Section:GDN 12 PaGe:6 Edition Date:190906 Edition:01 Zone: Sent at 5/9/2019 17:02 cYanmaGentaYellowblac
- The Guardian
6 Friday 6 September 2019
that sounds like the engine of
a doubledecker bus; it is stitched
together by tinny, marching-band
snare drums and haunting piano
or synth melodies. Since it took off
in London, it has veered towards
the fast-paced energy of grime, its
wise old musical uncle, and away
from its roots in Chicago drill and
US trap. Unforgiving lyricism about
the extremes of disfranchised,
hypermasculine adolescent life –
nihilistic references to knife violence
(often in the form of provocation and
bleak, detailed descriptions of drug
dealing) – fi lls nearly every song.
Many people are concerned about
the music’s supposed capacity to
entrench real-life violence. UK
drill’s 19-year-old former poster boy
Unknown T – real name Daniel Lena –
has been charged with the murder
of 20-year-old Steven Narvaez-Jara.
His case raises questions about
the ethics of violent music and the
characters who make drill, and its
ability to infl uence young minds.
But amid a moral panic in
the media, valid criticism has
collapsed into censorship. In
February, Skengdo and AM were
given suspended jail sentences
for performing one of their songs;
an unprecedented moment in
British legal history. Digga D has to
submit lyrics to the police before
releasing them. All three artists, as
well as others, including another
OFB affi liate RV and members of
Brixton group 410, are forbidden
from entering or even rapping about
particular London postcodes. They
have had their freedom squeezed by
overwhelmed law enforcers eager to
be seen to be doing something about
violence among young people.
Drill has received broadly
negative attention since it
was belatedly discovered by
the mass media in 2018 – but
it is also seeing increasing
commercial success: artists
such as DigDat, Russ and Digga
D have reached the UK Top
20, and London-style drill
instrumentals and vocal intonations
are being employed by artists in
Dublin, New York and Sydney.
UK drill is part of a power shift in
urban culture over the past decade,
forged not by big record labels or
radio stations but democratised
technology and grassroots scenes.
“People know where I’m coming
from, and that what I’m saying in
my music is a reality for me,” says
Bandokay, who has his father’s fi rst
name tattooed along the side of his
left hand. Days before we meet,
Bandokay and Double Lz, 18 and 17
respectively, returned from Ibiza,
where they performed alongside
their fellow Broadwater Farm native
and drill breakout star Headie
One, who Bandokay names as his
most signifi cant musical infl uence
alongside the Brixton group 67
(“six-seven”).
“It feels good, still,” Double Lz
says of their ascent.
“I’m trying to get out the hood,
and the easiest way of doing that is
making music,” says Bandokay. “It’s
my way of escaping gang life and
achieving a better life. I wanna move
my mum into a house. Music puts
legal money into my account. Noone helps us round here. So music is
the only way.”
Bandokay says it was a “fun,
nice experience” growing up on
Broadwater Farm. Why does he
want to escape, then? “I wanna stop
being harassed by police. Ever since
they killed my dad, they have been
on to me .” In June, the Daily Mail
reported that the DJ Tim Westwood –
whom the publication has often
used as a whipping boy for his
infl uential role in the London music
scene – was accused of glorifying
murder by hosting a “street gang”
on his YouTube freestyle platform.
The piece mentioned Bandokay
alongside his father’s name in the
headline. “They spoke about it like
I’m glamorising murders.”
Since late 2018 and the release
of Bad B on the Nizz , when they
covered their faces in their videos
like many young drill artists do to
avoid being recognised by members
of their communities and families,
to thwart surveillance from policeAccused of inciting
violence, and
censored by the
state, drill is the
most demonised
music in Britain.
Yet for rappers like
OFB, it’s their best
hope for a better
life. Ciaran Thapar
meets them
A t the nucleus
of the Broadwater Farm estate in
Tottenham, north London, is a road
that local young people call Front
Street. Words on a red love heart
stuck inside one shop window
read: “Justice for Mark Duggan ”,
referring to the 29-year-old who was
shot dead by police in August 2011,
prompting protests and then riots
across English cities.
Eight years on, Duggan’s 18-year-
old son, Kemani – trying to make it
as a drill rapper under the moniker
Bandokay – believes he is still
dealing with the fallout. “Whenever
[the police] see me, they stop me,”
he says. “I get what they’re trying to
do – they’re trying to take weapons.
But I know they purposely stop me
more than anyone else. They know
who I am. They know who my dad
is. So that’s why I’m trying to go
through music and do something
positive, so they don’t have nothing
to say about me.”
I wait to meet Duggan with hismanager, Isaac Densu, who also grew
up round here. He sits beside me on
a black metal railing as buses trundle
by. “After 35 years of darkness, there
can be light,” he says, referring to the
1985 riot that put the north London
estate’s name on the national media
map. Few stories since, particularly
after Duggan’s death, have managed
to redirect the violent narrative
of Broadwater Farm in the public
imagination. Yet Densu, 33, believes
things can change.
He speaks passionately of “a unity
among us. We’re known as one of the
most notorious estates in the UK. We
want to change that. Through music,
using the technology available to
us, we’re coming together to run
a business.”
Arriving with Bandokay is Double
Lz: the pair are members of OFB,
AKA Original Farm Boys, one of
the most talked-about drill acts,
thanks to their unapologetically
raw and dramatic collective style.
Bandokay raps in quick, aggressive
barks; Double Lz’s voice is deep and
pained. (The third member of the
band, SJ, who shot to popularity
with fans for his solo anthem
Youngest in Charge is not around
today.) “Every day it gets more
crazy,” Densu says, chuckling and
shaking his head. He is talking about
the messages he receives from artists
wanting to collaborate and record
label powerplayers keen to invest in
OFB’s ascent.
Business is booming, then,
but against the odds. “I could
give youngers jobs helping to run
the camera team, social media,
marketing. It’s just that we’re lacking
in resources.” Densu points across
the road at hollowed-out shopfronts.
“They were designed to house youth
enterprises, but nothing round here
has much value.” He says a youth
centre “would have been helpful as
a place to organise and train young
people who have nothing else to
do here”. A community centre was
instead sold off to a private company
and rebranded as a gym , “and the
council aren’t going to help us”.
UK drill music is characterised
by a thumping, swinging basslineSome lyrics are
going to provoke
people ... some
don’t care – some
may take it to
the bottom of
their heart
‘Music
is keeping
me out
of jail’
Bandokay and
Double Lz on
the Broadwater
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