It began with The Dance Begins At Home: Before Babylon Arrives, an archive film and accompanying EP, released last summer.

It was then followed by the release of my book Escaping Babylon: An Intimate History of Black British Music in May. All of it sits within the ‘Babylon’ series with more projects and material is still to come in the near future.

On August 13th at Shai Space in Peckham, I’ll be bringing it all together and showcasing what Marginal Eras is about IRL: living archives made physical and tangible.

The night will feature a book reading, screening of the extended version of The Dance Begins At Home and a listening session diving into my record collection.

It’s a free event and all you need to do is RSVP here and if you already own the book, bring along so I can sign it.

Hopefully see you there!

Don’t forget to buy Escaping Babylon: An Intimate History of Black British Music

At first, I found it difficult to explain the concept of the film and EP without giving too much of the book away. It was a slow build, and it’s only now that the book is out that I feel people will begin to see a through line that connects the film, EP and book.

I’m still processing what has been an all-consuming but nourishing experience. For so long, the questions had usually been a variation of when’s the book coming? Now, most of the questions have been about how I feel. A decade-long writing project can’t be summarised in a sentence, so my answer has mostly been, I’m still processing it all. That is as true today as it was on May 7th when the book was released. Not to mention that my football club Arsenal won its first league title in 22 years a few weeks ago, and you can imagine, May was largely an extended celebration.

Now, I’m experiencing what feels like an emotional comedown but I’ll keep milking the moment for as long as I can because the book deserves a long run, especially after so many years have been poured into it.

A month since Escaping Babylon’s release, I’m proud to share the trailer (below) for the extended version of The Dance Begins At Home: Ball Is Life, featuring new exclusive footage.

While the film still explores the evolution of Black male performance on camera, this version expands on the concept by emphasising the role that basketball and sport have played in wider contemporary Black pop culture.

Each piece sits within the wider Babylon series I’ve been building, and while the book is clearly the flagship body of work, one cannot exist without the other.

The full updated film will be available to watch later this year, and there is still more to come in the wider Babylon series, which I see as a trilogy. For now, enjoy these offerings.

A quick note before I leave, but just wanted to extend the warmest gratitude and thanks to everyone who has supported the book so far, not least the team at Profile Books, my family, girlfriend, friends, acquaintances, colleagues, writers, venues, hosts, moderators and of course, my readers.

Listen back to my interview with on BBC 6Music here.

Buy - Escaping Babylon: An Intimate History of Black British Music

Watch - The Dance Begins At Home

Listen - Before Babylon Arrives

Escaping Babylon book tour here with more dates to be announced later this year:

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I’ve always been fascinated by the Black Atlantic; it has been the bedrock of much of my creative and artistic practice, and of my understanding and reimagining of how regions share and exchange cultural ideas, norms, and rituals in the physical and digital realms.

Got Your Back, 2Pac’s biography written by his bodyguard, Frank Alexander, a former Marine born on Chicago’s South Side, was illuminating and grandiose, but also very direct and succinct. It was the first biography I read when I was thirteen; my mum had the book before me. In many ways, it would be the book that planted the seeds that would nourish my career in music journalism. Not only was the book’s topic based on the music I grew up listening to, but it was a world far different to my own.

It wasn’t surprising that I would find these themes show up when reading Frank Alexander’s Got Your Back, written by Tupac Shakur’s bodyguard and close friend following his death in 1996. 2Pac was a global superstar who was growing his presence in film and fashion, having worked with and modelled for Romeo Gigli alongside Alexander.

In that sense, 2Pac was the blueprint for all rappers venturing into fashion, with a deep intrinsic ability to move between worlds and push them together in ways that felt naturally aligned. We know he was friends with Donatella Versace while he was engaged to Kidada Jones. By this point, it was clear that these relationships were leading to a life outside of music, where 2Pac may not have needed Alexander in a professional capacity. We’ll never know the life he’d live today. However, there was a sincere desire from those closest to 2Pac to distance himself from gang affiliations.

The former bodyguard died in 2013 due to an apparent suicide, and Alexander’s death has only raised further questions surrounding the events that led to the rapper’s death in 1996. Some believe Alexander’s account was exaggerated. But nobody can deny what 2Pac’s friendship meant to him and the guilt he must have held for not being able to protect him. It would make sense that Alexander builds up the mythology of 2Pac because one of the things he can do is protect his legacy, which, in turn, means preserving his story.

In 2019, I then interviewed Chi Modu for Huck Magazine before his passing, who shot 2Pac and the Outlawz at the rapper’s home in Stone Mountain, Georgia. For me, that was a full-circle moment. The degree of separation between 2Pac and me had become one, and although Modu had shot so many iconic rappers, his stories of 2Pac were most electrifying. I have a signed copy of his photobook Tupac Shakur: Uncategorized sitting on my coffee table as a reminder of how far my work has taken me. You can listen to the full conversation here.

He also spoke deeply about archiving and legacy, sparking a deeper ambition to start really cataloguing my materials. This led to a grant awarded by the K Blundell Trust to build an archive. Not new to this. “I think what my work does for hip-hop today is that it gives people a reference,” he says. “When you look at the pictures, they look current because the energy in hip hop is always current. I’m not one of those OGs that sings praises of his time; it gets tired after a while. You don’t have to scream the praises of your era if the work holds up.”

That Black Atlantic connection began when my mum bought that book and was solidified through the conversation with Chi Modu, with a touchpoint in Nigeria, the country of the photographer and her.

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In Atlanta Season 1, a man pulls up to Paperboi’s front door wearing a Batman mask in a green hoodie. He knocks on the door and stands there without saying or doing anything for a few seconds. He then asks, “Paperboi live here?” before running off. Paperboi, confused and also guarded, doesn’t know how to react. Then the man runs off.

I had to watch that scene a few times because it was the kind of absurdity I’m drawn to. You have a feeling of what could occur if the scene were grounded in something more akin to reality, such as a rapper being pulled up on at home and killed on their doorstep or a stalker fan. Except, Donald Glover took the scene to the unknown and unexplainable, where you have Subreddits on that particular moment alone.

Combined with the world of Because The Internet, Glover’s second album under the moniker, Childish Gambino, you can see a link with the album’s third track II. Worldstar, a commentary on the satirical website and a mocking off the culture of watching user uploaded street fights.

"Ooh!"—"Mmm, (Ooh) damn, ooh!"
"Fuck outta here, dawg"—"Ooh!"
"What's up? What's up? No, do-don't try to (Hold on) jump me, don't try to jump me!"
"You got it, I ain't even wanna fight homies (You got it, cuz)"
"Damn!"—"Man, got his ass–"
Blow up

TV and film. Those moments you can’t explain nor spend hours conjuring when writing a script. You have to be used to laughing at the absurd. You have to have lived moments of absurdity to understand why someone watching that would find it truly funny.

Frankly, I seldom see narratives like that in popular Black British TV and film, and it’s not for a lack of imagination. There have been moments, however.

Roll Safe captured the idea of surrealism and absurdity in HoodDocumentary so magically that it instantly captured everyone’s attention. A combination of Eddie Murphy’s penchant for leather, David Alan Grier’s awkward confidence and an innate ability to break the fourth wall, R.S. was made for the meme generation. If you’re still asking why a man was wearing a leather jacket without a top underneath and struggling to find an answer, then in some part, you’ve understood how this kind of surrealism works.

To understand and write this kind of comedy, you have to know what it means by seeing the unexplainable in everyday life. Hearing the stories of rappers running into Brixton McDonald’s toilets and turning into cats as though they were African spirits-cum-Animorphs in the bush. It’s Nollywood with an init twang. It’s knowing an area so intimately where certain characters are built into its fabric and lore that, without them, that neighbourhood ceases to be what it is.

It’s imagining a dimension that feels slightly off-kilter and abnormal to the one that currently exists and creating a world where both have converged, as though multiverses have collided. That’s often where you find the surreal and absurd sit.

Vincent Stewart, aka Rev X, filmed broadcasts known as Spirit of Truth in the 1990s and has become a cult legend. Since then, his own brand of sermons was laced with rap instrumentals and a penchant for insulting callers. Earl Sweatshirt also sampled the third clip on his track ‘Burgundy’ from his 2013 album Doris, after it circulated on social media as a meme in the early 2010s.

The Dance Begins At Home, a prelude to my forthcoming book, aimed to capture this through a multimedia collage of sorts, leaning on archival footage to tell a wider story of how performance in front of a camera can amplify surrealist and absurdist themes.

It wasn’t until watching each clip as part of the wider montage that I saw elements of the absurd and surreal. Whether it was the clip with Rev X, grime MC Terminator or Bernie Mac, these were moments that happened across pop culture but when contained within a single narrative about what and who people become when you point a camera at them.

I was on a train from St Pancras to Elephant & Castle close to midnight after hanging out in Soho with friends. We’d dropped some tabs, and as I arrived at the station, after a 30-minute walk, the effects had started to take hold.

The closer I got to St Pancras, the brighter the lights shone. Headlights morphing into moving lighthouses, but lucid enough not to be drawn like the children and lost souls of Derry, falling victim to IT.

Eyes hazed, feeling like Trife with ‘lights are blinding my eyes,’ looping in my head on a ‘World Is Yours’ blimp. Except, it was in the middle of St Pancras, close to midnight, and someone was playing that bastard piano. It felt more like the coming of the Four Horsemen and the Valkyrie.

The platform itself felt like that scene at the beginning of Matrix Revolutions when Neo had ‘jacked in’ and awoken, caught between the machine world and the matrix. Except it smelt of Stardawg and piss.

Ah, London, your aroma is so tantalising.

If I’d have known I was stepping into a time vortex, another dimension, when I got onto the train, I would’ve questioned whether its final destination was eternity. One of those horsemen was sitting on the train, but he looked more like Roy Cropper from Coronation Street with hooves for hands, a cardigan sweater and everything. More perverse than apocalyptic.

The train moved slowly, as though the descent to the end of time was going to feel longer than that journey from Finsbury Park to Seven Sisters on the Victoria Line.

The anxiety was beginning to become harder to ignore, and the visions were stranger by the second.

Why was a man sitting there stroking his head with horse hooves?

Why could no one else in the carriage see?

Why did I drop before getting on a train?

Jadakiss, why?

Where’s Ja Rule to make sense of all this?

In all of this, there was a looming figure that remained present.

It wasn’t until I’d started to reach the end of the trip that I realised this figure was a guardian angel, a Hood Gabriel. Not all cherubs, flowing white hair, almost menacing, but a grey tracksuit, hood up and a fierce walk. More Omar Little, First Testament proportions of vengeance and protection. Saviour or Angel of Death? It wasn’t clear until his second lap. He seemed to keep passing through the connecting carriage door in front, without doubling back on himself.

It had become clear that with each passing, he had been sent as a protector.

There are no angels in hell.

It was bright and too blitz.

All of my ideas surrounding the surreal and absurd begin with that particular moment. I knew that none of it was real, but it was so vivid and rich in its depth and detail that none of this could happen in this dimension.

That experience in 2017 felt as though it had jumped from a script into my mind. Of course, the story couldn’t be from this world, but there was an element of metaphysicality to it.

There was no camera present but I’d be fascinated to see how that scene would play on screen; who would play the guardian angel and perverted horseman? See, it could only be written in the context of London because of the distinct smells of Stardawg, roaming in Soho in search of another motive and hell feeling like an eternal loop of the journey between Seven Sisters and Finsbury Park.

But it was the moments that remain unexplained where my mind crossed into the otherworldly, that I want to see more of on screen.

Watch The Dance Begins At Home here and preorder my forthcoming book Escaping Babylon: An Intimate History of Black British Music here.

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If I’d have known what the end of 03/04 was going to bring, I would’ve cherished games, watched more of them. I was young and naive to think that Arsenal would win forever. I thought that José Antonio Reyes would live forever. Or at least long enough to see him on TV with grey hair, talking about how this current Arsenal squad had the ingredients to challenge the Invincibles as one of the best post-Wenger.

At 20, Reyes created memorable moments, such as his jaunt against Chelsea at Highbury in February 2004, barely a month after arriving from Sevilla. The Spaniard also played a vital role in Arsenal’s marathon historic victory in the Premier League, a feat no other team can claim. One moment, another club is yet to take from us, no matter how hard they try.

To see José Antonio Reyes, a youngster from Sevilla, on the cover of the Arsenal magazine showed that the club was already looking to a future beyond Dennis Bergkamp, Thierry Henry and Robert Pires. Peak O2 and T90 years. Three years since the turn of the millennium, and grime didn’t have a name by that point in 2003. We were kids but T90 was made for us, for then and the future.

Nike can rerelease all the T90 products in a bid to capture the hearts of Gen Z but they’ll never recreate the feeling of running the length of the playground at lunchtime in your astroturfs as you just cut in on your right to score a screamer. Not me, though. I was hooping, but Arsenal were my first love before MJ, Kobe, and the Lakers. So to watch a teenager, also in his adolescence, play for the club of my dreams and heart meant everything. But Reyes and the squad felt like giants; they towered over opponents and could rock with the best of them.

Because of this, Fashion FC wasn’t born overnight; it had been cultivated over decades, even at the nadir of Arsenal’s reign as the club of London. They were also made up of continental and international players who just happened to be so good-looking you either wanted to be them or be with them. The collaborations with Places + Faces, ACW, Labrum and Aries don’t happen without the blueprint being laid out in the early 2000s when Brazilian and French World Cup and Euro winners defined the squad’s DNA. Lest we forget the English spine and nucleus within the team but there was a level of coolness that the entire squad exuded, whether Freddie Ljungberg moonlighting as an underwear model or Thierry Henry asking Bobby what the French was for va-va voom?

Liverpool fans can relate all too well, and I can only hazard a guess that their pain cuts that bit deeper. We were fortunate to have witnessed Reyes for three years and see him win at Arsenal. Diogo Jota did too at Liverpool, but more was yet to come, and it surely would’ve done. It’s unfortunate we never really got to see Reyes in his true prime at Arsenal but his 23 goals for the club were highly valued.

So much has changed within Arsenal since José Antonio Reyes’ passing in 2019 but the echoes of the past remain as the club crawls toward its first Premier League title in twenty-two years. Some clubs can relish being the pride of London but no matter where you are in the world, behind the veil of hate and mockery, few can deny that Arsenal captured the heart and soul of the capital.

Long Live José Antonio Reyes.

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The 03-04 NBA season had barely begun and already featured numerous subplots that would dominate the narrative. It would be the rookie season of a certain LeBron James, the San Antonio Spurs had just won a championship after an LA Lakers three-peat, and it would end up being the last dance for the Kobe-Shaq pivot that ushered in the new millennium. Kobe Bryant’s season was on the brink with a looming rape trial that was later settled out of court. Amidst all of that, the Detroit Pistons won their first championship since the Bad Boys era.

The magazine was also a window into everything happening at a granular level within hip-hop and basketball, with this issue featuring ads for artists such as Big Tymers, Bone Crusher, Clipse, G Unit, Murphy Lee, and Lil Jon. It also featured the UCONN Huskies and future NBA alumni such as Charlie Villanova, Ben Gordon and Emeka Okafor. For me, it was the Lot29 and Akademiks adverts that stood out the most, given how pervasive both brands were in UK streetwear culture at the time.

Depending on your perspective, New Balance hasn’t historically been considered a ‘dad shoe’, but the brand had a fixed position within local street basketball across America.

This is what a lot of narratives around streetwear have gotten wrong about New Balance: there was once upon a time that they held a presence in basketball and streetwear culture. New Balance basketball trainers just weren’t a part of a global multibillion-pound industry. So when people talk about New Balance, I’m sure many haven’t looked back into the archives to truly understand what kind of presence they had in pop culture and basketball. Jackie Junior in The Sopranos was wearing a pair of New Balance and a sports coat while playing catch with AJ, and that is the look you often see young twenty-somethings wearing nowadays.

Overshadowing this issue of SLAM was the story and drama surrounding Kobe Bryant, which was too big to miss or ignore. Given that the cover story was written during the ongoing trial at the time, there wasn’t much detail the story could go into. However, so much of the piece focused on how Kobe would survive without basketball and vice versa. If anything, it felt like an image rehabilitation piece, but if it were written in 2026, you’d have to wonder how SLAM would approach it. How would that then reshape the idea of Kobe, celebrity, and power in a teenager's mind?

Issue 74 was the first SLAM physical magazine I bought. What it gave me was a deeper window into the relationship between basketball and hip-hop. Of course, I wasn’t the only one among my friends to play basketball, but you would know who was hot just by reading the features and seeing the ads in any given SLAM issue. The below AND1 basketball trainers would be the ones I’d play in a year later, in my 03-04 National League season for the West Herts Warriors, and Nike Basketball was arguably at its peak when it came to its marketing campaigns, before Kobe Bryant would sign a shoe deal.

The Issue also served as a platform for the Adidas T-Mac 3 campaign back when Tracy McGrady was one of the most exciting small forwards in the league, playing for the Orlando Magic.

The insert feature was a particularly deft touch as it drew attention away from Kobe being the focus of the issue. It’s a shame that Tracy McGrady’s body couldn’t hold up against the numerous injuries he suffered. He may have gone on to challenge the Kobe-Tim Duncan dominance that ruled the Western Conference for much of that decade, with the Lakers and San Antonio Spurs winning seven of ten championships between 2000 and 2010. On his day, McGrady rocked with the best of them, and few can ever forget the 13 points he scored in 33 seconds to mount a comeback win over the San Antonio Spurs in December 2004 after he was traded to the Houston Rockets.

None of this is to look back on the 2000s-era of the NBA with nostalgia-tinted glasses. What SLAM achieved with this issue was a deep insight into everything that was happening in the world at the time. The issue even featured recruitment adverts for the US Armed Forces at a time when the country was at war with Iraq and two years removed from 9/11. G Unit and Clipse were two of the hottest rap groups of the time, and LeBron would go on to become a record-breaker and age-defying great that he is today.

Magazines such as these remain a rich source of media because the content still has its place and purpose. It demands us to ask questions of the world that existed previously and the one we currently reside in, examining where and how the needle has shifted. SLAM Issue 74 asks me to look at how basketball, celebrity and hip-hop culture have evolved or diverged. Now, more than ever, all three worlds are more inextricably linked than ever before.

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Those are some of the questions within the wider research framework I used in writing Escaping Babylon: An Intimate History of Black British Music. They also provide the foundation for my approach to archival work, which should be an ongoing endeavour that evolves across time and space.

In my DEEP FEEDBACK episode with Elijah, I spoke about what it means to archive vs hoard and what that means in the context of 2026. My collection of memorabilia, CDs, records, magazines and flyers didn’t find collective meaning until I started answering the questions above. Before this point, they were just items I’d held onto throughout my life. It wasn’t until the pandemic that I began to understand that this collection sat within the wider sphere and framework of Escaping Babylon.

Archiving has become the latest buzzword brands have run into the ground in recent years. Recently, Viktor Wendt wrote about how many are stuck in the process of curating but not creation, particularly when it comes to the Instagram moodboard. The effect has resulted in those aesthetically pleasing design-led grids becoming very samey, which results in very little output.

The same can almost be said of archiving, particularly with Instagram and camera rolls, where it often feels as though nostalgia and cultural history accounts are stuck in the same loops, feeding from the same references. My algorithm has served me so many iterations of Sopranos-based content over the years, with few offering a new spin or perspective on the HBO show that ended nearly twenty years ago. The same can be said for NBA-focused Instagram accounts, which are still serving me endless reels and highlights of Michael Jordan in his prime, none of which feel as gratifying as watching The Last Dance for the first time.

On the other hand, these accounts can also serve new and younger audiences who weren’t necessarily knowledgeable about those cultural moments. Nowadays, many of these moodboards and reference accounts lean more towards the hoarding aspect of collecting cultural memories and artefacts instead of telling a broader story. An Instagram account can be subject to hacking, random deletion or the whims of an ever-changing algorithm, which makes it much harder to believe that alone, it can exist as an archive. It’s often content creation hoarding presented as archiving.

Arsenal’s On This Day content on social media feels far more resonant in the Mikel Arteta era as the club has experienced its own resurgence as a dominant force domestically and in Europe. It used to be that all the club had to rely on were memories of successes in years gone by, particularly between 2014 and 2020, which were barren beside FA Cup wins. This approach achieved the opposite of an archive because there’s only so much fans can look back on the past without feeling dread and uncertainty about the present and future.

However, that future is now the present and for younger fans who weren’t old enough to experience Premier League success, Arsenal’s content now feels far more hopeful and forward-looking. Arsenal can now rerelease the last Adidas home kit of 1994 because it’s not just nostalgia for nostalgia’s sake. It allows younger fans to feel closely tied with the club’s rich heritage and storied history, bringing generations together who can bask in what looks to be Arsenal’s trophy success this season.

Why does this matter?

Archiving offers a chance to create a framework for an imaginable, liveable future by using the past as a conduit to the present. New York Knicks fan account BOCKER BACKPAGES balances this idea by reimagining iconic rap albums and covers as tabloid front pages to celebrate pivotal wins. The Knicks’ success in recent years and their emergence from the NBA nether regions, accentuated by their NBA Cup win in 2025, has only bolstered BOCKER BACKPAGES influence while cementing the franchise’s modern-day lore.

Everyone loves an underdog story, and by galvanising the Knicks’ successes and revival, BOCKER BACKPAGES have created new bonds with fans by scaling up with merchandise. The obvious next step would be for the brand to collaborate with the franchise, and this could manifest through a special issue magazine or newspaper, if the Knicks were to win a championship in the foreseeable future. And as a Lakers fan, even I would become more invested in the Knicks, as everyone outside of Boston, Miami and perhaps Indiana secretly roots for them to succeed.

Through this, we’re able to understand the lore of the Knicks and their relationship with the city, rap and tabloids. It also feels like an inventive way to document the present without leaning heavily on the past, with moodboards by the creation of something new. And even something new can be inspired by an existing cultural artefact, if it tells a rich story.

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Most of the R&B CDs in my possession previously belonged to my mum. So you can imagine that for a significant portion of my childhood, I had no choice but to listen to the genre on car rides and at home.

A Little Deeper’s release in June 2002 can hardly be considered the tail-end of the UKG era. As someone who started clubbing and raving in 2005-06, it was still the main focus of most nights well into my twenties and thirties. And an MC such as Dynamite built a successful career performing at raves across the country and for her, a commercial album felt more like a platform for her to lean into her roots, rather than the other way around.

As someone who generally prefers a deep cut to a hit or single, “Now U Want My Love” always stood out as a sublimely crafted song that brought out the best of Dynamite’s singing ability. That’s not to say the singles weren’t good; they were great at a time when MC-led R&B and UKG were dominating the charts.

In 2012, I saw Ms Dynamite for the first time at The [W]elly’s Shinobi Night in Hull, where she headlined. Shinobi was a regular dubstep, jungle and d&b night that became a staple in Hull for students and non-students alike. If Fabric and Matter were where we went in London, the OG Warehouse Project for the Mancunians, for people in Hull, Shinobi was that.

It was the last rave we enjoyed at Hull in our final year, but it would also prove to be a catalyst for how I spent my early twenties raving in East and South London at venues such as Shapes, Nest, Alibi, Bussey, Big Chill, XOYO, Rye Wax, Rhythm Factory and many more.

Although A Little Deeper was Dynamite’s first commercial success in album format, she had already built up a substantial amount of credit in the UKG scene, with some of those tunes crossing over into the mainstream.

Her versatility as a vocalist and MC across a range of genres made her a Swiss army knife of talent, ultimately representing the eclectic mix of Black British sound that often rises to the top. Whether it was UKG, soul, hip-hop or reggae, Dynamite weaved between these lanes as though she was a master of each of them.

A Little Deeper’s release came at a time in the early 2000s when UKG artists were not only dominating that scene but crossing over into more commercial spaces. Dynamite was joined by Lisa Maffia, Kele Le Roc, Mis-Teeq, So Solid Crew and Daniel Bedingfield, following the success stories of DJ Luck & MC Neat and, of course, Craig David and Artful Dodger.

Ultimately, Ms Dynamite thrived as a commercial artist because of a melting pot of sounds that felt authentic to Black British culture and the wider musical landscape of the time. That has always been the fabric of successful music. And as Britain is a nation of immigration, it’s no surprise that its cultural products are a gumbo of influences from anywhere and everywhere.

If you would like to submit an artefact for inclusion, send an email to spottingsamples@gmail.com with a 150-word description of the piece and its particular importance, along with images and relevant links – I’ll do the rest. This can be anything from magazine clippings, flyers, CDs, records, clothing, trainers, accessories and tech that represent British street and music culture from 1989 to the present day.

Context is important; it’s one thing to own the artefact, it’s another to tell the story of how I came to acquire it and its significance. Over time, the meaning of artefacts within an archive evolves through personal and collective storytelling. My experience with an artefact will be different to that of someone else’s, and it’s made all the more significant when shared. That’s what we mean by living archives.

I love Estelle, like, truly adore her. For the longest time, though, I only knew her for the smash hit “American Boy”. And that’s not necessarily a bad thing at all because it’s one of the most impactful collaborations of all time, not many people have worked with Kanye West, who, just like Estelle, is a trailblazer and musical visionary. It is also one of those songs everyone knows word for word, the ultimate song to sing at karaoke. I’m always trying to sing both parts, but tend to run out of breath and beg someone to duet with me as though we’re Rudi and Smithy in Gavin & Stacey.

But Estelle’s story didn’t start with a Grammy Award-winning hit. It didn’t start with one of my favourite albums, 18th Day, either. It didn’t even start with my favourite track to vogue to “Freak”, which is one of the greatest club tracks ever, tearing up all kinds of dance floors everywhere: balls, house parties, club nights, bars, and so much more.

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Estelle’s story starts much earlier, as a young Black girl from West London, performing at underground Hip Hop shows, figuring out her path, building her name in music across multiple genres and working with the likes of John Legend, Skitz and Blak Twang in the beginnings of her career — artists revered for their contributions to music. That part of her journey is what I want to spotlight.

I recently bought a physical copy of one of Estelle’s first mixtapes, A Diamond in the Rough Da Heat Pt. 2, last month after Discogs recommended it; my algorithm knows me very well. I went on YouTube straight after I ordered it to listen to some of the songs and really enjoyed it. “Do You Mind” feat Garage (and Newham most importantly) legend Kele Le Roc is such a heater.

Listening to this tape reminded me how important it is to look back at where an artist started and to do more research because there’s always more to know than what Wikipedia tells us. It may not be the very first tape Estelle dropped; I’m still working on finding it, but for now, this is what I have, and I’m grateful to have it in my collection.

Estelle has always had a special pen, so it’s great to hear and understand how she came to be one of our finest and most decorated artists, and having the opportunity to revisit one of her first projects is really inspiring.

I chose this tape for my submission to Marginal Eras because physical (and sometimes digital) records are often scarce in UK Hip Hop and Grime, so it’s a privilege to have a copy of this project and share it with people. I hope it inspires us to improve our crate-digging skills and hone the music lovers in us all.

If you would like to submit an artefact for inclusion, send an email to spottingsamples@gmail.com with a 150-word description of the piece and its particular importance, along with images and relevant links – I’ll do the rest. This can be anything from magazine clippings, flyers, CDs, records, clothing, trainers, accessories and tech that represent British street and music culture from 1989 to the present day.

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Liner Notes is a series in which I take an artefact from the archives and provide historical context on its past and present-day importance. Every week until the release of my book Escaping Babylon: An Intimate History of Black British Music (May 7th), I’ll be looking at particular moments in my life that added true value and shaped the intricacies of my experience growing up in the UK.

Context is important; it’s one thing to own the artefact, it’s another to tell the story of how I came to acquire it and its significance. Over time, the meaning of artefacts within an archive evolves through personal and collective storytelling. My experience with an artefact will be different to that of someone else’s, and it’s made all the more significant when shared. That’s what we mean by living archives.

Many Nike lanyards have come and gone over the years but when I see this one, I think of the square Nokia phone. I bought mine at JD Sports in 2004, where I would also pick up my copies of RWD Magazine. I think of early mobile phones dangling from lanyards and Bluetoothing whatever music we had to each other.

Since 2004, the key clip with the red Nike tick has held all my house and car keys. There’s no conscious sentimentality to still using it; it’s stood the test of time for 22 years, and I never lose my keys, so why change what has worked for the majority of my life?

This isn’t nostalgia porn by any means. Truth be told, there’s not much about 2004 worth remembering, besides Arsenal’s last Premier League win. I did, however, join the West Herts Warriors U16s basketball team and that summer, I spent a lot of it grounded for getting too many detentions and temporary exclusions. The Just Do It lanyard reminds me of the home I was bound to in the early months of that summer before my cousins came to stay and the ban was lifted. I think of DJ Kay Slay’s Not Your Average Joe ft Fat Joe, Joe Budden & Joe which was played regularly on Choice FM that year.

A lot of the Nike paraphernalia of the time provided functionality over fashion, but the designs spoke to many of us. If you attached a mobile phone to the lanyard, it was a sign of status – approach us if you’re bad enough. Nike lost this in recent years with so many rereleases of archival products, such as the T90 astroturfs last summer. When we were preteens, they not only doubled up as casual and sports shoes, but tripled as whatever it needed to be. The same could be said for basketball shoes I wore as a kid.

I never owned a pair of astroturfs as from the age of eight onwards, the trainers I usually wore were made for basketball. I did have a replica pair of the R9 T90 football boots in Year 8, following the 2002 World Cup. They didn’t, however, improve my footballing ability, but a yute could only dream. This turn took place after a family trip to Orlando, and by the time I was sixteen, I was able to start buying my own trainers.

Perhaps the lanyard will serve a new function in the future, or remain as merely an artefact of a bygone past.

If you would like to submit an artefact for inclusion, send an email to spottingsamples@gmail.com with a 150-word description of the piece and its particular importance, along with images and relevant links – I’ll do the rest. This can be anything from magazine clippings, flyers, CDs, records, clothing, trainers, accessories and tech that represent British street and music culture from 1989 to the present day.

Context is important; it’s one thing to own the artefact, it’s another to tell the story of how I came to acquire it and its significance. Over time, the meaning of artefacts within an archive evolves through personal and collective storytelling. My experience with an artefact will be different to that of someone else’s, and it’s made all the more significant when shared. That’s what we mean by living archives.

When I bought the Nike Air Max 90 Black Citron Rave Pink from Footlocker in Hull in 2008, I really thought I was the guy. This was the year of neon shutter shades, Oceana, The Killers, Kanye West and most importantly, UK funky.

This was at a time when stores across the UK would stock certain models and colourways based on local tastes and preferences. Size? had yet to open in Hull (2012), with branches in London, Bristol and Manchester. Now, if you’re looking to find a pair of trainers, a variety of stores such as Footlocker, JD Sports, Size?, Office, Schuh, Footpatrol, Sneakersnstuff and many more, will often stock the same models and colourways without much variety and difference.

That’s why the Black Citron Rave Pinks are special; they represent an era of individuality when collecting felt like a worthwhile pursuit, driven by exclusivity. This was before the explosion of the reseller market, which has inflated prices. Now, the market has matured to the point that it takes far longer for shoes to resell, due to the cost of living and shifting consumer habits, with many looking to vintage.

The fact that they’re currently on sale on Stockx for £924 (Size 6) really goes to show that the sneaker culture we’ve seen explode and saturate over the past decade was in its early adoption stage in the first decade of the 21st century. I’m proud that I was an early adopter and that certain trainers and vinyl I possess cost approximately a month’s rent.

My parents couldn’t quite understand why I was blowing my money on trainers back then, particularly as I used my student overdraft to do so. However, these are a pair of Air Max 90s that have held up well since I bought them just over seventeen years ago. You’ll still find me wearing them on occasion, which speaks to the level of craftsmanship Nike trainers used to possess.

It probably helps that I didn’t wear them for a decade, but they were the first pair of Air Max 90s I had ever owned and the beginning of my love affair with trainers. The only criticism was that they didn’t glow in the dark, but in certain raves, the Black Citron Rave Pinks certainly stood out. And the perforated fabric is a texture you’ll rarely find on Air Max 90s anymore.

I’m also yet to see anyone else wear the same colourway, but what makes them particularly special is that when I look at them, I do think of the rave scene. These weren’t just an everyday crep, they were for the steppers. When I see these, I know how ravers who wore the original Air Max 97 Silver Bullets must’ve felt. When I would go out, I’d often wear a black Trainer Spotter crew neck jumper with a neon skull screen print paired with my Air Max 90s. Trainer Spotter was a British streetwear brand that embraced bold colours and designs with a signature palm tree logo. Trainer Spotter was primarily stocked in Size? back when the store routinely platformed smaller, independent streetwear brands before it shifted to larger mainstream brands when it sought to grow and expand.

The last time I wore them, I saw Scorcher, Wiley, Chip, Duppy and Frisco perform in Stratford in late 2025. This is significant because they would’ve been the trainers I wore had Wiley turned up for his show at Hull Uni’s Student Union back in 2008/09. The next time I wear them will probably be on book release day.

They’re currently valued at £924 unboxed, but the true worth of these trainers is priceless. I’ll let you borrow them for £100, though. Ask me nice. These aren’t the kind of trainers you sell if you’ve held onto them this long because they were only released once.

I could never bring myself to sell these because, as memories will no doubt fade, looking at them will always remind me of a time in my life when I experienced independence and made bold decisions for the first time. To me, the Black Citron Rave Pinks represent impulsiveness, youth and its impermanence.

If you would like to submit an artefact for inclusion, send an email to spottingsamples@gmail.com with a 150-word description of the piece and its particular importance, along with images and relevant links – I’ll do the rest. This can be anything from magazine clippings, flyers, CDs, records, clothing, trainers, accessories and tech that represent British street and music culture from 1989 to the present day.

The year of Trump. The year of Rihanna’s Work. The year of J Hus. The year of Made in the Manor. The year of Brexit. The year of Leicester FC. The year of Red Bull Culture Clash. The year of Young Thug. The year of Skepta. The year of Beyoncébowl.

For most people, there are no Instagram Stories archives predating August 2016, because that was the month the feature launched, following Snapchat’s hold on disappearing media.

Elijah has previously spoken of the years between 2014 and 2016 being the last when phones ruled the dance floor, but in 2017, we never put them back in our pockets. I didn’t become a heavy Instagram user until 2020, largely because I was at home building my archive, so I ended up sharing many of my finds on Stories, and later, when I moved to Brazil, I was sharing moments from my time there. I can still remember life before Stories took over, but I have noticed how behaviours have changed collectively, not just in nightlife but also when we’re with our friends. The atmosphere at football games has shifted significantly because whenever there’s a potential play that could lead to a goal, fans pull out their phones to capture it in real time. We’ve been living life through the rectangular device in our hands, then watching it back repeatedly when we get home, checking how many people have viewed it.

The 2016 trend resonates so viscerally because it was the last year when everything felt authentic and whimsical. We weren’t posting to tell our followers we were there. There can be no more nostalgia loops after 2016, because everything that came after doesn’t just feel chronologically close, but also ideologically. Even 2017 feels far too close. Too many have locked the pandemic away in a box, and opening it would unleash traumatic memories that we’re not quite ready to deal with. Eventually, many of us will have to reckon with that traumatic period, maybe in a collective sense because that could be powerful, but I don’t foresee that happening for at least half a decade. In 2030, that would make sense because it would be far enough away that people would have enough distance to look back, but even then, I’m not sure I would even want to do so with any level of depth. I can’t lie, I don’t think I’ll be ready then.

The London Riots had only occurred in 2011, and the Olympics in 2012. However, 2016 was the year that nationalism, populism and fascism bedded each other in the worst type of threesome you could ever imagine. Donald Trump, Nigel Farage and Tommy Robinson have only grown more influential in some twisted PornHub fantasy. Keir Starmer’s the one filming it all, passive and as useful as a chocolate teapot.

There was a different type of voyeurism because that took place IRL before it was translated on the internet. For a long time, people couldn’t conceive the idea that a former reality TV star could become the President of the USA, let alone twice over. Few could’ve imagined that Brexit would really happen because we truly believed all the rallying online was enough to thwart these right-wing movements. We were wrong. We took it all for granted, and it seems that in 2026, many have given up the same fight. We’re using the same tactics, such as posting on Instagram Stories and saying that we’re raising awareness. But everyone in our echo chambers is aware? So what have we learned when the right has further entrenched itself with more power and influence than ever before?

I rarely listen to music from 2016, except for the hits I can’t really avoid, because it shouldn’t feel so distant, yet it was only a decade ago. So much has happened in that time: a book deal, made two films, lived in Brazil and New York. 2016 reminds me of the grind that I and so many of my peers found ourselves on, particularly in London. I don’t want to spend much time thinking about 2016 because, aside from a few early-career highlights and collective cultural moments, I found it a difficult year.

I can’t say that I ever imagined what 2026 would look like, but the reality is so far from what I want it to be. 2036 doesn’t feel that far away, but I can’t say I look toward it with much positivity. It’s just a moment that’s looming on the horizon, and the past ten years have led us to here, so things will ultimately and tragically get worse, and we’ll have to live through the next decade. It sounds very cynical, but if we’re spending so much time looking back on 2016, it may be because we’ve finally given up hope that 2026 and 2036 could be, even just a fraction, better than the present. That feels like the biggest loss and the deepest lament.

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My living room is essentially an archive, a library of sorts. It contains materials I’ve collected throughout my life: CDs, vinyls, magazines, flyers, artwork, books, sports memorabilia, clothes, accessories and shoes.

For some time now, I’ve considered opening a physical space where people can engage with various elements of Black cultural history. And there’s every likelihood I’ll make it public and commit to opening this space, regardless of the success of Escaping Babylon: An Intimate History of Black British Music. My reason for wanting to do so is that if I don’t share this archive, then I’m just hoarding information and knowledge for no other reason than to boast that I possess it. I truly believe that the public should have access to this, as it’s a way to build community and stories across generations.

Starting from February, every week until the book’s release (May 7th), I’ll share a piece of history I’ve collected and the story behind it. Context is important; it’s one thing to own the artefact, it’s another to tell the story of how I came to acquire it and its significance.

An example would be when I first bought the classic Nike lanyard in 2004 from JD Sports. Twenty-two years later, it’s still my keychain, but there was a time when this would be worn around the necks of so many young people. We would attach our phones to them, such as the square Nokia phone, as it was some status symbol.

As time goes on, the meaning of artefacts within an archive evolves based on personal and collective storytelling. My experience with an artefact will be different to that of someone else’s, and it’s made all the more significant when shared. That’s what we mean by living archives.

If you would like to submit an artefact for inclusion, send an email to spottingsamples@gmail.com with a 150-word description of the piece and its particular importance, along with images and relevant links – I’ll do the rest. This can be anything from magazine clippings, flyers, CDs, records, clothing, trainers, accessories and tech that represent British street and music culture from 1989 to the present day.

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First came the titans, then came the gods. Now we’re in the age of mortals.

From Kronos, Zeus, Poseidon, and Hades were born, as they cast their father into the abyss and locked him in Tartarus.

Then came the children and demi-gods, more mortal and closer to earth. It’s probably too easy to compare golden age rappers to the Five Families. I find it more useful to use Greek mythology as an analogy for how rap has historically used theatre and tragedy as a device. And why it’s much harder to find in contemporary rap.

Over the decades, we’ve built up this mythology within the pantheon of the most influential rappers and producers — the latter of whom could be seen as variations of Hephaestus, who crafted many of the totems, weapons, and tools used by gods and men alike.

Alchemist is one of the most prolific rap producers of all time. His output over the past five years has been nothing short of an artist reaching legendary status. Madlib, the more enigmatic of the two, has a unique ability to transform a sample into a body of work that few other producers can. They both bring out the best in Freddie Gibbs, making him a stronger, more thoughtful storyteller and shedding the Bunny Rabbit persona. I don’t know which partnership comes out on top, MadGibbs or Alfredo, but recently, I’ve got back into Piñata, and it throws out any superstition that rap has lost its way. Looking at other artists such as Ghostface, Raekwon, Boldy James, Westside Gunn, Conway, Ka (RIP), Roc Marciano, Earl Sweatshirt & Vince Staples, they carry a certain level of drama that makes them entertaining to listen to.

As Blaxploitation genre-lovers and with the ability to transform street life into theatre and pantomime, these artists are going beyond the played-out tropes and giving complexity to the larger-than-life characters these stories are built on. I’m thinking the Omars, Pinkys, Mister Barons, Bumpy Johnsons, Alpos, Nicky Barneses, Barksdales and countless others. When I listen to these records, it feels cinematic, not just in the vague sense many ponder, but in a way so rich that I can feel the steam emanating from the pavements. Madlib and Gibbs flip Donny Hathaway’s demo ‘Make It On Your Own’ into ‘Practice’, turning it into a reflective ballad that shows a side to the rapper rarely heard before this. Like Allen Iverson, who has been so misunderstood since his ‘practice’ rant, as he attempted to plead with the media to understand that his friend had just died, Gibbs goes deep to try to convey his post-prison state of mind and subsequent infidelities. If that isn’t blues, then what is? If that isn’t soul, then what is?

That’s where the allure of this style of rap lies, the mythos and cinema that surrounds it. It isn’t self-contained; it’s expansive and world-building, which is why we see these rappers and producers lean into other forms of artistic expression.

In 2025, the once immortal gods have experienced a fatal finality, and Mount Olympus feels much closer than ever. Some may say that rap has evolved, which it has, but with lower barriers to entry and success, it feels that many contemporaries possess fewer godlike abilities and qualities. More pantomime and drama than technical ability, a consequence of increased marketing and commercialism. We’re in the era of post-Lilism that dominated the mid-to-late 2010s, and it’s clear audiences are seeking depth and musicality again, lyricism that reflects the world we live in today.

Truth be told, I’m not trying to hear rappers wax about black liberation or excellence; many of them haven’t read enough books or studied theory to have anything substantial to say. We’re way past the BLM, and when Nicki, Lil Wayne and Snoop are rubbing shoulders with Agent Orange, we’ve seen up close what happens when power corrupts.

Then we have the likes of Afrika Bambata, Diddy, and LA Reid and Russell Simmons, rap’s influential powerbrokers who probably represent the tragic elements of rap mythology. The gods were petty, evil, jealous and spiteful, so perhaps, rap still contains elements of Greek tragedy that have real-life consequences and victims. And it wouldn’t be a stretch to liken Diddy to Zeus, given that the latter abused his own power to satiate his own twisted desires.

However, it’s the deification of these figures that made them immune for so many decades, and one of the reasons why the mythos in rap doesn’t land so well is because we see through the facade. However, these were men who used rap as a shield from accountability and justice. The journalists who reported on these abuses sought to demystify, and that was far more important than the myths created, because they showed us that the men who ultimately became deified were just mortals. And as they should, journalists should have the power to destroy myths as much as they are created, when they’re distorted in ways that cause harm.

The worldbuilding we see in US rap does exist in the UK, in grime and UK rap but perhaps we see them in singular stories and characters rather than across the board. Grime, in many ways, hasn’t quite built this mythos because it still feels contained, which doesn’t make it weaker or a lesser form. When commentators tried to create a British version of Mt Rushmore, they failed to understand that grime and UK rap aren’t a pantheon in the same way. There are myths around individuals such as Wiley, Dizzee Rascal and Sneakbo.

Wiley and Dizzee performing together in Shoreditch last year brought an end to a saga that had lasted for twenty years. It had everything a Greek tragedy deserves: betrayal, conflict and reconciliation. Without the early grime forums and blogs, we wouldn’t have been able to know much about this rift.

The lore surrounding Sneakbo is arguably the most riveting. As the story goes, he was in Brixton McDonald’s, which could be considered the underworld, where Peckham boys chased him into the toilets. When they opened the door to one of the cubicles, they saw a cat sitting on top of clothes and trainers. That kind of myth can’t be manufactured because if you understand the geopolitics of Peckham, Brixton and that particular McDonald’s branch, there’s an element of realism embedded in the mysticism of it all.

Perhaps ten years ago, EsDeeKid’s anonymity would’ve felt mythical, beyond human reach, but masks have become so normal that there’s not as much of a desire to see who’s under it. And when the Timothee Chalamet remix emerged online in December, what little speculation and wonder as to who he is was quelled. Now we can confirm it’s not Chalamet. Do we care who he is? If EsDeeKid were to remove his mask, would he become like Samson? That would be a pretty underwhelming arc for the Liverpool rapper who rose to prominence in 2025.

I think far fewer rappers and MCs, both in the US and UK, actually want to be the talking point; gracing the cover of a fashion magazine is far more attractive because it signals an appeal to audiences who don’t necessarily care for tragedy, pantomime, and drama. And there’s a difference, a cover story in the modern age can allow an artist to leverage brand deals, signature capsules and collaborations. Whereas becoming a talking point is rarely about allegedly having sex with the girlfriend of a New York Knicks player, but for an act much more heinous, such as sexual assault.

Rappers should recruit Tyler Perry and Aaron McGruder to not only ghostwrite for them, but craft enough melodrama that you keep going back for more. We long for the return of the midnight marauders because podcasts and so-called rap experts killed the melodrama. We know too much because you have nerds who look like Jerry the mouse sitting behind computers, talking about gangs and deaths in rap as though it’s a video game. Before, in the 1990s and 2000s, when we read the magazines, critics and writers didn’t deify or glorify violence in rap but leaned into the tragedy.

Takeoff’s death should’ve felt more impactful than it was. When you consider what he did with Migos, contributing to their ascent to rap royalty, especially between 2012 and 2017, some could argue that deaths in rap are becoming far more commonplace than ever. But the world has become increasingly absurd, so when a celebrated rapper now dies, it’s just business as usual, another day ending in Y. It’s tragic that, instead of a mythology being built around Quavo, we were subjected to endless podcast takes because, somewhere along the line, that became the most popular format in music commentary. If Biggie, 2Pac, Eazy-E and Jam Master Jay died in 2026, there’d be no funeral parades in their neighbourhoods, we’d be tuning into Akademiks and Trap Lore Boss commenting on the ins and outs of their deaths before we’ve even had a chance to mourn their losses and respective impact.

And this is why the Joe and Jada podcast feels fresh and authentic. These are two friends, colleagues and titans who literally lived to tell the tale. They were there. And the stories they tell about their golden years in rap feel like generals who survived some of the biggest wars and battles, looking back. What they are not are commentators with no firsthand experience wedged between an endless loop of ‘recommended just for you’ nostalgia reels.

All this to say, there isn’t enough theatre in rap on both sides of the pond, and why should there be? The whole world is a circus, and two of the West’s leading governments have court jesters as their respective commanders-in-chief. One of them paints himself in orange and wears a toupee; what could be more theatrical than that?

Even Nicki Minaj, who has become a messenger for Donald Trump, has lost the theatrical elements of her performance because it’s become more apparent that this is who she has always been. But it’s not even a tragic conclusion to her character arc; it’s just embarrassingly obvious. For years, she leaned into a Hera-type role, attempting to smite any newcomer who threatened her status. As much as every rant was cringeworthy, we loved her for the entertainment she brought to rap.

Where does this all lead back to? Journalism and world-building. Without these two, there is no mythos, theatre or tragedy in rap. At least with journalism, no matter how much a rapper chooses to reveal, they understand, in part, that it all contributes to the world-building around their personas. And as much as rappers and MCs say they don’t need writers and journalists, even more so in recent years, you have to ask why they pay PR agencies to run press campaigns, which typically include desired coverage by magazines and newspapers. In the same way, the heroes of The Iliad and The Odyssey, whether mythical or not, needed Homer to tell stories that inspired fear, awe, and reverence; rappers need writers.

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I made and released another film, The Dance Begins At Home, and announced my book Escaping Babylon: An Intimate History of Black British Music. Made some really good friends at work and on the basketball court, while also strengthening existing bonds. Tore my bicep and got hit by a car. Lime needs to run me my money before the end of 2027. I also became an uncle.

Overall, 2025 was a blessed year. 2026 will be my Golden State Warriors 2017 year.

More

Returns to analogue

MP3 players, vinyl, CDs, and cassettes - whatever your preference - this type of music consumption should be encouraged, as it emphasises active listening and self-curation. Technology governs many of our daily tasks, so why not allocate a bit more time to the things that bring us joy?

Documentation

This is a funny one because last year I said we needed less of it but after a conversation with Elijah last week, I thought about it more. With an increase in AI-slop this year, what we need is more human-made documentation that can counteract the influx of AI art. Streaming platforms and social media are littered with this stuff, and yer da can’t seem to tell the difference.

Equitable grassroots investment in British basketball

As much as brand activations across London by some of the largest basketball and sports corporations in the UK boost visibility, that’s nowhere near enough. The British Basketball infrastructure is broken and fractured, and while I would rather they build a robust grassroots foundation than defer to brands, the NBA has a great opportunity to step in and see the UK as the frontier for NBA Europe, which is supposedly launching in 2027.

Less

Sauna raves

I don’t like the sauna on a normal post-workout day. I use a sauna because it makes me feel better. It’s like meditation. Why would I want to dance inside of one with thirty or so people when it’s already hard to breathe? Fuck off with your sauna raves. Besides, I’m pretty sure it’s a health hazard.

Brand collabs

There were just too many and the hype no longer guarantees sales for the biggest brands.

Seeing both sides

Stand on business, pick a side and hold the line. Obviously, I’m referring to the people who would much rather respectability and civility rather than calling shit what it is. In September, thousands of flag-shagging paedos and wife beaters on the far-right descended on London, and most weren’t even from here. When I was travelling around the city that day, I wish I’d told those flag shaggers on the Viccy line to fuck off and shove their flags up their battyholes. But I’d be the bad guy, apparently. The race war is already here and the frontlines are both offline and online.

Favourites

• IT: Welcome to Derry - I inherited my love for the Derry Universe from my mum, and the HBO prequel show was a great TV adaptation of the supernatural entity that comes to terrorise the small town. Plus, did we need the finale season of Stranger Things ten years after it premiered?

• Midnight Mass and Fall of the House of Usher - Not new but I really fell into the Mike Flanagan universe of horror this year after a rewatch of Doctor Sleep. I finally finished Midnight Mass this year and it’s vampire lore, which doesn’t centre on Dracula, done really well. Looking forward to his adaptation of Carrie.

• Sinners - On the topic of vampire lore done well *chef’s kiss*

• Hoodlum - I fell deeper into crime dramas, much more than ever but watching Hoodlum (1997) for the first time, starring Tim Roth and Laurence Fishburne and directed by Bill Duke was a fun two hours. I discovered it through a recommendation by New York-based writer Michael Gonzales

• Chester Himes: All Shot Up - Sticking with the Blaxploitation theme, I really enjoyed reading Chester Himes novel All Shot Up, which I believe is underrated and one of his best. I need to read it again.

• Freddie Gibbs & Alchemist - Alfredo 2 - a lovely, soulful follow-up to the first album. Too many features for my liking but this happens when you’re steadily and arguably one of the most prolific rappers over the past fifteen years

• Ghostface Killah - Supreme Clientele 2 - Real grown unc raps, the Lionel Richie sample on The Zoom stands out and reinforces my belief that no rapper straddles the lines between Blaxploitation, soul and inner-city life quite like Tony Starks

• Bill Withers - Still Bill: An old album, obviously, but I discovered this record earlier this year and fell in love immediately. ‘Use Me’ is a song I knew from The Wire, but ‘Let Me In Your Life’ became a favourite during book editing.

• Marseille - Went there five times this year and each time, fell deeper in love with the city. I’ll be back before long but double zero and L’Alchimiste were two of my favourite spots.

• Ling Ling's - When the modern Chinese pop-up was at The Bluecoats Pub in Tottenham earlier this year, I found every excuse to try it out as they’d update the menu regularly. The Szechuan wings were a personal favourite and although I’m sad they’re gone, I’m looking forward to checking out their residency at Godet on Essex Road.

• Vybz Kartel at Reggae Sumfest - You man were playing checkers when you booked tickets to his UK tour or saw him at Wireless. I was playing chess when I got a chance to see him in Montego Bay at Reggae Sumfest. It was my first time in Jamaica but that weekend in Mobay felt like Christmas and Easter combined. Jesus had been born and risen again. Seeing Toni Braxton was extra special as she’s arguably my favourite R&B singer and childhood crush. I’d pay good money for her to be my sugar mama.

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I’m at the age where many people look for a quieter life due to their life circumstances and the stages they’ve reached; marriage, children and home owning – not necessarily in that order. However, with that shift in priorities comes a desire for quiet and an absence of noise.

Some of those people move beyond London’s borders into quieter, more affordable areas. Who can blame them? House prices in London make it almost impossible for millennials in their thirties to buy property in the city that they’ve known and loved for most of their lives.

In 2022, Xochitl Gonzalez wrote a piece for The Atlantic titled Why Do Rich People Love Quiet? Where she laments missing her noisy Brooklyn neighbourhood as she departed for an Ivy League College. While the piece specifically focused on the rich and their Kryptonite-like abrasion to noise, it isn’t just in New York where anti-noise is becoming policy.

For the record, I’ve been to many of the spaces featured in this piece – Devon Turnbull Room at 180 Studios, Space Talk, Jumbi, Cafe 1001, and I like most of them. I’ve actually played at Jumbi and its former sister venue Moko but there were numerous times I was asked to keep the decibel meter at a certain level - I’ll come back to this point. Many of them celebrate community and socialising in ways that combat the loneliness epidemic we see in major cities post-pandemic.

I was at Tash LC’s recent 180 Studios Devon Turnbull Room listening session, which focused on the early history of dancehall. For me, this was an opportunity to hear a dancehall aifcionado wax about some of the most iconic and pivotal records to come from Jamaica but the audience was too sterile. Too many of these spaces prioritise audience comfort with bean bags, chairs and stools, but I wonder how different the space would be if seating were removed? Would the audience feel more encouraged to dance, which Tash explicitly asked us to do? The audience felt too high-brow, and given the cost of the space’s equipment, it feels like a massive waste of resources when people aren’t moving to the sounds.

While each of these spaces celebrates and boasts well-crafted hi-fi systems and spatial sound, I’m wary to call them sound systems, in the way that term evokes complex networks of subwoofers and speakers of Caribbean and West Indian origin.

It’s interesting because it’s that almost-tired-and-rinsed conversation about people moving to a specific area for its culture, affordability, and the richness of its community. Then, when you reach a certain age, suddenly you become a Victor Meldrew, curtain-twitching, noise-complaint merchant. I’ve had numerous noise complaints from neighbours in Tottenham, an area I’ve had lifelong ties to, who say noise levels on a Saturday night are affecting their young children’s sleep.

Ah, ‘the children are trying to sleep’ card.

No child in the history of children on weekend nights has ever wanted to go to bed so early that a slight bit of noise reverberating through the walls will dissuade them from sleeping. I’m sure it was an absolute nightmare trying to get your child to bed, but how that’s the concern of your neighbour remains to be seen.

Many of my friends who are settling down are moving further out, and I wish them the best. They’ve made a compromise which prioritises their needs. But what doesn’t get acknowledged in that compromise is their understanding that the areas they’re moving from no longer serve them, so instead of upsetting the balance, they’re the ones making the move rather than demanding the area shift to their personal needs.

On the flipside, one could argue that community is embracing everyone’s needs and understanding those pressure points that may cause friction. However, it’s always those who embrace noise and the energy that brings that have to succumb to quiet, rather than the other way around. Now, if I were to move to a peaceful village in the countryside, I would have to acclimatise and adhere to the social contract of quiet. That’s what I would’ve signed up for. But when you choose to lay roots in cities, you sign a contract that says you accept the noise is what you get.

Maybe I’m less forgiving because I grew up in house parties where children would be flung into bedrooms that doubled up as makeshift cloakrooms after running around like crackheads who’d overdosed on sugary drinks. The parents weren’t concerned about the noise disturbing our sleep.

However, the link here is that the patrons of these listening bars are often the same middle-class demographic of people seeking quietness in their neighbourhoods. There’s a compromise that London’s listening bars have made, which feels out of tune with the city’s fabric. Listening bars in cities such as Tokyo and Marseille make sense because sound system culture isn’t as deeply rooted as it is in London.

And I understand that neighbours in the surrounding areas adjacent to Jumbi, Moko, and the like aren’t always the gentrifying types you imagine; that’s where compromise and balance are essential. However, the last Travs Presents at Moko did have sound issues because the volume wasn’t allowed to be high enough, which ultimately upset the balance of the night, which, by nature, is supposed to be loud. Moko ultimately closed down because it tried to replicate its sister venue Jumbi in Peckham but Tottenham has never been a destination quite like the former. Given the area’s demographics, there could’ve been opportunities to curate more sound-system-led nights and events. Which is why I’m not entirely sure how hifi listening and dining go hand in hand in a city like London when dance is removed from the equation.

And in this age of nostalgia, there seems to be this yearning for dance spaces of old, where noise and abrasion were at the centre, and you see images of people of all ages crowded around towering subwoofers. Those images evoke memories of a bygone era, and when we look back at the present in twenty years, are we likely to see pictures of people eating small plates of padron peppers in front of hifi speakers in wood-panelled listening bars?

Charlie Dark MBE of Run Dem recently spoke about building his sound system, which was not only an arduous effort but also a collective one that required seeking wisdom and knowledge from Caribbean elders.

This led me to ask my Close Friends on Instagram just how many Caribbean elders have been consulted during the construction, design, and installation of listening bars and hi-fi sound systems across London?

There’s something beautiful and analogue about seeing wooden towers stacked upon one another, reminding us that the natural environment itself can be repurposed for sound and community gathering. They are an aesthetic antithesis to the minimalist, grey metal slab that rules so much of London’s contemporary design, and wooden subwoofers stacked upon one another remind us of a city that no longer exists.

Technology evolves, and sometimes the old ways can be built upon, but I very rarely see elders playing in these modern spaces. In fact, I can recall a moment, and that was at Jumbi in September, where Dubplate Pearl was playing alongside Charlie and Jordss to celebrate the release of Yazmin Lacey’s new record. In fact, Dubplate Pearl is a regular at Jumbi, so on their part, there is a conscious effort to bring elders into the space, especially at a time when younger DJs and selectors are often given the spotlight over more seasoned veterans.

Much of my work has called for more intergenerational conversation and interaction so we can preserve stories, skills, histories, techniques, and ways of doing things. That is why I have to big up people like Dana at DIVINE KIND, who takes a research-based approach to DJing and cultural production. Naturally, when this approach takes place, conversations with elders will occur.

One of the most pertinent reasons I see far fewer elders in these listening bar spaces is that, when brands sponsor events, they often favour younger voices and faces. Elders with expertise, experience and lifelong skills aren’t as desirable, mainly because they’re not as savvy with social media. What that really means is they don’t care enough about their grid because, for them, social media isn’t the first touchpoint through which they engage with their audiences.

Those elders aren’t going to be with us much longer. It seems like every week, I’m hearing about someone I’ve looked up to passing away. We should be pouring back into them as much as they’ve poured into our communities.

In 2020, my former housemates and I hosted a party that lasted so late that the sun was coming up. That wasn’t even the afters. Our elderly neighbour, an 83-year-old West Indian man called Mr Johnson, approved of the late-night party because, when he arrived in Britain as a young man, these were the spaces he sought out. His story actually resembled that of the young men in Sam Selvon’s Lonely Londoners. However, the party likely wouldn’t have been able to carry on if we hadn’t established a relationship with Mr Johnson during lockdown, where we’d often stand on our porches talking. There were so many times I wished I had recorded those conversations to use in my book but equally, not every discussion with elders has to be mined for cultural production. We should be having those conversations regardless of whether we use it for content.

In contrast, on the Elizabeth Line on the way back from Heathrow Airport in November, two young Asian men who clearly lived and worked in the area were playing music from their phones. They were troubling no one but a group of young, white women who had just come back from holiday were sitting in the row of seats in front of them. One of them got up and asked, with a stern tone, for them to turn the music off as they weren’t allowed to. The tone was very Karen-esque, and yes, we’ve seen an increase in people playing music from their phones without earphones. Much of that is because modern smartphones have removed the headphone jack, requiring users to use wireless headphones. No one asked for this technology shift, and it’s priced people out of buying wireless headphones.

Public transportation is, by nature, loud and abrasive. If it’s quiet people are looking for, then there are other means of transportation, and while less convenient, music blaring from phones shouldn’t be seen as offensive in major, global cities. In contrast, commuters on the NY Subway have become accustomed to the noise and dance, making it almost ritualistic.

All this to say that London doesn’t actually need more listening bars with decibel meters set to a specific limit. It’s one of the loudest cities in the world, and what it needs is more outdoor sound systems, and the future of that has to be community initiatives where we can pool resources to acquire licenses and spaces. All else fails, I encourage people to take more risks because in this climate, we’re going to have to start resisting draconian policies and legislation anyway.

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Preorder my forthcoming book Escaping Babylon: An Intimate History of Black British Music via Rough Trade

After nearly a decade of researching, interviewing, travelling and writing, I couldn’t be prouder to share the cover of my debut book ‘Escaping Babylon: An Intimate History of Black British Music’. Not just what feels like my life’s work but it also tells the stories of so many in Black Britain.

Shapeshifting, collaborative, endlessly inventive and robustly empowering: Black music has transformed British culture and society, and gifted generations of Black Britons a powerful means to reject misrepresentation and find freedom and joy in sound.

From the height of jungle and UK soul in the 90s to the London uprisings in 2011 and the rise of the internet, filmmaker and DJ Jesse Bernard examines how Black culture in Britain is moulded through the migration of sound across the Atlantic.

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“From an early age – at the house parties my parents used to have, to travelling across the M62 to raves in Manchester, Hull and Leeds – Black British music has shaped my understanding of the world. Through Escaping Babylon, I celebrate the stories of unsung people from local communities as well as the global stars whose names we adore.

I’m equally fascinated by how music moves through borders, transcending space and time, particularly when the movement of Black people has been shaped by slavery and the impact of colonialism.”

Escaping Babylon takes a deep dive into the history of Black British music through personal and collective memory, celebrating its richness, heritage, and towering legacy.

Coming May 2026 on Profile Books and available for preorder via Rough Trade, who will have signed copies, as well as other good bookstores.

Over the next few months, I’ll be publishing pieces that focus on the archival, storytelling and research processes that led to Escaping Babylon.

This book truly means the world to me, and I’m grateful for the love and support from peers, family and friends I’ve received so far. I hope readers can see themselves in the words just as I intended when I first started writing.

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Miguel released his fifth studio album, CAOS yesterday and it wasn’t the first time I’d seen this kind of artwork this year. Bold red typography contrasts against a black background, with the subject wrapped in darkness.

If summer ‘24 was about envy and hedonism typified by Charli XCX’s Brat, then autumn ‘25 can only be named Red October. However, this isn’t just a coincidence that a few artists and brands are embracing red and black this year but it speaks to something deeper about a collective feeling of revenge, rage and wrath we’re feeling. It’s a cavernous, underground dwelling, and doesn’t just go straight to the bone but cuts through to the marrow, drawing out the very DNA of what it means to be alive. Dante would be enjoying what we’re seeing right now.

The film Red Hunt For October (1990) is the Cold War coming to a head, the Hollywood propaganda machine in full throttle. And it makes sense that so many actors in La La Land have begun to reject it while there’s a genocide going on.

Even for my EP and film I released at the beginning of summer, red and black was my colour palette of choice.

If we were to view this trend through a theological lens, red and black have always been associated with the Prince of Darkness, Lucifer. The artwork is a bold departure from Miguel’s previous album covers, which have always taken a psychedelic aesthetic but it has to signify something deeper, right?

Red has always been associated with anger but so much of the language used in the visual examples in this piece represent a harshness and aggressiveness that feels in line with the way we’re treating one another. Whether it’s ghosting, cutting people off, shitposting and online bullying, we’re left with little room for mercy and compassion and so much of the online sphere doesn’t leave us feeling warm.

From a biblical angle, the devil tempts us to embrace the inner darkness and submit to the worldly desires and urges. Oscar Wilde’s Dorian Gray famously sought eternal youth through hedonism, while his portrait was a window into his ugly, deformed soul that had given in just a bit too much to those desires, instead of embracing the one thing none of us can outrun – time.

What does this say about the world we live in today that we are all embracing the darkness within ourselves? While the world’s leaders hurtle us towards never-ending destruction and turmoil, hope has never felt so out of reach. We’ve fought and resisted for decades against the present we are now living in and the future has never felt so uncertain and confusing. This is far from the future that sci-fi films of old predicted, with flying cars and utopias.

I’ve never been one to give Kanye the ‘genius’ label because I truly don’t think he’s done much that’s revolutionary, but once upon a time, he was a forward-thinking designer and that much I can admit. The Red Octobers were perhaps ahead of their time and if they were to drop in 2025, they would still carry as much weight as they did in 2014.

DMX said it best when he dropped his two-peater, It’s Dark and Hell is Hot and Flesh of My Flesh, Blood of My Blood, and it’s not a reach to say that in 1998, he wasn’t just observing his own present but imagining the future of the world. Can we really argue that it’s anything but dark and hot in the world right now?

Darkness doesn’t always mean mystery because the latter suggests a flirtation, while the former is an enfolding. I don’t mean for this to come across as pessimistic, but rather as a reflection and examination of the world as it is, not what we hope it to be.

Everyone is vengeful, angry and full of wrath, whether on a personal or collective level. Can we really be blamed for feeling this amidst genocide, AI takeovers, burning forests, and polluted rivers? This is beyond apathy. It’s post-apathy, where there’s nothing left to wish for but the world to come crashing down while you’re still inside the house.

This is likely what theologians understood about the concept of worldliness. It’s hard to transcend this and believe in something greater because those we’ve trusted with our futures have chosen to burn it all to the ground before we’ve had a chance to taste it. What good is forbidden fruit if you’re not even able to touch?

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It was still early in my music writing career, but upon learning about D’Angelo’s passing, which has rocked me, considering I modelled so much of my own vocal ability on Michael Eugene Archer. He wasn’t a singer, at least not in the way you and I both understand one to be, and it was through artists such as D’Angelo that I learned that the voice doesn’t have to be conventional. He didn’t possess the thundering, lead voice of a choir. His was the one who seduced the pastor’s wife – and your aunty – as he delivered the sermon.

I remember hearing 'Voodoo' for the first time and seeing the video for 'Untitled (How Does It Feel) ‘ on MTV Base. And later, Jamie Foxx’s parody skit. What an honour to create a body of work so captivating that it becomes the centrepiece of comedy. My mum had both albums on CD, which she passed on to me when she gave me her whole collection in 2020. I later bought both on vinyl, followed by Black Messiah. There were times when I would walk down the street listening to ‘One Mo’Gin’ and ‘How Does It Feel’, teaching myself about vocal range but also hearing the church in his voice.

That ‘Brown Sugar’ was never really about a woman, but heroin spoke to D’Angelo’s ability to convey the human condition- what is our pull towards the profane if not a submission to our inhibitions and desires? If you want it to be about that, then sure. But step back a little further and you’ll see it’s a modern retelling of the original sin. Whenever I hear that song, I picture Bumpy Johnson’s Harlem in the 1960s and a couple in a derelict tenement building on 110th Street, falling into each other through that dark, sticky substance. It’s The Wire’s Hamsterdam. Gomorrah, even. Where D’Angelo’s art resided. Then, Voodoo opens with ‘Devil’s Pie’, following ‘Playa Playa’, and it’s a calling to embrace the profane, everything we’ve been taught to evade at every turn. That is often the artist’s calling. Not everyone can do it. It’s self-sacrifice.

I sat reading the liner notes of Voodoo, blown away by the ensemble cast of vocalists, musicians and engineers. I’m grateful I was able to have online conversations with Russell Elevado (his engineer) and Kendra Foster (his backing singer on the Black Messiah tour) back in 2015; it meant knowing D’Angelo’s craft just that little bit deeper. I’m grateful I had the privilege to see D’Angelo perform twice in London in 2015.

The outpouring of tributes speaks to his level of artistry, and the Questlove passage below shows just how much D’Angelo cut through a lot of the bullshit in music, probably even more so today.

D’Angelo was raised in the church, and he had the voice of a preacher’s son – he brought the spiritual to the masses through his voice. ‘Send It On’ couldn’t be more gospel if it tried. He reminded, and still does, that you don’t even need to be religious to feel sanctified. He made gospel for those who worshipped at the altar of the carnal, intimate and sensual. Marvin Gaye should’ve been alive to hear his music. And I believe he was far more than just the guy in the topless video, which ultimately led to so much of the pain he felt and why he became so reclusive. Perhaps, why he resonated so deeply was how he dealt with demons and fought them through art, as though that were his own rehab and therapy. How do you leave one site of trauma, find respite in your own creation, only to find yourself facing another kind of pain?

His performance is also the (im)perfect encapsulation of everything my film The Dance Begins At Home is about, given his gospel beginnings - Who do we become when the camera is turned on us? What happens when the pulpit becomes the stage?

Now, it’s more than an essay, but a eulogy that has aged far better than I could ever have hoped. Artists like D’Angelo are why we create and turn language into art. That in itself is divine.

“Like the rain to the dirt
From the vine to the wine
From the Alpha creation to the end of time” - D’Angelo

“Black Messiah is a hell of a name for an album. It can be easily misunderstood. Many will think it’s about religion. Some will jump to the conclusion that I’m calling myself a black messiah. For me, the title is about all of us; it’s about the world. It’s about an idea we can all aspire to be a black messiah. It’s about people rising in Ferguson and in Egypt and in Occupy Wall Street and in every place where a community has had enough and decides to make change happen. It’s not about praising one charismatic leader but celebrating thousands of them. Not every song on this album is politically charged (though many are), but calling this album Black Messiah creates a landscape where these songs can live to the fullest. Black Messiah is not one man. It’s a feeling that, collectively, we are all that leader.” - D’Angelo

“To pimp out something from a negative place and take it to a positive place, that’s what everybody wanna do. Everybody has their own story. I have mine with good kid, m.A.A.d city. You have yours. And to come out of these harsh realities and do something positive, you’re pimping the butterfly. You’re coming out this cocoon of this caterpillar and you’re making the best out of it. Everybody wanna do that.” - Kendrick Lamar

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The lineage of black music holds undeniable significance. It found its way to the West, particularly in the context of America, via slavery and to this day, is still seen as a refuge from the harsh realities of life. Critically acclaimed albums, Black Messiah and To Pimp a Butterfly (TPAB), continue this lineage of black art on a grand scale.

The environment in which Kendrick Lamar grew up has long been a city of political and social unrest. The riots in the aftermath of Rodney King’s beating in 1992 and in Watts some years before. For years, communities in Los Angeles have found solace in music, from jazz and soul to funk and rap. Gangster rap has frequently touched on the riots that took place in LA, and it went as far as to warn the world of the likelihood of them occurring again. N.W.A challenged public perceptions and demanded that they listen to their message, to which, for the most part, they were greeted with bans and silencing. Whereas D’Angelo grew up in Virginia, encompassing North Carolina, West Virginia and Maryland. Virginia has long been a hotbed for racial tensions and was one of the colonies that joined the Confederacy in the American Civil War. The largest minority group, as of 2013, is African American at 19.7%. However, a browse of Virginia’s Wikipedia section on Culture shows the tremendous erasure of black culture within the area. It’s almost ironic, as D’Angelo is undeniably the state’s most influential cultural export.

There isn’t an instance on either album where both artists are appealing to the white gaze. However, funnily enough, both To Pimp a Butterfly and Black Messiah were widely received by white fans. Perhaps less so for the lyrical content than the range of sounds and musical elements. Stereo Williams of The Daily Beast lamented on how many white fans have an infatuation with black music culture but fail to recognise the pain that is expressed through said music. “So many of these white people who were raised on songs of the struggle of inner city black folks just don’t give a shit about inner city black folks….“Hip-hop is everywhere,” we think. And everybody feels good about how “far we’ve come.” Shouldn’t that mean that this generation of white folks has more awareness of the problems black people face than ever before?”. The 2016 Grammy Awards will certainly be one to watch with Black Messiah looking increasingly likely to be nominated for album of the year, whilst TPAB will probably go for best rap album, perhaps album of the year too. For K-Dot, this will probably be his most important award. It’s an award that, in the grand scheme of things, means very little to black art. It’s an award handed out by a panel who are predominantly old, white and out of touch. How could they even fathom the complexities of the themes touched upon in TPAB? Better yet, should black art be at an award show where it is seldom represented?

The makeup and sequencing of the album were crafted in a way that alludes to the transformation of a butterfly from a caterpillar, made clear by the skits and interludes. It’s a unique observation that can be extended beyond the confines of To Pimp a Butterfly to Kendrick’s entire discography. Whilst Tammy and Keisha are the main protagonists in Section.80, one of the album’s key focuses is life in the 80s, commonly known as the Ronald Reagan era. Therefore, perhaps it is more applicable to the caterpillar stage of Kendrick’s metamorphosis. Good Kid, m.A.A.d city (GKMC) documents the story of a young Kendrick as he navigates his teenage years, which are riddled with drugs, peer pressure, sex and violence. It’s a period of growth for the rapper, as it seems that he is trapped by his surroundings. Whilst TPAB, particularly ‘King Kunta’, represents Kendrick undergoing the metamorphosis from cocoon to butterfly. After experiencing the world beyond Compton, Kendrick returns, reminding fans of his roots.

This point is further made poignant through the strong funk and jazz influences on the album. The imagery featured in the album’s booklet and on the front cover sees Kendrick posing with people from the hood in a manner that represents his return. In fact, there are a couple of instances where the posse are posing with wads of cash, presumably the wealth Kendrick has made since going global. As a result, it’s somewhat distinctive to see him share the wealth with his people. At first, I was inclined to draw links to Black Wall Street but since much of his wealth was given to him by white audiences, it may have been short-sighted. The premise of Black Wall Street was that the economy of a black neighbourhood was controlled by black business owners, customers and consumers. For hip-hop, in 2015, that’s no longer the case.

For D’Angelo, Black Messiah is the final confirmation of his legacy and one that will be remembered for years to come. At just eighteen years old, he’d arrived on the scene, full of zeal, and ushered in a new era of R&B. He’d found himself working with some of the most influential musicians in the industry, including Raphael Saadiq, Q-Tip, Bob Power and Ali Shaheed Muhammad. Then came Voodoo, a blistering and unorthodox landmark in the history of music. It brought D’Angelo immeasurable success, and it was as breathtaking as it was genre-defining. D’Angelo’s discography is an ode to the likes of Sly and The Family Stone, Prince and Funkadelic. If Prince is the father, Sly and Al Green were the uncles, D’Angelo is the son born with a purpose to take the mantle. Better yet, if Al Green, Prince and Sly Stone had a baby, it would be D’Angelo.

Where the two albums differ is in how anger and frustration are expressed. On TPAB, Kendrick Lamar seems to be far more expletive, neurotic and fierce, while on Black Messiah, D’Angelo is far more exact, precise and measured. Even on songs such as ‘The Charade’ where he pleads with white supremacy, it is done in a manner that is far less threatening than Kendrick on ‘The Blacker The Berry’ or ‘King Kunta’. However, the chords and riffs on tracks such as ‘1000 Deaths’ convey the indignation typified by the Virginian artist.

Much was made of Kendrick’s controversial comments regarding police brutality. In an interview with Billboard, he urged black people, “I wish somebody would look in our neighbourhood knowing that it’s already a situation, mentally, where it’s f — -ked up. What happened to [Michael Brown] should’ve never happened. Never. But when we don’t have respect for ourselves, how do we expect them to respect us? It starts from within. Don’t start with just a rally, don’t start from looting — it starts from within.” It’s a contentious statement; many are still unsure as to whether he speaks through the lens of someone who has grown up with gang members, many of whom are his close friends and many he has lost to violence.

Kendrick Lamar’s critical thinking and nuance may be lacking, whereas many of us have the luxury of exercising. Granted, he is now in a place of privilege due to his success; however, much of his thinking is still that of a young black man navigating Compton. “I remember you was conflicted, misusing your influence” is repeated throughout the album. He speaks of ‘Luci’ frequently throughout To Pimp a Butterfly, a moniker for the fallen angel Lucifer. He frequently proclaims the ‘evils of Luci was all around me’, shedding light on the place from he speaks from. Therefore, do we place too much emphasis on the comments he makes regarding what black people need to do for us to be respected as humans? Perhaps not, but when he speaks from a place of violence, it would be irresponsible for us to ignore and cast aside.

If #BlackLivesMatter is the rallying cry and the demand for humanity and justice, being carefree black is us living and expressing our diverse existence. Kendrick’s ‘i’ and ‘King Kunta’ are the most palpable moments on TPAB where he expresses his carefree attitude. Even with D’Angelo, where he exclaims that he will never go against what he feels inside on ‘Betray My Heart’, it is of that same unapologetic nature. It’s difficult to say whether both artists express themselves in a carefree manner, as they both address issues that have caused them pain, which is visible on both albums. As Megan Sullivan notes in her essay ‘African-American Music as Rebellion: From Slavesong to Hip-Hop’, black music is a rebellion and serves as a means to advance one’s social position whilst retaining cultural heritage.

On D’Angelo’s ‘Prayer’, track eight, the lyrics read like a negro spiritual. “I know that he will try to harm you / And if you can / I know that you will make it to the promised land.” Spirituals often held hidden meanings; to the slave master, it would sound as if they were singing about Moses and his journey to free his people. Whilst to the slaves, it was an analogy perfectly describing the predicament they had been forced into. Where To Pimp a Butterfly shares similarities is on ‘King Kunta’, however, in addition, it differs somewhat. It embodies the rebellious nature of a negro spiritual, yet it appears to be more individualistic in its tone. Perhaps ‘Alright’ is more befitting; it’s a rally cry, reassuring the people around him that things will get better. J. Cole’s ‘G.O.M.D’ has a strong negro spiritual theme, aided by the visuals for the song. His latest album, 2014 Forest Hills Drive, also touches on elements of police brutality, systematic racism and cultural appropriation.

David Simms mentions how the spiritual was much more than just a rhythmic melody and that it helped slaves acclimatise to the alien and incredibly hostile environment. Imagine that over the years, generations of black families would sing these within the household, reinventing them. The campfire is akin to the jazz bars of Harlem, Los Angeles and New Orleans. They were the communal places for black folk after urbanisation, when job opportunities began to increase following World War I. It’s worth noting that when jazz broke out, it was around the same time as the Harlem Renaissance. Also known as the New Negro Movement, it represented the migration of black people from the rural South into the Northeast, Midwest and West. It was predominantly led by Marcus Garvey, W.E.B Du Bois, Ella Fitzgerald, Billie Holiday and many other black luminaries. Whilst this migration occurred, black people carried with them the music which had been a very important part of their DNA. Consequently, it’s no wonder that Hip-Hop in particular was born and thrived in the inner city. An artist like D’Angelo never really left the South, and with his Church background, therefore his music is far more akin to the negro spiritual — easily identifiable with tracks such ‘The Line’.

There are similarities to be made between Kendrick’s ‘i’ and D’Angelo’s ‘Betray My Heart’, although not conspicuous, in that both artists express a desirable feeling of self-love. For black people, self-love is both revolutionary and threatening. To love thy self is to fully embrace one’s identity, heritage, flaws and strengths. In a world that is often anti-black, the homogenising of black cultures, misrepresenting and erasing, self-love is an act of defiance against white supremacy. On ‘Betray My Heart’, D’Angelo expresses beguilingly, “You, my soul, can depend on me / don’t ever have to fear / That my love is not sincere.” It’s not clear whether D’Angelo sings about his love for another or for himself; however, it could be open to interpretation that he is singing about both. ‘Betray My Heart’ is made all the more profound and significant when you take notice of the artist’s absence from the limelight.

The hypersexualisation of D’Angelo after the release of his Grammy-winning Voodoo album and the infamous ‘Untitled (How Does It Feel)’ left him in a vulnerable, reclusive state. By this point, D’Angelo had little to prove to the world, much unlike his peers within R&B who found themselves posing topless on album covers. The hypersexualisation of the black male body has existed for centuries since chattel slavery; it’s one of the methods used to remove one’s humanity. So it comes as a triumphant victory not only for D’Angelo himself but for black men when, fourteen years later, he can return to a place of self-love. That isn’t to say his peers fail in the art of self-love; however, black masculinity can often be a performance for fetishisation, and sometimes the former allows it. But not in the case of D’Angelo.

For Kendrick, the road to ‘i’ has been tumultuous to say the least. The rapper has spoken openly about his battles with depression, which in itself is a revolutionary act. It’s an experience painfully depicted on ‘u’, where you hear etchings of a drunk Kendrick and empty glass bottles, presumably alcohol. Produced by Taz Arnold and Whoarei, the melancholic ‘u’ is a place no one wishes to be, and the echoed vocals of ‘loving you is complicated’ have a strong message — it’s hard to love another when one cannot love himself. At first glance, one could be led to believe that Kendrick is addressing another individual; however, that is not the case. “I’m fucked up, but I’m not as fucked up as you / You just can’t get right, I think your heart made of bullet proof / Shoulda killed yo ass a long time ago / You shoulda filled that black revolver blast a long time ago / And if those mirrors could talk it would say “you gotta go”.” The skit before verse two, where Whoarei’s production kicks in reveals that Kendrick is battling his own conscience and inner demons. ‘u’ is a harsh cry, drunk and morose. It is the outpouring of generational black pain which becomes impossible to ignore.

It’s worth noting that when black pain is expressed through music and art, only particular forms of it are accepted by the white majority. Even for a rapper like Kendrick Lamar is well received by white liberals because there’s a guilt that’s allowed to be acknowledged without ever really being reckoned with. He never comes across as threatening; therefore, for the most part, he is widely accepted. However, N.W.A, Public Enemy and 03 Greedo have addressed black pain. Gangster rappers also do so. Whilst much of their music contains elements of misogyny and homophobia, it does so because many of those communities lack the resources and education to do so. They merely reflect the environments in which they come from, so how much of it can we place down to ‘violent rap’ when forms of segregation have made it so?

We have seen time and again that violence expressed through art is often rejected by white audiences when the source of the message is a black community. However, Hollywood is notorious for its violence, and a glance at the box office list is but an example. This sort of violence is normally championed as it often sees a white protagonist triumphing over a foreign or alien entity. It’s no coincidence that you can examine the principles on which America was founded when you listen to these two records.

Of course, it’s pertinent to remember that both To Pimp a Butterfly and Black Messiah are not the only albums in recent history to address several issues about the reality of Black life under the wing of the beast. Countless artists have done so in recent years, but the status of both D’Angelo and Kendrick Lamar, for the most part, has been unrivalled. In addition, both albums encapsulated the agonising pain the global black population has felt for centuries now. Contemporary black art is steeped in celebration, anguish, escapism and stories, with To Pimp a Butterfly, Black Messiah and many other bodies of work, our art and history can never be erased.

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“Archives” is arguably one of the most popular buzzwords of 2025. Some call them ‘living archives’ — which can be described as a dynamic form of storing memories, materials that evolve over time and depending on the situational context.

Until the pandemic, everything I had collected from old concert ticket stubs, basketball magazines, CDs, records, trainers, grime and hip-hop memorabilia didn’t really exist as part of an archive. They only found meaning when I found a way to tell a story of how they represented not only my life but who I am.

When I brought them together and displayed them at Reference Point 180 in June as part of The Dance Begins At Home: Before Babylon Arrives audiovisual project, I found that this was the best way to open up my world and allow people in. I’m a very closed and private person, I’ve lived many lives in my near 36 years and most people have only seen fractions of who I am. By bringing this installation to life, I began to find it easier to share more of myself with others.

Static archives have their own place and value but for me, this particular practice of recording and collecting doesn’t quite work when you consider that since the pandemic I’ve probably lived two or three lives as a youth worker, filmmaker, DJ, writer and label owner.

And it’s not my place to say that the term ‘archives’ is being misused, I don’t have the context in which people are operating. This more of a call to think more intentionally about what these archives mean for you and what stories you’re trying to tell when you bring them to the world. It’s one thing to collect materials and store them on a hard drive or in a storage space. It’s another to invite others into your world and life.

Not all archives need to be public and in the age of turning hobbies into side-hustles and self-optimisation, it’s worth asking what you want to accomplish. And perhaps more importantly in the brand partnerships industrial complex, do you actually need sponsorship? If the answer is yes, then the likelihood is that the idea isn’t strong enough to live on its own.

I came up with these questions that may help budding archivists better understand what it is you’re trying to achieve:

• What do these items mean to you individually?

• What do you want your audience to learn about you from these materials?

• How can the archive evolve through time?

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If you’d like me to bring The Dance Begins At Home: Before Babylon Arrives to your city, DM me.