with me as a Year 10 student who was raised in the church. His name dropping of Air Max trainers embolden me to bop in mine with extra conviction. The vivid details about the ambience of sirens and lines about petty crime, police and prisons reflected what I was seeing around me in Hackney as we settled into adolescence. Although the song is not coy in its mentioning of guns, drugs, and doing the dirty doggystyle, ‘Over and Over’ is a stunning example of Grime’s capacity for reflectiveness and insight.

It’s also an outstanding example of Grime’s sonic range. The production on ‘Over and Over’ is sombre and stripped back, which confounds Grime’s characteristic clamorous style. ‘Over and Over’ sounds cinematic and is arranged dynamically. One section has calming keys subtly adlibbing in the background. A rich string section is introduced in the second half of the song. There is a dramatic pause of silence at 3 minutes and 22 seconds lasting for two seconds. It’s almost like an abrupt, false ending. There are also smooth additional vocals sung by both a male and a female, layered over Kano’s solemn raps. The track sounds serene, although it describes some extent of chaos. Almost two decades on and I still have ‘Over and Over’ in heavy rotation. It’s a personal favourite across all genres, and one of the songs I might listen to if I’m contemplating life, yearning for change or growth.

At various moments throughout this book, especially in the final chapter which envisions the future of Black British music, I examine the heightened scrutiny that Grime and its associated genres have been subjected to. I have personal experience of the lack of nuance with which Black art is received. I was 16 when a national tabloid described me as a ‘gangster rapper’. Today, I might just embrace such a label, understanding how stereotypes can be satirised and subverted. At the time, I was mainly unimpressed by the misrepresentation of my music. I started reflecting on the potential repercussions of uncritically brandishing all types of art with the same brush. My musical style then was derived from Grime, while my lyrics were influenced by faith and conscious rap. The headlines were almost laughably inaccurate. The racist and classist discourse they generated highlighted to me how Black art forms are dismissed as vulgar and valueless. I learned from experience that Black artists are liable to be ridiculed or vilified for making decisions that don’t align with the mainstream.

Today, music is a core component of my work with young people, as well as visual forms of media, and of course, literature. I use all kinds of creativity in spaces like schools and prisons, to engage young people in discussions about their own lives and their society. For me, words, sound and visual art are cathartic and therapeutic, as is the creative process. I know from experience how deeply art can both affect people and reflect their realities. I also advocate against censorship, instead curating safe spaces for young people to write and immerse themselves in creative practice. This work seems all the more important in such a regressive social context, with less and less physical space for communities to come together, and creative courses being scrapped at universities. I’ve written elsewhere about my work defending against the misuse of rap lyrics in criminal court cases.

It was Grime that first gave me my perspective and set me upon my present pathway. Of course, I could never have known it at the time. Although the young people I work with today are generally only vaguely aware of the millennial genre, its resourceful, rebellious spirit surely lives on. Grime’s foundational contribution is certainly cemented. Important lessons can still be derived from its content, and its legacy has lent to genres which have followed. The music I make now is far from Grime, but my wordier style of rap is definitely informed by it, as is my commitment to candour in my content and to community. For me, it’s always been about much more than just music or entertainment. Grime spoke to my conscience, and ignited my own creativity.

Personally, I’ll forever appreciate Grime for awakening my artistic ambitions, and priming some of my political persuasions before I could more consciously contemplate them. Grime gave me a sense of comfort and camaraderie. Through Grime, I started to understand that the circumstances I was living within and witnessing around me were not necessarily unique. Many of our experiences as young, working class Londoners from diverse ethnic backgrounds were shared. I felt like Grime artists and fellow fans led parallel lives to me, even if I’d never met or spoken with them individually. Grime provided a platform for expression and a channel of communication for a demographic otherwise unheard and unrepresented. It told me early on that my voice mattered, that what I may have to say deserves to be heeded, that exactly how I might be inclined to communicate something may be exactly the way that someone somewhere needs to receive it. Long live Grime, then, in spirit and within the hearts of people like myself if not within the fickle, money-hungry music industry.

2

277 TO LEAMOUTH

NEEDLE DROP: DIZZEE RASCAL, ‘CUT ‘EM OFF’

‘My name is Raskit, listen to my flow,’ declares Grime pioneer Dizzee Rascal on his song ‘Cut ‘Em Off’. His voice has not yet shed altogether the higher frequencies of adolescence. ‘Cut ‘Em Off’ is track 7 on his debut album, Boy In Da Corner. Released in July 2003 by XL recordings, the 15 track album would be a commercial success and garner critical acclaim. Almost entirely produced by Dizzee, Boy In Da Corner stands as a seminal moment in both Dizzee’s career and the evolution of Grime music as a whole. More than two decades since its release, the record is hailed as a bona fide classic in the rich archive of British music. Its influence and impact is so pervasive, that Dizzee Rascal has occasionally voiced frustration with the nation’s fixation on his historical work.

It is rare for a body of work to be so enduringly celebrated by audiences that it merits a live performance of every track, decades after its release. Yet the excellence and success of Boy In Da Corner is such that Dizzee Rascal has been able to perform the record in full not only in London at the Copper Box Arena, but also in New York, a city where British music traditionally garners less attention.

It remains remarkable that Dizzee Rascal was just about 17 years old when he produced and recorded the bulk of the songs that would constitute the album. Although his tender age is apparent upon listening, the breakthrough MC delivers his lyrics with a reflective passion beyond his years. The album would come to be widely analysed as an incisive and vital piece of social commentary, a raw reflection of the challenges of inner-city life.

I was just about to enter secondary school when I received the Boy In Da Corner CD as a gift from my older sister, Cella. Cella loved music; she sang in her school’s choir and avidly listened to everything from Gospel and old school Soul to R&B and Rap. Albums like Beverley Knight’s Who I Am and Nas’ God’s Son are examples of the staples that could be heard blaring through our house at any given time. Also on Cella’s palate were the rapidly mutating sounds of the UK underground, freshly ripped from pirate radio sets and recorded onto tapes and minidiscs. A 7-year age gap meant that I was too young to accompany her to the raves where UK Garage reigned. Instead, I lived vicariously through my big sister, inheriting and fusing some of her music tastes with my own. With its spacey synthesis and pulsing bass, UK Garage classics like Sia’s Little Man would become some of my forever faves. The arrival of Grime as a genre, however, would prove trans-formative for my generation.

‘I socialise in Hackney and Bow,’ Dizzee continues to rap on ‘Cut ‘Em Off’; his voice unsettlingly shrill, his delivery animated and authoritative. Much of the rich history of Grime music is rooted in the post-industrial valleys of East London. While the widespread recognition the genre would eventually achieve owes to contributions from across the capital and wider country, it is the inner-city enclaves like Bow and Stratford in boroughs like Newham in Tower Hamlets that are especially central to Grime’s story.

The Hackney secondary school I attended in the early 2000s neighboured the housing estates that Grime figureheads like Dizzee Rascal and Wiley traversed. Growing up, I was blissfully ignorant of my local area’s notorious reputation as a deprived hot-spot for crime. Before my beloved borough became the coveted zone-2 location it is romanticised as today, it was considered by many as an area to be avoided. For me, though, Hackney was always just home—and ain’t no place like Home Sweet Home.

Long before the area would become infamous, and nightclubs like Palace Pavilion emerged along what became known as the ‘murder mile’, neighbourhoods like Clapton and Mare Street were once the favoured residences of monied elites and the political class. They settled in grand dwellings. Sutton House on Homerton High Street stands as the oldest surviving example. Built in 1535 by a colleague of Edward VIII, the impressive manor house once hosted diplomats before becoming home to a succession of merchants and church clergy.

Today, Sutton House is a Grade II listed building owned by the National Trust. While concrete is all I have known, the building’s brickwork at the time of its construction would have been an extraordinary display of wealth and status compared with the feebler wattle and daub homes which were common. Despite being built of similarly sturdy materials, and situated just a short walk from each other, the scale and grandeur of the private, 3-storey Sutton House is incomparable to the humble public housing estate I was raised on.