Section:GDN 12 PaGe:7 Edition Date:190906 Edition:01 Zone: Sent at 5/9/2019 17:03 cYanmaGentaYellowblac

• The Guardian
  Friday 6 September 2019 7

teams and stop prosecutors using

videos as evidence in court , OFB

have soared to hood stardom. Like

all drill collectives starting out, they

garnered most of their popularity

via crisply fi lmed music videos

on YouTube, including Purge and

Reality. Their fi rst mixtape, Front

Street, is out at Halloween. The

group’s steep upward trajectory

shows how drill has become a source

of empowerment and income for

poor, black British teenage boys

facing a vacuum of prospective

career opportunities, unaddressed

trauma from impoverished home

lives and combat on the roads, and

the daily ritual of disproportionate

police attention.

OFB’s most acclaimed anthem

is called Ambush , in which the

three members go back-to-back

in shortened bursts of bars, as if

fi ghting for space over a pirate radio

set. It has enabled them to stand

out from the fi ercely competitive,

citywide ecosystem of drillers.

“Now, after that song, I’m seeing

everyone else come on that back-

to-back ting,” Bandokay says. “But

it’s calm because I understand

that’s the game – everyone learns

off  each other.”

In May, the song’s video, fi lmed

among the warren of walkways

and car parks of Broadwater Farm,

was removed from YouTube. It

had been watched more than 2m

times. This sort of obstacle became

commonplace for drill artists, as the

Metropolitan police pursued a vague

crackdown on videos they deem to

be inciting violence ( this summer,

YouTube announced it would no

longer be deleting drill videos, but

would continue to work with police

to “take action when needed”).

In response, under Densu’s

guidance, OFB edited out any

potentially provocative references

to specifi c places, individuals and

events before re-uploading the

video. In July, with no warning

or explanation, the group’s

own YouTube channel – a core

infrastructural tool for any drill

outfi t trying to succeed in the

industry – was deleted for a day

before being reinstated.

I ask the pair what they feel about

drill’s censorship. “I do get where

they’re coming from, so man just

has to lower it down, so everyone

can vibe to it and there aren’t any

complaints,” Bandokay replies.

“Obviously, some things are going to

provoke people. But it just depends

on how people take it. Some people

hear their name being called out,

and they don’t care. Some people

may take it to the bottom of their

heart.” One of the main drivers

of drill artists’ popularity is their

willingness to call out “opps”, or

rivals, entertaining fans tracing

the music’s social drama – and, to

its critics, prompting potentially

violent disputes. But like other

experimenters making reformed

iterations of the genre – dance-

themed such as Russ’s Gun Lean ,

polished and playful such as Digga

D’s No Diet or positive/spiritual,

such as the church-cum-rap group

Hope Dealers (a drill collective who

rap about being Christians)  – OFB are

keen to move away from that norm.

“We’re switching it up, doing clean

music and trying to get to the better

side of everything.”

This need to get to the “better

side” is crucial. Some drill artists

have been suspected and convicted

of violent crimes. But it should

not be assumed that the music

is dangerous in and of itself; nor

is its existence surprising as an

undeniable expression of the

truths of the artists’ lives, if we

acknowledge the dark conditions

from which it stems.

The stories told in drill lyrics

are often horrifi c: returning home

fi lthy after spending a week dealing

drugs in a faraway coastal town;

cleaning your enemy’s blood from

your mum’s kitchen knife with hot

water and bleach; feeling scared and

clumsy the fi rst time you fi re a gun;

suspecting that the hard pillow of

a prison cell bunk bed is giving you

acne. But they are also exactly what

makes the music so rich as a cultural

resource that ought to be mined, not

shunned or demonised by educators

and policymakers.

D rill is a uniquely

clear window through which to

see where cities and youth culture

are heading in austerity Britain,

where council and state school

budgets, police forces, and youth

services have been slashed. When

more than 4.5 million children

live in poverty, the temptation for

teenagers of getting quick money

in the illicit drug economy is

stronger than ever, and exploitative

“ county lines ” networks are leaving

vulnerable young people and their

families devastated.

School exclusions have risen ,

leading to the oversubscription

of pupil referral units (PRUs) and

other alternative provisions , which

already struggle to intercept the

conveyor belt to prison. These forces

are churning out disengaged young

people – disproportionately boys

of colour – who have little hope for

a bright future, despite living in the

fi fth largest economy in the world.

“I didn’t get to experience school

like normal people,” Bandokay says.

“Soon after I lost my dad, I started

secondary school, but I got kicked

out three months after because

I couldn’t control my behaviour.” He

subsequently attended several PRUs

and spent little time in a consistent

educational setting. I ask if he ever

felt properly supported by any

services throughout this period,

and he shakes his head. As a youth

worker, I have met countless boys

who have experienced similar

patterns of derailment from a young

age and who therefore struggle to

meet the pressurising demands of

their pastorally underresourced,

exams-focused academy schools.

“I’m still smart, though ... don’t

get it twisted!” Bandokay adds

with a smirk.

Does the pair understand why

people show concern about drill

lyrics? “People who are not used to

listening to this type of music think

we are talking mad,” Bandokay says.

“But if you actually know me, and

know what I’ve been through, then

you know where I’m coming from,

and you’ll be proud of me.” He looks

up over my shoulder to acknowledge

the arrival of his uncle, Marlon

Duggan – Mark’s younger brother –

who takes a seat on the wall next to

me. “People who understand this

music, like my uncle, are proud of

me. If it wasn’t for music, I don’t

know what I’d be doing. I don’t know

how I’d be earning my money. It’s

keeping me out of jail. I thank God

things are changing, you feel me?”

I say my goodbyes and stand up

to leave, passing a group of men

fl icking pound coins on to the

ground, trying to land them close

to a brick wall. Densu leads me out.

“A positive story can come out of

this,” he says, picking up his phone –

probably someone making an

inquiry about OFB.

Bandokay

on the

Broadwater

estate

A shot

from the

video

Purge

PHOTOGRAPHS TRISTAN BEJAWN; YOUTUBE

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