Reggae revisited

A tribute to the forgotten venues that helped shape black British culture.

Reggae Britannia, BBC Four's latest archive-heavy trawl through music history is notable for the absence of concrete setting. There are ironic settings: Tony Blackburn -- not a DJ known to covet dubplates -- strutting outside Broadcasting House in period attire and the leafy suburb of John Hassel (whose Hassel Recordings pressed much independent British reggae vinyl), complemented by Good Life-type footage of neurotic neighbours mowing their lawns. Then there are the gritty urban settings: the Coventry estates, around which the Specials started their ska revival, and to the west of them the perma-grey Birmingham streets where UB40 seem to have been filmed standing around smoking, studiously affecting the pose "Unemployed of Thatchers Britain™" for much of the early 1980s.

But what of the places in which British reggae musicians met, danced, smoked and drank in? The many makeshift venues, such as the shells of houses in Notting Hill where blues parties were held, and the licensed reggae clubs run by Caribbean émigrés and pioneering white promoters, dotted around the UK: Count Suckle Cue Club in 1960s Paddington, for example; or the Bouncing Ball in Peckham, run by Admiral Ken in the 1970s?

In many ways, Reggae Britannia's companion piece is Legacy in the Dust, the 2008 documentary that follows the same chronological arc (beginning with the release of Desmond Dekker's "Israelites" in the 1960s) and shares many of the same talking heads, such as Dennis Bovell, Bunny Lee and Don Letts. The key difference is, while Reggae Britannia looks at history from a mannered distance, Legacy... tells it better by zooming in on one venue in particular, the Four Aces on Dalston Lane in Hackney.

This multistoreyed, multi-roomed, Victorian-built hulk was labyrinthine -- a reggae centre as if concocted in the mind of Jorge Luis Borges -- and at different times had been home to myriad clubs, such as the Rambling Rose, Cubies, 007 and the Hideaway; as well as, in one large abandoned auditorium for a period of time, a car showroom. The bricolage of imagery, stock footage mixed with images that the film-maker Winstan Whitter recorded in the later years of acid house and jungle raves at the appropriately titled Labyrinth, reflects the venues three-and-a-half decades. Whitter, whose father was a barman and chef at the venue, highlights its role in the evolution of reggae into dance music, from ska, to rocksteady, to dub, to lovers, to dancehall and the evolution of jungle.

Legacy... may never be on general release due to copyright issues (there is the odd screening), but it nails the vital autonomous role that cultural spaces such as these played, necessarily out of sight and underground for a demographic under the cosh. Kingston-born Newton Dunbar, Four Aces' proprietor for over 33 years, today tells of National Front threats outside his door and being constantly "fitted up" by the police -- he was taken to court over 14 times but never convicted of anything.

Four Aces was just one venue that contributed greatly to the evolution of reggae music in Britain. The Bamboo Club, which was run by Tony Bullimore, later a round-the-world yachtsman, in Bristol; the Venn St Social Club in Huddersfield that welcomed Gregory Isaacs and John Holt; they have pretty much all disappeared, succumbing to the genre's inevitable slide out of fashion. But many were forcibly closed down. When the Four Aces closed it was in the sights of Hackney Council for years. Dunbar was handed a compulsory purchase order in 1998, to make way for a cinema that never came. After the theatre was demolished in 2007, Dalston Square, four Barratt Homes tower blocks were erected on the site next to the new Dalston Junction station. Provocatively and without consent, one was named Dunbar Tower.

"Until black people in England can achieve representative influence in national institutions, and a fair amount of control over their own cultural institutions -- especially the reggae industry -- they will remain isolated in sub-standard worlds," reflected the African-American scholar Henry Louis Gates Jr in 1976 in his essay "Black London", based on a London visit while black-run clubs were common in comparison to today, when Form 696, introduced by the Met a few years ago, has made it difficult for grime and R'n'B acts even to perform or DJ at venues without intrusive checks being made. He was pessimistic about reggae's potential for black British youth even at its height. "Reggae is the channel for urging forth an inevitable and drastic social change," he wrote, before adding a proviso: "...soon."

Reggae Britannia is on BBC Four from Friday 11 February.

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Eighty pages in to Age of Anger, I still had no idea what it was about

When Pankaj Mishra describes a “postmodern collage rather than a coherent doctrine”, he inadvertently summarises his own book.

Most books arrive on the market dragging a comet tail of context: the press release, the blurb on the back, the comparison with another book that sold well (sometimes this is baked into the title, as with a spate of novels in which grown women were recast as “girls”, variously gone, or on the train, or with dragon tattoos or pearl earrings). Before you even start reading, you know pretty much what you will get.

So I was particularly disconcerted to reach page 80 of Pankaj Mishra’s Age of Anger and realise that I didn’t really know what it was about. The prologue starts with a recap of the tyrannical career of the Italian poet Gabriele D’Annunzio, namechecks The Communist Manifesto, describes how Europeans were enthralled by Napoleon’s “quasi-autistic machismo”, links this to the “great euphoria” experienced in 1914, mentions that Eugene Onegin “wears a tony ‘Bolívar’ hat”, then dwells on Rimbaud’s belief that not washing made him a better writer, before returning to D’Annunzio to conclude that his life “crystallised many themes of our own global ferment as well as those of his spiritually agitated epoch”.

Psychologists have demonstrated that the maximum number of things that a human can hold in their brain is about seven. The prologue is titled “Forgotten Conjunctures”. I might know why they have been forgotten.

Two pages later, Mishra is at it again. How’s this for a paragraph?

After all, Maxim Gorky, the Bolshevik, Muhammad Iqbal, the poet-advocate of “pure” Islam, Martin Buber, the exponent of the “New Jew”, and Lu Xun, the campaigner for a “New Life” in China, as well as D’Annunzio, were all devotees of Nietzsche. Asian anti-imperialists and American robber barons borrowed equally eagerly from the 19th-century polymath Herbert Spencer, the first truly global thinker – who, after reading Darwin, coined the term “survival of the fittest”. Hitler revered Atatürk (literally “the father of the Turks”) as his guru; Lenin and Gramsci were keen on Taylorism, or “Americanism”; American New Dealers later borrowed from Mussolini’s “corporatism”.

This continues throughout. The dizzying whirl of names began to remind me of Wendy Cope’s “Waste Land Limericks”: “No water. Dry rocks and dry throats/Then thunder, a shower of quotes/From the Sanskrit and Dante./Da. Damyata. Shantih./I hope you’ll make sense of the notes.”

The trouble comes because Mishra has set himself an enormous subject: explaining why the modern world, from London to Mumbai and Mosul, is like it is. But the risk of writing about everything is that one can end up writing about nothing. (Hang on, I think I might be echoing someone here. Perhaps this prose style is contagious. As Nietzsche probably wrote.) Too often, the sheer mass of Mishra’s reading list obscures the narrative connective tissue that should make sense of his disparate examples.

By the halfway point, wondering if I was just too thick to understand it, I did something I don’t normally do and read some other reviews. One recorded approvingly that Mishra’s “vision is . . . resistant to categorisation”. That feels like Reviewer Code to me.

His central thesis is that the current “age of anger” – demonstrated by the rise of Islamic State and right-wing nationalism across Europe and the US – is best understood by looking at the 18th century. Mishra invokes the concept of “ressentiment”, or projecting resentment on to an external enemy; and the emergence of the “clash of civilisations” narrative, once used to justify imperialism (“We’re bringing order to the natives”) and now used to turn Islamic extremism from a political challenge into an existential threat to the West.

It is on the latter subject that Mishra is most readable. He grew up in “semi-rural India” and now lives between London and Shimla; his prose hums with energy when he feels that he is writing against a dominant paradigm. His skirmish with Niall Ferguson over the latter’s Civilisation: the West and the Rest in the London Review of Books in 2011 was highly enjoyable, and there are echoes of that fire here. For centuries, the West has presumed to impose a narrative on the developing world. Some of its current anxiety and its flirtation with white nationalism springs from the other half of the globe talking back.

On the subject of half of us getting a raw deal, this is unequivocally a history of men. We read about Flaubert and Baudelaire “spinning dreams of virility”, Gorky’s attachment to the idea of a “New Man” and the cultural anxieties of (male) terrorists. Poor Madame de Staël sometimes seems like the only woman who ever wrote a book.

And yet, in a book devoted to unpicking hidden connections, the role of masculinity in rage and violence is merely noted again and again without being explored. “Many intelligent young men . . . were breaking their heads against the prison walls of their societies” in the 19th century, we learn. Might it not be interesting to ask whether their mothers, sisters and daughters were doing the same? And if not, why?

Mishra ends with the present, an atomised, alienated world of social media and Kim Kardashian. Isis, we are told, “offers a postmodern collage rather than a coherent doctrine”. That is also a good description of this book. 

Helen Lewis is deputy editor of the New Statesman. She has presented BBC Radio 4’s Week in Westminster and is a regular panellist on BBC1’s Sunday Politics.

This article first appeared in the 19 January 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The Trump era