Soul II Soul

Last night a Dj (set) saved my life

England, 1977: the nation marks the twenty-fifth anniversary of Queen Elizabeth II's coronation. Between February and June, the country celebrates the event with military parades, official banquets and bank holidays for workers across the Kingdom. The party also comes to Hornsey, a densely populated working-class neighbourhood in north London, where, on a lovely summer evening, the streets are closed to traffic and decked out with colourful bunting and long tables laid with whatever each family has prepared to share with the neighbours. Fourteen-year-old Trevor Beresford Romeo — ninth of ten children in a modest family of immigrants from the Caribbean island of Antigua — is given a hugely important task: he's the DJ for the night, in charge of playing records on the stereo system that's been hauled from the living room out onto the pavement in front of the house. Trevor doesn't know it yet, but that turntable spinning like a rollercoaster, the touch of his fingers on the glossy black vinyl, and the sight of his multi-ethnic neighbourhood dancing to the beat will soon become far more than just a teenage passion — a few years later, his would become one of the defining faces of English soul and dance music.

This is a story of good fortune, but also of determination, creativity and drive. We all run our own personal obstacle course to find our place in the world, and the feeling is universal — only the ways and conditions change depending on the context. For second-generation young immigrants like Trevor and his peers, England in the Seventies and Eighties posed the challenge of having to navigate between rigid family expectations and the indifference of British society towards them, a maze of complex socio-cultural situations that wasn't always easy to get through.

Try picturing the famous tennis court from "Pong", the video game that in those very years symbolised the dawn of the technological revolution for mass consumption.

On one side of the screen are the parents, who worked themselves to the bone to secure a future for their family while dealing with hardship and discrimination. In the BBC documentary "Jazzie B's 1980s: From Dole To Soul", Trevor recalls the sacrifices his parents had to make to buy their house on such meagre wages, because at the time of their arrival in England no one would rent housing to immigrants. Strict and disciplined, his parents had seen it all and had neither the time nor the opportunity to integrate into a society that was, in any case, far from welcoming. The pressure placed on the children was legitimately driven by the need to survive, but depending on one's sensibility, it could take the form of a forced, alienating discipline aimed at assimilation at all costs — something the youth of Asian descent knew all too well too, as depicted with raw realism in 1985's "My Beautiful Laundrette", the wonderful film by Stephen Frears starring Gordon Warnecke and a very young Daniel Day-Lewis. Either way, the culture that parents passed down to their children came from lands the latter had often never even visited.

On the other side of the virtual ping-pong court, English society allowed Trevor and his peers only a sidelong sort of inclusion. Anglo-Saxon culture was learned at school and experienced through newspapers and TV alongside all their peers, but acceptance in the world of work and representation in the media and social fabric was often close to non-existent; even just getting into any city nightclub — including the most eclectic ones, like the famous Blitz in Leicester Square, frequented by the new romantic crowd — was a feat whose success was never guaranteed.

To this must finally be added, as a backdrop, the complex economic situation of the period, with the policies of Margaret Thatcher's government having left millions of workers without jobs – and if native-born Britons are unemployed, imagine how much harder it is for those who arrived afterwards. The figures for the period put the unemployment rate for Afro-Caribbean men at around 50%, while women fared just slightly better, working as caretakers and domestic help. However you look at it, it's a bleak prospect for anyone who grew up as a British citizen watching a TV screen full of backcombed hair, boat trips with Duran Duran, and those first mobile phones the size of bricks. Understandably, the average teenager's desire for escape has never been stronger.

Sound system and funky dread culture: an Amalgamation of Music and Fashion

And it's in situations exactly like this that creativity comes to the rescue. They're called sound systems, and they are the main Jamaican import practised by Caribbean youth in the biggest urban centres – London, Manchester and Birmingham are teeming with vibrant micro-scenes in those years. Groups of kids who've got their hands on a turntable and a couple of speakers put together nights in old basements and empty buildings, strategically located out of earshot of the police and the neighbours.

Some sound systems are proudly underground, speaking only in patois and listening to reggae and dub with the same solemnity as a church service – for this, we recommend watching "Babylon", the precious 1980 cult film by Franco Rosso and Martin Stellman (the latter also one of the writers of the film adaptation of the Who's "Quadrophenia"). Other sound systems, on the other hand, take a more mixed approach in terms of who takes part and what gets played; together with a large group of friends, our Trevor, now officially rebranded Jazzie B, is leading one called Soul II Soul, a collective that gives soul to soul, cementing the intentions of a generation of young people eager to navigate between the legacy of reggae and dub and Western imports like hip-hop and r&b, in order to build a language that reflects their own reality.

These are tremendously electrifying years; through a constant drumbeat of landline phone calls and flyering (what you see here is a historical relic from the meeting in Bristol between Soul II Soul and the famous Wild Bunch), the audience willing to wait for each event grows year after year, and the numbers soon become considerable. One of the most memorable parties of the period for the group, however, is held under the giant Victorian arch of the then-derelict St Pancras station, right in the centre of London, and accounts speak of five thousand attendees: essentially, an early rave where, instead of techno and pills, the crowd swayed to sinuous Caribbean rhythms amid clouds of ganja. The man facilitating the operation at the time was one Judge Jules, a middle-class English lad working at a law firm who had "mysteriously" managed to get hold of the keys to the station gate. But that's not all – between one song and the next, Judge Jules also had the job of standing at the door whenever the inevitable police arrived, to recite squatters' rights and safeguard the safety of everyone there.

It shouldn't be forgotten that these were the years of parliamentary debate over the sus laws, the controversial anti-crime measures that gave police free rein to stop and arrest anyone who appeared even remotely suspicious, even while simply walking through a park in broad daylight. Needless to say, suspicion fell overwhelmingly on members of the Afro-Caribbean community, particularly anyone wearing dreadlocks, and the outcome was swift: a community making up just 6% of London's population accounted for 40% of all arrests. Soul II Soul's parties – and those of every other sound system in the country – were all too easy targets, and only a well-diversified internal community guaranteed their survival.

Ironically, it would be the hairstyles of the young people attending Soul II Soul nights that would provide the key to decoding an entirely new imagery.

It wasn't only the police who were suspicious of dreadlocks; parents breaking their backs to keep the household running hardly looked kindly on unemployed sons and daughters loafing about from morning to night, and hair braided in that style gave employers yet another reason not to hire them, even as porters. But Jazzie B and his friends had no intention of working as porters, and they found the ideal solution in a style nicknamed funky dread: shaved at the back and sides, with fairly fine, medium-to-short braids that could easily be hidden under the typical woolly hat. Then, once they'd slipped out the front door, the funky dreads would be styled into ponytails standing up like pineapple tops, or left to fall over the face.

When Jazzie B asked his graphic designer friend Derek Yates to create a logo capable of representing his collective, in the manner of Bob Marley's profile or the Rolling Stones' tongue, all Yates had to do was observe the wonderfully mixed crowd at Soul II Soul nights: there were white kids like himself, in bomber jackets and round mirrored sunglasses already seen on the faces of pop icons like Sting and Dave Stewart, and there were Jazzie B and his friends, in their oversized clothes with cascades of dreadlocks styled in the most elaborate ways. In its various forms and shades, the resulting design instantly became one of the most recognisable – and soon most marketable – images of the era, capturing the essence of a new Black & British identity:

It would, however, be wrong to view 1980s Britain solely through the lens of economic hardship and racial discrimination, because where there's hardship there's also opportunity – as the ever-sharp Pet Shop Boys sang during those years of rampant neo-capitalism in their hit "Opportunities". In an attempt to bring down unemployment and boost GDP, the Conservative government had in fact set up the Enterprise Allowance Scheme, a weekly payment of £40 available to anyone wanting to start their own business – Alan McGee used it too, to found the legendary Creation Records. Jazzie B didn't need telling twice, and as soon as he'd secured the government grant, he rented a stall in the famous Camden Town market. Here the collective finally found its footing, a fixed point after years of dodging the police while trying to get organised and make a bit of money. Far from being a simple shop, the Soul II Soul market stall soon became a socio-cultural hub the likes of which the city's Afro-Caribbean community had never seen before, a regular meeting point for all the young people in their circle. The sign literally read:

An Amalgamation of Music and Fashion

Inside, the group had created a microcosm where you could find clothing they designed and made themselves, shelves full of vinyl and turntables to play it on, posters on the walls advertising every event in the city, and even a specialist barber round the back to get your hair cut in the funky dread style. At the Notting Hill Carnival, Soul II Soul logo t-shirts kept flying off the shelves year after year, and before long the whole city was secretly plastered with that bespectacled face, signalling to young people how to recognise one another and where to meet.

As rave culture began to take hold nationally and the phenomenon made the evening news, Jazzie B found his ideal refuge at the Africa Centre, then located right in the heart of Covent Garden. Here, in the late 1980s, Soul II Soul events were held every Sunday night, drawing a multi-ethnic mix of people united by the desire to dance to good music and express their love and identity, far from outside social pressures and the deafening, frantic pace of acid house. A network was also formed here, from which would emerge the designers, musicians, photographers and publishers who would shape the city's artistic fabric for years to come.

The funny thing is that, through creating a logo, building audience loyalty, distributing their products far and wide, and networking with suppliers and creatives, Jazzie B had instinctively built a fully-fledged brand, the envy of any American counterpart – exactly the economic model the Tories in government were so keen to promote in those years. But while the latter couldn't see past those dreadlocks, so at odds with their idea of sober social propriety (let's not forget these were also the years of the infamous Section 28, which tried to erase the existence of the LGBT community), opportunities for Soul II Soul kept growing month after month.

From fashion to music: the re(e)volution of an atypical sound system

Soon Jazzie B's entrepreneurial spirit was no longer satisfied with just selling t-shirts; his ambition led him to do something essentially unprecedented in the world of London sound systems: writing, recording and releasing his own music. Any doubts about this impromptu venture evaporated the moment "Fairplay" appeared in 1988: it's not soul in the usual sense, and it's not dance music in the crudest sense of the term; it's not hip-hop and it's not r&b, it's not reggae and it's not house, and yet it masterfully sums up the entire feeling of Soul II Soul nights through a soft, enveloping sound, keyboard flourishes and the shape-shifting voice of Rose Windross, who wrote the lyrics. If the late-80s British scene is notoriously dominated by the thick, plasticky sounds of Stock, Aitken & Waterman-style chart pop, "Fairplay" already reaches well ahead into the more elegant, velvety 90s: call it UK soul. Success wasn't immediate, but the track took off on the scene – and how could it not, for a love song whose lyrics are interrupted midway by the collective's own spiritual manifesto?

Soul II Soul is the place where you should be

On Sunday night we’ll expect you and Jazzie B

‘Cause it’s all about expression

‘Cause it’s all about expression

Funky people express yourself tonight

But thinking ‘loud but that’s the same thing alive

‘Cause it’s all about expression

‘Cause it’s all about expression

Then comes the turn of “Feel Free”, a piano-driven moment with a steady, walking pace and an unforgettable performance by Do’reen, a vocalist whose rich, creamy timbre recalls a more freewheeling version of Carole King. Deals are soon struck between Soul II Soul and 10, a subsidiary label of the Virgin group under which – not by chance – the Loose Ends already featured, the celebrated trio who with “Hangin' On A String (Contemplating)” had topped the US R&B Chart in 1985 (the first Black British group in history to pull off such a feat). But while the sound of Loose Ends, however well crafted, was essentially an imitation of the American model, Soul II Soul stitched together a style that was at once elegant and street-smart, capturing all the contemporary energy of a youth on the make.

With “Keep On Movin'” in March 1989, Jazzie & co. hit the jackpot; the track rides an ultra-plush hip-hop beat looped for six minutes, while the song's structure winds between the liquid form of acid-jazz and repeated bursts of disco-mix. Rounding out the piece are languid lounge string arrangements, blankets of keyboards, and the deep voice of Caron Wheeler, who presides over everything with the serene, encouraging tone of an older sister. Backed by a showcase video that displays the collective's flashy look, the single version of the track, condensed to three and a half minutes, soon starts drawing attention everywhere and climbing the charts, eventually reaching the Top 5 in the UK and No. 11 on the Billboard Hot 100. These are the faces and sounds of young Caribbean Britons in the shadow of Buckingham Palace:

By the time “Club Classics Vol. One” arrived in April 1989, the Soul II Soul collective comprised a chaotic, eclectic cast of people: Simon Law on keyboards, Daddae on bass and guitars, DJs Aitch Bee and Jazzi Q on the turntables, the voices of Caron Wheeler (once a member of the celebrated reggae vocal trio Brown Sugar, and previously a backing singer for Specials, Elvis Costello and Japan), Rose Windross and Do’Reen Waddell, plus the studio and stage presence (among others) of Ellen Blair and Gill Morley on strings, Howie B and Arabella Rodriguez on the mixing desk, and Japanese acid-jazz musician Gota Yashiki (later a member of Simply Red). Alongside Jazzie B in the producer's chair sits a famous Bristolian, Nellee Hooper, formerly a member of the celebrated sound system Wild Bunch, from which Massive Attack would later emerge (Hooper produced their “Protection”, along with dozens of other famous names of the era, including Bjork's “Debut” and even Madonna's “Bedtime Stories”).

Massive Attack themselves make an appearance on “Feelin’ Free (Live rap)” as background guests whistling and commenting during the recording, in the style of the Beatles' “Yellow Submarine”, and in a sense “Club Classics Vol. One” carries within it certain elements of what critics would soon classify as trip-hop; the tracks where Jazzie B takes the mic – see also the driving pace of “Holdin’ On” or the intriguing, stylish blend of hip-hop beats and disco music brass on the other single “Jazzie’s Groove” – are in fact forerunners of a distinctly British way of narrating one's own urban present. Because Jazzie B is certainly no rapper, nor properly a spoken word poet, but his way of delivering words with emphasis, never hiding his own cadence, turns him into a kind of dancefloor preacher able to speak directly to the listener – something found in a more paranoid, existentialist guise in the style of Robert Del Naja and Tricky.

The pairing of “African Dance” and “Dance” occupies the central portion of the record; the first is a long instrumental meditation led by a flute section that, according to the liner notes, is meant to draw on the Kush tradition (an ancient kingdom of Nubia, in ancient Egypt) – in effect, the idealisation of an almost imaginary Africa, which through this Westernised, somewhat artificial stylisation invites the mind to daydream of postcard-exotic landscapes and images out of old history books (sonically it's not too far removed from what Jamiroquai would soon do with the didgeridoo). The second instead serves as a reprise, using the same rhythm but this time with Jazzie B's deep exhortations commanding the crowd on the dancefloor.

Do’reen's charismatic voice resurfaces on “Happiness (dub)”, a lean, loping track with melancholy drops of electric piano building a bridge between the electronic patchworks of Ultramarine and the shifting songwriting of Saint Etienne.

The fateful parting shot (call it what you will)

There is, however, one track that soon ends up stealing all the attention: it's “Back To Life”, a striking, almost entirely a cappella moment (the beat only briefly appears toward the end) with Caron Wheeler's seductive voice filling every available space, giving the album's economy a moment of almost sacred stillness. The refrain, though, is the bulletproof kind, and both Jazzie B and the record label are determined to rework the track into a more radio-friendly version. Among the various remixes and alternate versions, it's the retitled “Back To Life (However Do You Want Me)”, with its tight rhythm and the creative use of strings from the Reggae Philharmonic Orchestra, that ends up in heavy rotation just about everywhere, helped along by the now-famous video shot at night in Epping Forest, east of London, in an attempt to recreate the humidity of a rainforest – they might not even have meant it ironically, but the result is scandalously British to the core:

A month at the top of the UK chart in June of that year, a triumphant No. 4 in America and success across the rest of Europe too, “Back To Life (However Do You Want Me)” changed the lives of Jazzie B and co. forever, remaining to this day the collective's signature song and a consistently celebrated document of Anglo soul history (the video above has, at the time of writing, racked up nearly 50 million views). Helped in no small part by that success, “Club Classics Vol. One” went on to sell four million copies worldwide, spawning a sizeable following of devotees and celebratory reissues (for the American market, Virgin initially repackaged it under the title “Keep On Movin'”, adding the hit remixes).

There would be four more studio albums under the Soul II Soul name (along with interesting solo outings from Caron Wheeler and Rose Windross), but the collective's loose-knit nature meant Jazzie B alone would remain the only fixed member over time, joined on each occasion by an ever-changing cast of characters and voices (worth remembering at least the exuberant gospel-house belter Kym Mazelle). But unlike other, more theatrical collectives, such as Massive Attack themselves or the jazzier drift of Incognito (another beloved group hailing from north London), Jazzie's lone hand would end up repeating the formula a little too faithfully in terms of sound and composition. With the fifth instalment released in 1997, the Soul II Soul name stopped putting out new material, and it remains to this day the name under which Jazzie B and Caron Wheeler reunite on stage for special occasions. Jazzie, however, would go on to reinvent himself a thousand times over, producing for a variety of musicians, hosting a radio show, and continuing to DJ full-time. In 2008 he was made an OBE (Officer of the Order of the British Empire) and received an Ivor Novello Award.

In the months following the release of “Club Classics Vol. One” (and of another contemporary EU/UK sonic testament, “Raw Like Sushi” by Neneh Cherry), British soul would see the arrival of Omar, an eclectic musician best known for his debut single “There’s Nothing Like This“, and the far more famous Seal with “Crazy“. A decade later it would be Craig David finding renewed success across Europe and America, exporting UK garage culture to the masses, while today it's the grime bars of Wiley, Skepta and Stormzy reminding the world that Britain's Afro-Caribbean population has a sound, a face and an identity that's always in motion. Soul II Soul were a fundamental chapter in all this; today, just as then, listening to “Club Classics Vol. One” flows with the same warm, lovable energy, and the story of its protagonists is too good not to be told.

Bibliography:

“Jazzie B’s 1980s: From Dole To Soul”, documentario, Bbc (2016)

“Soul II Soul Documentary”, documentary, year and origin unknown

“Babylon”, film, Rosso/Stellman (1980)

"My Beautiful Laundrette", film, Frears (1985)

Bbc London Radio 94.9

JazzieB.co.uk

Solarradio.com

Wikipeda.org

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07/04/2019