Chapter 6

Bass Culture: An Alternative Soundtrack

to Britishness
Mykaell Riley

As he tells us in this chapter, Mykaell Riley was a founding member of one of

the groundbreaking British reggae groups, Steel Pulse. Formed in working-class
Handsworth, Birmingham, which had a large Afro-Caribbean population, in 1975,
Steel Pulse became involved with the punk subculture, opening for groups like
the Clash and the Stranglers. Riley was a writer, vocalist and played percussion.
The group was signed by Island in 1978 and released their acclaimed first
album, Handsworth Revolution, the same year. Steel Pulse were involved with the
anti-racist movement Rock Against Racism, and played many of their benefit gigs
including the high profile 1978 Victoria Park concert which attracted over 80,000
people, alongside the Clash and the Tom Robinson Band. After leaving Steel Pulse
Riley went on to form the Reggae Philharmonic Orchestra, the UK’s first black
classical pop act. They released their first, eponymously titled album in 1988.
After this Riley became a successful writer and producer, his credits ranging from
Björk to Soul II Soul.
Jon Stratton and Nabeel Zuberi

Introduction

This chapter draws on my personal reflections and career as musician, producer and
academic. I’m a first-generation British-born Jamaican who grew up in the vibrant,
ethnically diverse community of Handsworth in Birmingham. In 1976 I joined the
nucleus of what became Steel Pulse, Birmingham’s premier reggae band. In 1978
we signed to Island records and later that year, to critical acclaim, we released our
first album, Handsworth Revolution. This was followed by a European tour with
Bob Marley and the Wailers. My career then evolved into writing, arranging and
production for artists such as Bad Manners, E17, Jamiroquai, Peter Andre, and
more recently, Dub Colossus.
Over the last few years, part of the work I have been engaged with at the
University of Westminster and the Black Music Research Unit (BMRU) can be
described as instigating the academic appropriation of the term ‘bass culture’. The
work focuses on the intersection between Jamaican and British popular music
since the late 1950s. These two words came to life as the title of Linton Kwesi
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Johnson’s 1980 album and were subsequently used for the title of Lloyd Bradley’s
history of reggae (2001). In my usage the purpose of the term is to recognise the
direct and indirect impact of the Jamaican community and Jamaican music on the
cultural and social fabric of multicultural Britain, including a canon of globally
influential music. Bass culture encompasses but is not limited to sound systems,
ska, roots reggae, dub, pop reggae, jungle, drum and bass, trip-hop, garage, 2 step,
grime, dubstep and a host of other genres and sub-genres. The term has evolved
to transcend any individual style. Bass culture can be continually refined as a
term, considered a catalyst in new sub-genres, and as a creative bridge across
successive generations.
My contention is that the British music industry, media and scholarship have
failed to properly reflect the contributions of Jamaican communities and bass
culture within British pop music. This has distorted the history of popular music in
Britain. Since the sixties, British pop music is internationally recognised as having
transformed the global music scene, with acts such as the Beatles, the Rolling
Stones and a host of other British acts. This is an important achievement that
the British media has sought to shape and maintain as a statement and symbol of
Britishness – and as a soft reminder of nation and empire. Within this construct
Black British artists have had a historically defined position and status that has
marginalised their contributions. Since the sixties British pop music has endured
as one of the main cultural links between the UK and the US. This achievement,
coupled with its capacity to promote Britishness, eventually secured recognition
from academic and heritage institutions. As interest in the subject area has
increased, UK Higher Education Institutions (HEIs) have become market leaders,
offering numerous variations in Popular Music degrees. Yet encountering a degree
course that includes a focus on Black British music today is as difficult as finding a
student listening to music on a Sony Walkman or a cassette player. If both heritage
and HEIs are still failing to properly recognise and support this contribution, it
will take a paradigm shift in both before a discernible change is obvious. In the
complex and brutal battleground of the British music industry, sensitivity to the
role of cultural specificity has a low priority, especially when creating pop music.
One shouldn’t be surprised in a system that takes from everything and only credits
itself. So, although on the surface the psychological, cultural and social impact of
prejudice on the Black British musician might seem less pronounced in 2013, the
consequences run more deeply than any of these musicians might say in interviews.
The dominant histories of British popular music differ markedly from the
recollections of people in Black and Asian communities. Memories serve as
integral components of history. However it is the medium by which these memories
are recorded and shared that preserves the individual or community recollection of
past events. If a history is repeatedly presented without reflecting the contributions
of sections of the community, those contributions will eventually fall from public
consciousness. For Caribbean elders, their influence on British society tends to be
viewed as part of their past, a bunch of distant, disconnected memories of no real
value, punctuated by present-day chart hits that resemble songs they used to know.
 Bass CULtUrE 103

But some of these memories are priceless as historical links to the richness of the
Caribbean experience in the UK. Unfortunately the community lacks the expertise
and resources required to preserve them. As a result British musicians, especially
those of Jamaican ancestry, are now at risk of losing part of their heritage.
I find myself asking, ‘To what extent has reggae contributed to British
pop music history? Why is its heritage status not considered more important
by institutions such as Arts Council England, Heritage Lottery and the British
Library?’ There remains scant physical evidence of this contribution in any of
the major public spaces. And what is the indigenous Jamaican community doing
to promote and preserve their contribution to popular music and cultural history
in Britain? The dominant response to these questions recognises Britain’s role as
integral to reggae’s global success, but views reggae’s history, legacy and heritage
as located elsewhere (in the Caribbean). What is often overlooked is the extent
to which this view has impacted the legacy of Jamaican music and musicians
in Britain. Although regional narratives get highlighted, the full story of these
unsung heroes is still to be told. Fortunately, in Britain there’s now an increased
willingness amongst musicians of Jamaican descent to claim a stake in what is
rightfully theirs. As a practitioner I’ve been extremely fortunate in being able to
maintain a career in music over the last three decades. It is my experience in this
capacity that has informed my perspective. Given the extent to which reggae taken
as a generic form has permeated British society, has been a source of creative
inspiration and expression, and has had the capacity to generate individual and
community identity, one would expect to find a fully assimilated community of
musicians, proud of their stake in British society. But this tends not to be the
case. Many of my peers still view their musical contributions and to some extent
themselves, as other, existing somewhere outside of the mainstream music industry.

Living Black

I grew up in a Britain that viewed everything in black and white, often quite
literally. Be it the TV, the newspapers or the music press, the main format was
black and white. So during my childhood and early teens these were the colours
that represented my world, and the mindset of the institutions in charge. At the top
of my list were educational establishments, the police and the BBC. The start of
the 1970s was the point at which Black British radicalism was underscored by the
American Black Power movement. Its members were small in number and patchy
in their distribution, but they were able to emphasise the anger and frustration that
had been fermenting for decades within Britain’s Black community. The trial of the
so-called ‘Mangrove Nine’ highlighted the presence of institutional racism. The
Metropolitan Police raided The Mangrove, a hub for African and Caribbean debate
and cuisine in London’s Notting Hill, on 12 separate occasions between January
1969 and July 1970 in the hopes of shutting it down. On 9 August 1970 around 150
people marched to the Notting Hill police station. They were flanked by at least
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500 police. In the ensuing violence nine leaders of the protesters were arrested and
served with, between them, 29 charges. When the nine’s cases came to court in
December 1970, 22 of the charges, including all the major ones, were dismissed.
In his summing up Judge Clarke commented that the trial had ‘regrettably shown
evidence of racial hatred on both sides’ (Bunce and Field, 2010). This public
acknowledgement of police racism by a senior member of the legal system sent
shockwaves through British society. It was the touch paper that once lit ignited a
public outcry for justice from both the Black and white communities.
My upbringing was both British and Jamaican, which translated into large
periods of my teens and early twenties spent feeling disconnected from the
birthplace of my parents and disowned in the place of my birth; like many of my
generation I had an identity crisis. My Britishness was dwarfed by my desire to
be Jamaican in ways that I would learn are just not possible unless you’re brought
up there. To elders and visiting relatives my best Jamaican accent was considered
fake, my dress sense oddly English, and my handwriting inferior to that accepted
in Jamaican schools; the way I walked didn’t have ‘that’ bounce, and neither did
the music I was making. Nonetheless music remained central to who I thought
I was, and who I thought I should and could be. It provided the space and the
platform to engage in a private yet also public discourse on identity and belonging.
Growing up in Birmingham the airwaves were dominated by mainstream radio,
which had a slight bias towards local success. The likes of Black Sabbath, ELO
and the Moody Blues became very familiar alongside the Bay City Rollers and
novelty acts such as the Wurzels.
Meanwhile, at home, we’d dance to a different tune. Here the musical
influences stemmed mainly from Dad’s Blaupunkt Blue Spot, the preferred record
player/radiogram amongst West Indians. It blasted his record collection, and also
the odd calypso or jazz tune that had escaped from the BBC World Service on
Sundays. His taste ranged from Louis Armstrong, Dizzy Gillespie, Elvis, Nat King
Cole and Sam Cooke, to Russ Conway and Winifred Atwell, my sister’s namesake
and a pioneer in her own right. To some extent the mix of reggae, gospel, R&B
and country music found on radio in Jamaica explained what was present on the
turntables and cassette players in Caribbean homes in Birmingham. More generally,
apart from blue beat, ska and rocksteady, ‘secular music’ households might also
include the likes of Aretha Franklin, Val Doonican, Tom Jones, Ray Charles, Stevie
Wonder, Nat King Cole, Frank Sinatra, Perry Como and Andy Williams. In homes
dominated by calypso, some representation of the above genres and artists would
still be found. In otherwise gospel-dominated, non-secular music households such
selections were not unfamiliar but more difficult to access as the artists were less
visible in the record collection. Less common were households that challenged
these trends, as they tended to have some representation of classical and/or folk-
based music. These are general observations, but the point here is the correlation
between the music available in UK Caribbean homes during the 50s and 60s and
the types of musicians that emerged in the decades that followed. From the time
of the ‘blues parties’ and ‘Shebeens’ of the late 50s, UK Caribbean households
 Bass CULtUrE 105

have been influencing popular music and culture in Britain, and on occasions in
ways we’re only just uncovering. Other key influences in the home came via TV
and radio. TV was generally a shared and to some extent a parentally controlled
experience. Radio was more personal, with a greater element of individual control.
Pirate stations became important from the 1960s onwards, though in both radio
and television, the BBC was the omnipresent, ubiquitous influence. Often it was
what we didn’t see or hear that provoked a creative reaction.
I’ve been moulded by post-1960s euphoria, the rise of the National Front, the
decline in heavy industry, secondary-modern education, the baby boom amongst
teen mothers, changes of government and economic depression. These events
transformed not just the political landscape but also bass culture. The 1970s are
a long time ago, even for those who were there. If you were there, you probably
wish you had bought property back then, and paid into a pension. But this would
have required a job and back then young Black men were disproportionately
unemployed, the victims of racist attacks and the subjects of police harassment
and brutality. This was especially the case for young people from Jamaica, still
adjusting to a new way of life, individuals who were prematurely expelled from
school, and those from single-parent homes with a history of unemployment and/
or drug abuse. For many becoming a member of a sound system (a community of
DJs, musicians, producers, making and playing music) was the first, and sometimes
only, opportunity outside of the home that offered a form of employment and
escapism. Sound-system culture in the UK prevailed, despite the domination of
disco, soul and funk on the radio. It was self-contained with its own pressing
plants, distribution networks, touring circuit, and promotional and marketing
mechanisms. In the early 1970s, if you lived in or near any of Britain’s major
cities, the term reggae became synonymous with the local Jamaican community
and its sound systems. The story of British sound-system culture is too often
ignored or supplanted by the Jamaican story.
In the 1970s and early 1980s, I was one of many young West Indians in Britain
who witnessed our lives being socially and economically transformed, and not
always for the better. For many in Britain these decades heralded some of the
worst occurrences of racism and violence, especially if you were young, male,
and Black or Asian. In fear of attacks from fascists in the form of the National
Front, or being picked up and beaten in the back of a police van, it was common
practice not to go out alone, especially after dark. The theory was that one of us
should be able to call for help. Day or night, a bus ride into town was always a
risky venture. But it had to be done if the right act or event was on. Up-town clubs
in Birmingham’s city centre like Barbarella’s, The Locarno and Rebecca’s were
generally considered no-go areas for reggae lovers. So our options were limited to
sound-system events, or a night out at one of the local clubs, our favourite being
the Santa Rosa. The journey to or from any such night out carried an element of
danger. If a mate did not show up as planned, the fear they had been stopped or
detained by the police was often realised.
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The Santa Rosa was a West Indian nightclub with a sound system in place.
It was also where Steel Pulse first performed live. If we were not up to scratch
we could expect to get heckled, and perhaps have the odd bottle land on stage
for having interrupted the sound system. In time we conquered this audience,
which meant we were ready to do battle with our newfound friends the punks.
At these gigs violent exchanges were more the result of ignorance compounded
by assumed modes of behaviour; that is to say, we were a reggae band in a punk
environment. So, when the space between the band and the audience was crossed
by jars of ale, flying bodies and racist abuse, we had to make a stand. Massively
outnumbered, we were fortunate that the music, the performance and sometimes
even wearing Ku Klux Klan hoods, always won through. We were subverting
the culture. It was as though the venue provided a neutral space for cultural
exchange. However, members of our audience could and sometimes did turn nasty
if encountered outside of the venue. Back on the streets, band members or not, we
were all fair game.
For many of us the social climate impacted in ways that presented a career in
music as the only option. It was empowering as it afforded us a platform to speak
about our lives to an audience that was willing to listen. What we didn’t know
was that, but for a tiny minority, this pathway was littered with short-lived, dead-
end aspirations, sustained by a monthly or weekly trip to the dole office. ‘Dole
office’ is an informal term for a job centre where one would collect unemployment
benefit on presentation of Unemployment Benefit form 40, the acronym of which
is UB40. It needs to be said that the dole office has inadvertently been one of the
key contributors to new music in Britain. Birmingham-based reggae band UB40
is noted for saying the dole office made being a musician possible – something
signalled in their name.

The Impact of Reggae

The 1970s were a volatile period that included the lowering of the voting age from
21 to 18, the introduction of decimal currency, joining the European Common
Market, two new Popes (John Paul I and II), four prime ministers, the last of
which was Margaret Thatcher, the Queen’s Silver Jubilee and the IRA bombing
campaign on mainland Britain. ‘Coloureds’, the accepted term for visibly
non-white members of the community, embraced the term Black, and it became
common for all Caribbean people, regardless of their origin, whether Guyana or
Trinidad, for example, to be referred to as Jamaicans. This temporary allegiance
to Jamaica was in no small part due to the success of reggae in Britain, replacing
American soul music as the new kid on the block.
The embrace of reggae’s influence by British musicians was validated time
and again by a reciprocal embrace from the British public. In the 1960s the initial
impact was increasingly visible amongst youth groups like the Mods, who adopted
young West Indians’ dress sense, in particular the cut of their suits, and their record
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collections, specifically their ska and blue beat records. Several artists including
Bad Manners (1982) covered Millie Small’s version of ‘My Boy Lollipop’ (1964),
one of Chris Blackwell’s first releases in England. In 1979, Madness would cover
Prince Buster’s 1964 hit ‘One Step Beyond’. Also in 1979’s year of Two Tone,
the Specials would have a hit with a cover of Dandy Livingstone’s ‘Rudy, A
Message To You’ (1967). Harry J & the All Stars’ ‘The Liquidator’ (1969) was a
longstanding skinhead and football terrace anthem in the West Midlands.
In the early 1970s Jamaican artists such as John Holt, on hits like ‘Help
Me Make It through the Night’, and Bob and Marcia, with ‘Young Gifted and
Black’, added orchestral arrangements in an effort to appeal to the British public.
Jamaican-recorded tracks that had strings added to make them more palatable to
a white, British audience were known as ‘stringsed up’ reggae. John Holt comes
to mind as a seminal artist within bass culture, connecting different periods and
almost four generations of UK music fans. His 1974 album 1000 Volts of Holt was
an important precursor to lovers rock. The Slits and Massive Attack covered his
song for the Paragons, ‘Man Next Door’. Blondie and Atomic Kitten have both
had hits with ‘The Tide Is High’, and Boy George with ‘Everything I Own’. By
the 1970s, it was not uncommon to find reggae’s influence pervading rock and
pop recordings. Rock’s royalty, including the likes of the Rolling Stones, Rod
Stewart and Paul McCartney, formed temporary allegiances with the style. In 1974
Eric Clapton had a hit with his version of Bob Marley and the Wailers’ ‘I Shot
the Sheriff’ (1973). The Rolling Stones covered Eric Donaldson’s ‘Cherry Oh
Baby’, a Jamaican Festival Song winner, on their 1976 album, Black and Blue.
Groups like 10cc were able to embrace the essence of reggae with their hit song
‘Dreadlock Holiday’ (1978), as did the American artist Jonathan Richman with
‘Egyptian Reggae’ (1977). UK-based labels such as Trojan, Virgin, Greensleeves
and Jet Star – formerly Pama records, the principal Black-run UK label – helped
to disseminate reggae and bass culture.
In the 1970s, energised by elections in Jamaica, the anti-apartheid struggle in
South Africa and the political climate at home in the UK, young Black musicians
found a new focus within their creative output. This resulted, if only for a moment,
in the ubiquitous love song being replaced by ‘conscious lyrics’, a catch-all term
for political and social commentary whether delivered by Bob Dylan, Bob Marley
or Jimmy Cliff. The latter’s ‘The Harder They Come’ (1970) from the film of the
same name was a hit in Britain. Later in the decade, socially conscious, politicised
reggae collided with the ideologically similar but musically contrasting genre
of punk music. These were separate, but soon to be connected, elements of the
cultural and social changes taking place. Hit singles like ‘Melting Pot’ by Blue
Mink, and ‘Black Skin Blue-Eyed Boys’ by the Equals at the beginning of the
1970s are reminders of how some artists dealt with politically or socially sensitive
material at the start of the decade, but changes were afoot. In spite of pockets of
resistance on both sides of the music community, there were increasingly visible
challenges to the notion that Black people made Black music and white people
made white music.
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In many instances white urban youth consumed a diet of ska, reggae and
dub, prior to becoming punks. In other instances their introduction came via
intermediaries such as reggae DJ and filmmaker Don Letts, whose mix of punk
and reggae in his sets had a profound impact on London’s club scene, and on punk
bands whose subsequent productions embraced reggae. In 1977, The Clash covered
Junior Murvin’s tale of street conflict, ‘Police and Thieves’ (1976), and also hired
its Jamaican producer Lee ‘Scratch’ Perry for their single ‘Complete Control’.
They later worked with Jamaican DJ Mikey Dread. British reggae musician and
producer Dennis Bovell, aka ‘Blackbeard’, is often referred to as the godfather of
lovers rock, the British response to Jamaican reggae. Bovell was able to apply his
British experience of Jamaican music with Matumbi and later with Black British
dub poet Linton Kwesi Johnson on the albums Forces of Victory (1979) and Bass
Culture (1980) to bands like the Slits and Madness. Bovell also formed the first
lovers rock girl groups Brown Sugar and 15,16,17 and co-wrote and produced
Janet Kay’s ‘Silly Games’ (1979), which reached number two on the UK chart –
reinforcing a Black British response to Jamaican reggae. Bovell provided a tangible
link between British sound-system culture and the UK charts. The success of the
song also allowed Janet Kay to blaze a trail for Black British women. Conversely
the impact of the punk scene on Bob Marley was made evident in his song ‘Punky
Reggae Party’. Reggae’s influence in Britain created new perspectives, and new
approaches to music production, that still resonate today. The female duo Althea
& Donna from Jamaica had a UK number one with ‘Uptown Top Ranking’ (1978),
and The Police released ‘Walking on the Moon’ (1979), one of their ‘white reggae’
hits. White, post-punk group Scritti Politti would make a lovers rock record with
‘The Sweetest Girl’ (1981).
For Black British reggae musicians this success story provided a veneer of
confidence as we developed ways of defining ourselves through reggae. Often
our ‘conscious’ subject matter would cause us to stand out when we desperately
wanted to fit in. Gaining a BBC chart position was considered the ultimate measure
of acceptance and success. This meant the writing of new material was sometimes
schizophrenic as we critiqued the very system we were hoping would bring us
success. The year 1978 saw the release of Steel Pulse’s Handsworth Revolution
and our transformation from local heroes to national celebrities with songs like
‘Ku Klux Klan’, which captured the zeitgeist of the Anti-Nazi League and Rock
Against Racism. In the process we joined the ranks of a handful of Black British
musicians to achieve national and international success. In just over three years we
had learnt to write and perform in ways that reflected our accumulated experience.
Unlike our London rivals, Aswad, we were described as an authentically British,
as opposed to Jamaican, sounding reggae band: we had found our identity. It
would take another 30 years to fully appreciate this early success and the extent
to which we had broken the mould. The journey to the 80s was controversial,
contradictory and often hypocritical. With the inherent challenges of employment,
the sus laws, and a music industry that at best viewed British reggae bands as
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imitators, it is not surprising most Black British reggae bands failed to secure a
major recording contract.
During the early 1980s, bass culture showcased the partial integration, and
to some extent the assimilation, of Jamaican music and culture into the creative
output of British youth. It was also able to articulate the impact of politics and
Thatcherism on urban youth, summing up the feelings of a lost generation. The
Clash’s ‘The Guns of Brixton’ (1980) and the Specials’ ‘Ghost Town’ (1981) stand
out in this regard. Reggae was often high in the pop charts with, for example,
Musical Youth’s ‘Pass the Dutchie’ (1982), a remake of The Mighty Diamonds’
‘Pass the Kouchie’ (1982) and UB40’s version of ‘Red Red Wine’ (1983), a
reworking of Tony Tribe’s reggae cover of a Neil Diamond song. UB40, a racially
mixed group that included Ali and Robin Campbell, the sons of the Scottish folk
singer Ian Campbell, became one of Britain’s most successful groups in the reggae
idiom. In 1990 they would record a cover of the rocksteady track ‘Kingston Town’
originally recorded in 1970 by Lord Creator (aka Kenrick Randolph Patrick). This
lovers rock inspired version struck a chord with British music fans, especially
the resident Jamaican community, who still dreamt of returning home but also
recognised the permanence of their stay in their UK. UB40 awarded royalties to
the original writer, which chimed with the spirit of multiculturalism.
Smiley Culture’s ‘Cockney Translation’ and ‘Police Officer’ (1984), combining
rapping with toasting in a style called ‘fast chat’, were the first British raps to
make the UK charts. His lyrics were socially conscious and politically sensitive,
but delivered with a sense of humour, as was the video that accompanied ‘Police
Officer’. Smiley Culture’s arrival in the charts paved the way for British rappers to
use the medium of reggae as opposed to American hip hop. Coming from a sound-
system background, Smiley Culture’s success highlighted support for a production
style that successfully combined Jamaican and British influences. Although his
image largely reflected American MCs of the 80s, he rapped with a mixed cockney
and Jamaican accent.

The Music Industry and Bass Culture

In the 1980s and early 1990s as a producer my world revolved around the top
30 positions in the singles charts. My immediate community was a network of
photographers, journalists, radio pluggers and promoters. My objective was
simple: have a career that lasted longer than my peers – and to achieve this I had
to learn from what was not said, not seen and not done.
In other words there were no schools, mentors, role models or higher education
courses that focused on equipping music producers, let alone Black music
producers. This was not America with a defined if not always recognised history
of Black contribution. This was Britain, still struggling with the remnants of a
colonial mindset. Blacks were at best foreigners with the right to stay. At worst,
they were perceived as taking jobs from whites and constantly engaged in crime.
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In later years producing and arranging for the pop charts meant knowing how to
only integrate into the mix those aspects of my cultural experience that could be
appropriated by the marketing and promotion teams. If we were at all successful,
another piece of music was assimilated into the pop charts. My unofficial industry
title was singles producer. Under this heading one was expected to understand
youth culture, predict musical trends, and link both through an understanding of
music industry commerce, the BBC, TV and the press.
When working with white artists, I ensured the production had an element
of ‘street’. A sound and style of production rooted in Black culture, capable of
transferring an element of street cred to the artist in question. At different times
in different ways, it was simply understood that this was a missing ingredient
that had to be added. The work ranged from just lyrics to full production. Artists
included Bad Manners, E17, Björk, Jamiroquai and Peter Andre. By contrast,
when working on Black British artists, my primary goal was to make them ‘radio
friendly’, that is, not to sound too Black. I knew there were always opportunities
to do another mix for the (Black) clubs. But even if a track was playlisted, it could
still be gazumped by a Black American act. The real challenge was getting British
Black music played on mainstream radio and TV outlets.
Friends who were record pluggers would complain that ‘it’s much harder
to promote a Black British record’. It was much the same with the main music
magazines, Melody Maker, Sound on Sound and NME. In these publications,
Black British musicians were more likely to receive a page or even a double-page
spread rather than a front cover, which was reserved for white acts, unless there
was an African-American megastar on tour in the UK. Although there was never
any formal statement to this effect, this was the perceived reality amongst Black
musicians. As a music producer I was extremely fortunate as my work provided
access to music, musicians and industry professionals within both the Black and
white sections of the music industry. As a Black British musician, I was one of a
tiny minority of individuals operating on the other side of the glass ceiling. During
this period, I worked with artists such as China Black, Maxi Priest, Baba Maal,
Soul II Soul, Mark Morrison and the Reggae Philharmonic Orchestra. All these
artists charted, and several of the tracks I worked on made number one.
As the unspoken rules for a UK pop music production became clearer, so did
my role. This was to assist in the making of a ‘pop record’ for national radio that
could potentially sell in the US. Record companies would emphasise the difference
between the two objectives as the key drivers when deciding which artists to
sign and how much should be spent on promotion. I translated this to mean the
following: assimilate your cultural experience into something we can market
nationally and internationally as British. By the early 1990s, a tiny minority of
Black British producers providing a unique skill set and experience were fast being
replaced by a new generation of music producers. We were witnessing Britain’s
sound systems being transferred to the next generation. I had viewed change as a
music industry norm and not something to take issue with. That is, until I accepted
the extent to which pop music was now the cultural battleground between my
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notion of Britishness and a post-colonial sense of Englishness. The concept of

‘Black British music’ was at best marginalised as a pale imitation of the American
or Jamaican format; that is, until ‘jungle’ burst onto the UK music scene.
In the 90s we see bass culture adjust to and accommodate digital technology,
the culture of sampling and programming beats, and the sub-genres that resulted,
such as jungle and drum and bass. These genres and scenes owe a great deal to
dancehall and bashment from the 1980s, which were formative for many second-
generation British-born. Both included and were influenced heavily by digital
reggae from Jamaica, which broke with the tradition of requiring skilled musicians
to make a recording. A sampler and computer now replaced them. Jungle and
drum and bass hits such as Shy FX with UK Apache’s ‘Original Nuttah’ (1994),
M-Beat and General Levy’s ‘Incredible’ (1994), Goldie’s ‘Timeless’ (1995) and
Roni Size/Reprazent’s ‘Heroes’ (1997) are emblematic of this kind of production
and sound. Artful Dodger’s ‘Re-Rewind’ (1999) and Shanks & Bigfoot’s ‘Sweet
Like Chocolate’ (1999) were two exemplars of UK garage that combined Jamaican
dancehall and American R&B styles. At the same time, the dub and lovers rock
traditions informed the likes of Beats International ‘Dub Be Good to Me’ (1990)
based on the US R&B hit by the SOS Band and the Bristol sound or trip-hop of
Massive Attack with a song like ‘Teardrop’ (1990).
But during this period there were hit singles that didn’t conform to these
trends. Over three decades after its initial release, ‘Oh Carolina’ by the Folkes
Brothers was a hit single for Jamaican artist Shaggy. This version resonated with
the British public, in particular with the elders in the Jamaican community and the
first generation of British-born Jamaicans who remembered the original. This song
also serves as a link to the original’s producer, Prince Buster, a major figure in the
Jamaican industry since the mid-1960s, who was influential on the UK ska revival
and the 2 Tone label in the late 1970s.
In the 2000s, pop records influenced by reggae and bass culture, such as Lily
Allen’s ‘Smile’ (2006), have co-existed with more hardcore digital productions
such as the UK garage and nascent grime of So Solid Crew’s ‘21 Seconds’ (2000)
and Wiley’s ‘Eskimo’ (2002).
Dizzee Rascal’s success during the decade and Tinie Tempah’s ‘Pass Out’
(2010) were indicative of the growing profile of UK MCs. As the charts from the
last quarter of 2010 ushered in the latest instalment of new acts and new music, we
saw an unusually high number of Black British acts. Where did they come from,
and was this a new ‘trend?’
Whilst musically the references were as eclectic as any pop record, there were
common themes here that differed from the sounds these songs were replacing.
From Dizzee Rascal to Tinie Tempah, N Dubs, Tinchy Stryder, and Wretch 32, the
British underground scene surfaced with a vengeance at a time when the industry
had slumping sales and the success of online downloads was beginning to bite.
We saw a broad mix of styles, sounds and performances attracting record
sales and public approval at such a rate that the media were playing catch-up. It
was almost as though these musicians were now in charge rather than the music
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industry. I say ‘almost’ as this surge was highly visible on the British music charts.
In only three weeks this trend was confirmed as successive records with very
similar characteristics entered the charts. Then, the music industry reaffirmed
its dominance. This wave of underground music was branded the ‘New Wave of
Brit Pop’. I am sure a calm was restored in certain quarters as the heady mix
of lyrics, beats and bass was tamed, subsumed into club culture and repackaged
and marketed as dance music. A similar sleight of hand attends dubstep, the most
recent genre from London’s underground music scene to cross to the mainstream.
Whilst dubstep bears the most important characteristics of dub production, it’s
increasingly more likely to be described as new electronic dance music (EDM),
an industry term that makes it safe by placing it within well-known generic
parameters. At the same time though, dubstep, with its embedding in Black British
music history, has garnered renewed interest in reggae’s UK legacy. Yet again
pioneering Jamaican musicians, producers and DJs from the 1960s–1990s tend to
be absent from this genre’s history.
The British media is always grappling for the appropriate vocabulary to explain
the origins of new genres, with most explanations supporting a pop music heritage.
The whole story tends to be a secondary consideration. It qualified to be assimilated,
so it was. In a global market dominated by American music, pop music from Britain
has always punched above its weight – for originality, sound, ingenuity, style and
the look, but also because British pop music is a recognised brand. It showcases
Britishness in much the same way jazz, blues and rock and roll have given the
world an insight into America. However, asking the average American about
Black British music or its contribution to British pop will usually generate a blank
expression. This is because pioneering Black British musicians have historically
been absent from the brand. British pop music is still thought of as white.
In Souled American, Kevin Phinney, journalist and author, described the
American music industry in the terms of a ‘complex portrait of the dysfunctional
American family, in which one sibling is the fair-haired favorite while the other
receives comparatively little attention and credit’ (2005, p. 12). For many Black
British musicians, the same analogy could be applied to their experience of the
British music industry. Looking back over the last four decades, Black British
musicians could be forgiven for viewing the British music industry’s investment
in their careers as a series of low budget marketing experiments that have provided
access to and a stake in future trends, which the industry would eventually exploit.
At the same time as there are signs the music industry is now accepting ‘bass
culture’ as an explanation for a specific source of new music, the struggle to gain
broader recognition remains.

Conclusion

The year 2012 marked 50 years of Jamaican independence, as well as almost

the length of time spent in the UK by large sections of the Jamaican community.
 Bass CULtUrE 113

Many witnessed 1970s London become the international capital of Jamaican

music, and their grandchildren become central players in British pop music,
without themselves or their grandchildren having a clear understanding of their
musical heritage. The impact of 50 years of Jamaican music on Britain is huge,
but increasingly subtle and complex in its application. It requires a knowing ear
and more clearly defined information to make the links. As one reflects on the
last 50 years, we have another royal wedding, the London Olympics, and white
British youth increasingly speaking, dancing, and dressing in ways that many
would argue are borrowed from the resident Jamaican community. It’s high time
we acknowledged that this contribution encompasses much more than just music.
It has served to reflect and create the new social conditions of British life.
My alternative soundtrack to Britishness woven throughout this chapter is a
virtual album of assorted but mainly Jamaican and Jamaican-influenced music.
I’ve assembled music that has caused me to reconsider the long tail of reggae
and its role in the development of new genres. The songs selected are in no way
definitive, but are landmarks that map key moments in my experience and in the
transformation of the British music scene and the evolution of bass culture in
the UK. What aspects of reggae have been appropriated, and by whom, remain
common questions amongst those who’ve experienced bass culture in the
UK. This is particularly the case amongst Caribbeans who arrived in Britain as
children, and those who were born here in the 1960s and the 1970s. Often our
discussions are initiated by the media, personal ephemera, or hearing a piece
of music that triggers a particular memory. For musicians and the wider public,
hearing these songs and recalling them functions as a powerful reminder of their
lives. For obvious reasons these discussions are often heartfelt, emotional and
heated, as people reminisce about times past. And notably the conversation will
at some point centre on contributions the musicians feel they’ve made; but rarely
is the term ‘heritage’ mentioned. Songs such as ‘Kingston Town’, ‘Oh Carolina’,
‘The Liquidator’, and ‘The Tide Is High’ have caused these ‘old timers’ to reassess
their contributions to Britishness. ‘These songs put into words exactly how I felt’,
Rico Rodriguez, the trombonist and early pioneer of Jamaican jazz, ska and reggae
who has played with many of the most important Jamaican and British artists,
said to me. Each new interpretation of these and other reggae songs serves as a
powerful link to the Jamaica they once knew, and to the Britain which became
their home. Bass culture represents one of our contributions to the modality of the
language and music that has been at the heart of Britain’s multicultural society
over the last five decades. There seems to be nothing special here until we look
at the relatively small community of Jamaicans resident in Britain which has,
consistently, produced music and musicians with the armoury to bridge the divide
between what is considered credible, unconventional, underground and street, and
the popular mainstream whilst retaining the potential to be commercially viable.
In 2013 have we arrived at a level playing field for ‘Black British music?’ Black
British music is universally renowned for its ingenuity, originality, inventiveness
and ability to appeal to large audiences and markets. As I explore the meaning
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of this term and its continued integration, assimilation and/or appropriation by

the British music industry, I’m increasingly confronted by the response: ‘Does it
matter?’ On the one hand, either way the challenges have provided an alternative
soundtrack and notion of Britishness. On the other, as I’ve outlined, Black British
music is considered by some to be an anomaly that mainly exists in the minds of
individuals of African heritage, whilst some people both Black and white, claim
there’s no such thing. From this perspective so-called Black music, British or
otherwise, has always been a collaborative effort, involving all members of the
community regardless of racial coding. The issues here are sensitive, not least
because it is assumed most of us know exactly what is meant whenever the term
‘Black music’ is used.
In response to this assumption, I’ve positioned the term ‘bass culture’ as a
platform upon which we can develop a narrative linking the journey of Jamaican
music in Britain to notions of Britishness. From a personal perspective, I’m one
of the lucky ones. I was able to find myself through music. However, for many of
my peers still on that journey, and musicians who have joined since, this is not the
case. For us music is as much about the instruments, techniques and performances
captured in the recordings as it is about the culture and location of our accumulated
experience. Within the context of popular music, this contribution deserves to be
better understood. The question as to why Black British music, a key component
of pop, in one of the world’s largest music industries, has not been considered
sufficiently viable or worthy of large-scale long-term investment, remains
unanswered for myself and my peers.