Make It Funky for Me: Black British Women’s Explorations of Britishness, Womanhood, and Artistry Through 2000s Music

ABSTRACT

2000s Britain was an interesting and expansive time musically for Black Britain (Bradley 2013), as underground music gained traction in mainstream spaces. This article examines the context in which Black British women were able to cross over into the British mainstream and explores how U.K. garage and U.K. funky artists expressed their creativity, autonomy, womanhood, Blackness, and Britishness. Female U.K. garage artists set a precedent in the creation of “new” diverse identities for Black British women artists, but artists in both underground and mainstream music scenes were also forced to contend with restrictive and harmful misogynoir.

KEYWORDS:

• Black British music
• Black British women
• Black Britishness
• Cool Britannia
• U.K. funky
• U.K. garage

Introduction

In late 2000, I was catching up with a classmate that I hadn’t seen in almost a decade¹. Black music channel MTV Base was on television in the background. Whilst immersed in conversation, a Black girl group came on singing an R&B song. When the song transitioned into U.K. garage, it caught our attention, and then my friend said, “Hold on! That’s Sabrina!” Sabrina Washington, member of girl group Mis-Teeq, also attended our school. With my own personal desires to sing professionally, I watched the music video more intently, taking in the slick visuals (especially considering they were recognizable, homegrown British artists), wondering how they managed to get on MTV Base, and how they were so polished.

Two decades later, Black British women and their contribution to British music, and Black British music, remains an under-researched area of study. Pioneering work on women in lovers’ rock (Palmer, “LADIES”; Palmer, “Hopelessly”), hip hop, and grime (Bushay; Scott), and jungle music (Toppin) are beginning to fill this gap. This article contributes to filling the gap with explorations into Black British women in British genres U.K. garage (UKG) and U.K. funky/funky house² (funky) at the height of their popularity, the late 1990s to early 2000s (Bradley; Stone and Turner) and 2006–2010 (Muggs, “Guide”; Odunlami), respectively. Focusing on Ms. Dynamite and Mis-Teeq (UKG), and Princess Nyah, KG, and Katie Pearl (funky),³ this article opens a dialogue about the ways in which Black British women artists in Britain presented and represented themselves, womanhood, artistry, Blackness, and Britishness by examining their personal narratives as they appear on sites and in publications accessed through Rock’s Backpages and Gale General OneFile databases, as well as MixMag, Huffington Post, and Gal-Dem.

I argue that UKG acts were crucial in seeding authentically diverse identities of Black British women artists in the British mainstream. This authenticity was possible owing to their rootedness in underground scenes that enabled Black British women artists to explore and draw upon creativity, autonomy, and entrepreneurship, as well as masculinity, femininity, and sexuality, thus setting the benchmark for future acts. I also argue that, paradoxically, Black British women were hindered from expressing these very same dimensions (i.e. their creativity, autonomy, womanhood, Blackness, and Britishness) in the underground funky scene, in particular, which ultimately delivered a death blow for that scene. Outlining the teleological development of these genres, I demonstrate how, whilst men had key positions in these scenes, women, particularly Black British women, were the scenes’ drivers. In addition, the article explores the challenges of misogynoir identified by women navigating the music industry in relation to UKG and funky. Given the dearth of literature relating to U.K. garage and U.K. funky more generally, I turn instead to work on Black British music in the 1990s in order to establish the climate and context for the emergence of 2000s genres.

Cool Britannia? I’m a ’90s girl!⁴

In 1997, following a change in government to “New Labour” under Prime Minister Tony Blair, Britain was rebranded on the global stage, with the foregrounding of British music, art, sport, fashion, and culture ushering in a period of “Cool Britannia.” The label promised social mobility as well as “psychedelia and euphoria” (Arday 8). Arday highlights that this period was presented as, and is remembered in direct reference to, swinging sixties Britain, as encapsulated by Vanity Fair’s March 1997 headline “London Swings! Again!” (Arday 1). However, for minoritized groups, the idea and reality of the “Cool Britannia” narrative did not align with lived experience (Arday; Saha).

Black British music, fashion, art, and culture was, for the most part, not included in “Cool Britannia’s” narrative. Nevertheless, organization around Black music in Britain gained a parallel traction in the 1990s, prioritizing visibility and recognition. The Music of Black Origin (MOBO) awards were launched by Kanya King CBE in 1996 in response to the systemic erasure of Black musicians and music. For example, the Brit Awards, launched in October 1977, did not include any categories heavily influenced by Black music or Black sonic aesthetics until 1996 (Wroe). The British R&B Association (BRABA) formed in 1995 (Pride), successfully achieving their objective of securing an R&B chart in Britain (i.e. inclusion in trade publications, magazines, and radio broadcasts) to bring visibility to R&B not making it into the U.K. top 40 chart. In this decade, Britain started following the U.S. business model of Black music divisions at record labels (Odell), employing Black people to manage precarious divisions. Like the U.S. model, these departments experienced a lack of commitment from the parent label, including apprehension and anxiety regarding Black representation and foregrounding Black artists (Negus 86). Despite these advancements, Pride notes that labels assumed Black British artists’ audience was the American market, not “Cool Britannia.”

Arday highlights that Black artists during the mid to late 1990s were found in interracial bands, with Mel B from the global pop supergroup the Spice Girls and Skin from Skunk Anansie as prime examples. The music made by these bands was geared toward to the British mainstream, or rock audience, and aligned with the “Cool Britannia” narrative. Another Level’s Wayne Williams, All Saints’ Shaznay Lewis, the Sugarbabes’ Keisha Buchanan, Lighthouse Family’s Tunde Baiyew, and M People’s Heather Small and Shovell, are other examples of Black people in British pop bands aimed at the mainstream British music market of the decade. Black majority bands and artists marketed toward the mainstream included Dina Carroll, Des’ree, Michelle Gayle, Seal, Gabrielle, Eternal, Cleopatra, and Beverly Knight, all of whom, according to Dionne St. Hill, former music editor of The Voice (Britain’s leading Black newspaper, but not Black-owned), “are not what Black people listen to … they do not represent the underground” (qtd. in Odell).

Despite being geared toward the mainstream, these Black artists did not fit into the “Cool Britannia” narrative, or into the music industry structures that preceded that moment in 1997. As a result, their success often went unrecognized, even when they outsold white artists: for example, Eternal outsold indie group Blur four to one in 1995 and yet Blur won the Brit Award for best newcomer (Odell). At the same time, these artists were not representative of what St. Hill (qtd. in Odell) terms the “underground,” meaning that their music was rarely played on stations with significant Black listenership such as KISS FM,⁵ Choice FM,⁶ or numerous pirate

stations. Mainstream acts with a more intentional “urban” soul or R&B flavor, formed after labels began to replicate the U.S. Black division/department mode, included Ultimate Kaos, Mark Morrison, Mn8, Jamelia, Damage, Kele Le Roc, Shola Ama, and the Honeyz. These “urban acts” also did not fit the “Cool Britannia” narrative, were often considered inferior to African-American acts (Johnson), and regarded as competition by labels targeting American audiences (Pride). If these “urban” acts were played on stations with Black listenership, they would be in the minority compared to other music such as reggae dancehall, African American hip-hop, and R&B.

For young Black Britons in the 1990s, there were very few Black British people in mainstream music or media that were legible as either authentic or as having roots in the underground. This meant that many young Black Britons developed a sense of self through music and culture, through their heritage or through looking to people from the diaspora, who were relatable despite the differences and multiplicities in Black ancestral roots (T. Reynolds; Gilroy, Black Atlantic; Gilroy “It’s a Family”; Beckford). Identity was also rooted in region for Black Britons, connected to major U.K. towns and cities (Hesse), and with location playing a significant role in the construction and measurement of Blackness (Gilroy, “It’s a Family”; Codrington; Back; Alexander). Identity formation was eroded by the persistent question, posed in various ways, “Where are you from?” (Arday 23). DJ and garage producer Viscid (a pseudonym) exemplifies this point: “And being Black as well and … buying Black music but not seeing it on TV very young … is when you started noticing certain things, very young, you know.”

Arday states, in relation to music choice and the measurement of Blackness in Britain, “What begins to be captured is this narrative growing up is effectively a survival toolkit for how to navigate residence within a racist society that often places people of color on the peripheries of opportunity, equality and equity” (11). Whilst Arday outlines “integration always resembled assimilation” (38) to the “Cool Britannia” narrative, Black people were not expected to like commercial music such as Blur or Oasis without risk of being ridiculed or in-authenticated for stepping outside of the prescribed norms of “Blackness” (Gunter; Arday).

Underground Heat … Sweet and Unique⁷

The narrative above briefly outlines the terrain of young Black Britons, mainstream music, Black British music organizing, and the wider “Cool Britannia” context in the British public sphere in the 1990s. It does not consider the underground that St. Hill (qtd. in Odell) alludes to, including the British dance music industry and soundsystem culture, which was prevalent during the 1990s and more resonant with Black British musical tastes. This section highlights how the underground operates differently from the mainstream, before considering how racial and gendered components shape the experiences of Black British women therein.

Hesmondhalgh argues that the prioritization of experience in dance music—rather than the mainstream approach of prioritizing star/artist—is rooted in British raving culture, particularly acid house (238). He highlights that independent (decentralized) companies and independent record shops were integral to the operationalization of dance’s collectivist worldview to music-making and consumption, and the prioritization of music experience. For example, dance record shops organize tracks according to genre and sub genres, rather than artists or producers. Decentering artists may add to the exclusivity or nicheness of a following or particular track, as exemplified by coveted white label records or music makers operating under pseudonyms (Hesmondhalgh). Consequently, consumers rely on exclusive knowledge to look for the name of the company issuing the record for an indication of what the record may sound like, thus prioritizing the label or school of thought and/or aesthetic (Hesmondhalgh 239). Significantly, vocals (rather than artists) are “commissioned,” and this is where Black women in dance music are predominantly found.

Soundsystem culture also has a collectivist worldview (Bradley 313). A collective core creates and then disseminates the music, and a wider fan base (that constitutes part of the wider collective) consumes the music inside the dance, on pirate radio and, in the specific case of Soul II Soul (as exemplars of a prominent British soundsystem that achieved mainstream traction), through buying their music and merchandise from specialist shops (Bradley). A key point is that the British soundsystem culture in the mainstream was responsive to and in dialogue with what was happening underground. Soundsystem culture, in turn, drew upon the exclusivity and nicheness of dubplates of rare and unique tracks, giving DJs of the sound, and the sound itself, heightened notoriety, loyalty, and engagement. A route from mainstream to underground can therefore be mapped backwards: from Soul II Soul’s roots in the underground, to the underground’s contingency on nicheness and exclusivity to foster a sense of collectivism, insider identity, and belonging.

Like dance music, soundsystem culture does not prioritize individual artists, although founding members or DJs (selectors) of a soundsystem may be known for having or playing “tunes” (Nelson, qtd. in Bradley 305). The soundsystem itself is the central focus for the fanbase to know what “vibe” or style will be brought to the dance they play. In the exceptional case of Soul II Soul, who made their own music (i.e. full songs with recognizable song structures), vocalists were interchangeable, as their contribution formed part of the collective vibe or style. For vocalists, DJs (selectors), or MCs (deejays) in a soundsystem, there is more potential for visibility than in dance music, owing to ways in which an approach to riddim and voicing can be distinctive and authorial (Manuel and Marshall). This is prevalent in the soundsystem sensibility toward authority and ownership: people can become known for their specific contribution in the different areas of soundsystem culture (e.g. dancer, fashion/style, MC, DJ, producer, socialite). Nonetheless, Black women tend to be located as vocalists and are typically associated with specific genres (e.g. lovers’ rock) (Palmer, “LADIES”).

While the decentralized and collectivist character of these soundsystem scenes is core to their identity, it also meant Black women were not stand-alone stars or artists and could, therefore, be rotated in and out as and when needed. This structure is unfavorable to Black women who can find themselves exploited, with little visibility, or recourse for rights and royalties (Joseph). Paradoxically, however, the significance of the star/artist in mainstream music models has resulted in some Black women being “funneled” into the star/artist position if they transition into the British mainstream. Having discussed the nuances of the underground Black British music scenes that were integral to the establishment of UKG and funky, I turn to these two genres in more detail and the ways they have positioned Black British women predominantly as vocalists.

Garage and 2-Step

Bradley identifies UKG (spanning from the late 1990s to early 2000s) as a British genre of music from which multiple new variants and genres were spawned. However, UKG has long, extensive roots and routes. Garage is a U.S. import, with its name originating from Manhattan’s Paradise Garage, a venue known for playing soulful house music (S. Reynolds; Lawton; Bradley). The sound itself was heavily influenced by jazz elements, “real” instruments, and the use of the hi-hat (Brewster and Broughton 468), as well as disco, soul, gospel, and vocal melodies traceable to the African-American Baptist church (O’Hagan).

According to Brewster and Broughton, the roots of UKG in Britain are traceable as early as 1991 (468). Sterns in Hastings was a club playing diverse electronic music where some of the pioneering UKG DJs played, including Dreem Team member Mikee B, DJ Harvey, and Justin Berkmann who founded Ministry of Sound. The slow refinement process that led to UKG’s Sonic Footprint Timestamp (SFT; see Charles, “MDA”) was a result of DJs and partygoers’ preference for heavier basslines, brighter and sharper highs, and increased percussiveness in comparison to the original U.S. sound. British clubbers preferred a faster tempo which raised the pitch of vocals on records, and, therefore, DJs would play instrumental B sides to avoid “chipmunk” vocals.

Sonically, UKG, aka speed garage, is cyclical in nature with a “four-to-the-floor” rhythm pattern.⁸ It is melodic and is designed to be danced to. When U.K. producers refined the sound, prioritizing danceability, UKG was rejected by purists who felt the changes were a bastardization of U.S. soulful house (and scene). These earliest forms of UKG were shut out of British house clubbing scenes, and often relegated to the second room of jungle raves and given occasional exposure on pirate radio (Lawton). This “stonewalling” of the new sound meant that, with nowhere for UKG DJs to play on the most popular clubbing nights (i.e. Thursday to Saturday nights), Sundays, particularly Sunday mornings, were an option that allowed the playing of UKG and simultaneously extended clubbers’ Saturday night out. In 1993, the Elephant and Castle pub, strategically a short distance from South London’s Ministry of Sound, ran a Happy Days after-hours to attract clubbers not ready to go home after other clubs closed (Lawton; O’Hagan). As the notoriety and scale of the event grew, it moved to other South London locations, including the Frog and Nightgown Pub in Old Kent Road and, later, the Arches in Southwark in 1995 (Brewster and Broughton 469–70).

However, despite being shut out of the British house scene, one reason for the “exponential” growth and survival of UKG (in the underground) was women’s attraction to the sound. UKG’s emergence was welcomed by women who loved clubbing, singing, and dancing, and who had abandoned the increasingly sterile, atmospheric, and less melodic jungle and drum and bass scenes which were less accommodating to their preferences (S. Reynolds; Toppin). Garage scenester and vocal scientist Bat (S. Reynolds 569), producer Wookie (Bradley 364), and producer and DJ Viscid outline the ways that women were driven away by the harsh sounds. Simultaneously, MC Harvey (Lawton), DJ Target (53), Wookie (Bradley 364), and DJ Spoony (Brewster and Broughton 470) recall the ways that women were central to attracting men into the UKG scene. Both the sound and the dress were influential in mass movement toward the garage scene, as Gilbert highlights: “[N]ot only were highly sexualized clothing styles (heels, tight dresses, thongs) de rigueur for women, but a strict aspirational dress code—no sportswear, nothing that looked like street clothes or clothes you might actually dance in—was enforced on both sexes in the clubs” (177). Women’s musical preferences and attempts to appeal to women drove the scene forward. However, UKG, in its first iteration as speed garage, generally did not appeal to Black audiences (Lawton).

From 1998 onwards, the UKG sound evolved from speed garage into its second iteration as 2-step, the result of Black producers altering the sound to suit their own sonic sensibilities. Viscid’s approach to making garage was “just doing everything I learnt in hip hop. … I’m just doing it at 133 bpm. … it needs a b-line—that’s the reggae part and the beats are hip hop—but the song is R&B; but I’m just doing it faster and more jazzy—like New Jack Swing kinda. That’s how I looked at it. New Jack Swing with a b-line.”

2-Step included the then contemporary U.S. import of Timbaland’s twitchy R&B beats (S. Reynolds 557), skippy kicks, syncopation/offbeatness, heavy basslines, and broken beats. Bradley asserts that this shift in rhythmic pattern included elements of hip hop, rap, soul, reggae, reggae dancehall, jungle, and drum and bass. And Gilbert writes that 2-step was an “astonishing innovation, deploying the rhythmic and timbral techniques of jungle to produce a very different soundscape, characterised by surprising but easily danceable rhythms, a strong melodic sense and a use of heady bass and sub-bass” (176). According to Simon Reynolds, “by 2000 the scene plunges into Phase Two of its merger of R&B with house; generating its own songs and fine vocalists” (562, emphasis added).

Unlike speed garage, 2-step connected to Black audiences, both male and female. MCs had bars (lyrics/raps), but used them differently when compared to jungle (a music genre that held appeal for Black audiences): they were more phrase-like, focusing on clarity of voice and diction (Target). In comparison to jungle, “The tempo was slower, around 130-135 bpm, it was more female-vocal led but still had hints of ragga, soul and sometimes even hip hop” (Target 57–58). 2-step found the balance between “hard” masculine elements (such as heavy penetrating bass) and a “feminine sound” (such as melody, melisma, and “runs”). Viscid witnessed the scene: “It took until ’99 where I could actually see it building because you know, well 98–98 it started. It started when the U.K. garage came in. This is U.K. producers and U.K. artists that people are actually buying into. I like this scene; they’re accepting their own.”

UKG and Black British Women

Throughout UKG’s trajectory, the predominance of the various roles in the scene (i.e. DJs, producers, MCs, vocalists, rappers) shifted in dialogue with clubbers, who act as the “litmus test” for engagement and who express their approval through singing and dancing, thus forming a key part in the collectivist soundsystem ecology. UKG evolved from DJs appealing to clubbers’ tastes, to producers making music to clubbers’ tastes, to MCs hosting and enhancing the experience through community involvement with phrases and instruction, to vocalists (usually women) encouraging singing along, and finally, to rappers who the clubbers engage with through observation and listening to storytelling. First stabilized as UKG, the teleological development of the genre birthed various iterations along the way, including dubstep, bassline, and grime, depending on which core role was prioritized. The distribution of people around these core roles in UKG uncovers where people of different intersections are generally situated (e.g. UKG music producers are generally male; 2-step MCs and producers are predominantly Black and male etc.). Iterations that feature MCs or vocalists/singers, including speed garage and 2-step, offered greater opportunity for Black British women to be visible.

Whilst Black people’s contributions were erased from the wider “Cool Britannia” narrative, the roles of MC, singer, and vocalist afforded Black British women a degree of agency in the context of UKG, albeit a decentered agency, owing to the collectivist character of the underground as discussed above. The commercial music business capitalized on the lucrative underground 2-step movement and economy, and major labels signed numerous acts. Songs crossed over to the mainstream and were televised on B.B.C.’s now defunct Top of the Pops (Lawton). Mainstream visibility provided the opportunity for “selected” Black British women to become the “star”/artist, positioning them at the center of 2-step in the mainstream in ways that the conventional “Cool Britannia” narrative and the commercial music industry hadn’t allowed previously. The artists Mis-Teeq and Ms. Dynamite exemplify the new visibility and celebration of Black British Women that UKG afforded.

Garage Girls⁹: Mis-Teeq and Ms. Dynamite

The “first ladies of garage” (Black), Mis-Teeq, comprised four members: Sabrina Washington (lead vocalist), Alesha Dixon (MC), Su-Elise Nash, and Zena McNally, who left after the release of the first single “Why” in 2000. Their debut album, Lickin’ on Both Sides (Telstar), was released in 2000. The album contained several U.K. chart hit singles and had both an R&B and 2-step sound. Their Britishness was heralded in the underground scene. For their first official live performance at Scala (nightclub), the MC introduced them to the crowd, “They’re talented, they’re beautiful and—most important—they’re British” (Horan, “UK”). In the press, they were forthright about their British identity and their desire to convey a “positive message” (Dixon, qtd. in Marlow; Dixon qtd. in Black). Washington asserted that their music has a distinctive British feel, and they have a distinctively British look (qtd. in Desmond). As Dixon put it, “It’s great being female faces of UK garage because it gives us an identity” (qtd. in Black).

As pioneers of a new image and sound in the British public domain, messages articulating Britishness and the non-threatening nature of their music had an urgency owing to exclusionary narratives around what constitutes Britishness (Arday) and wider narratives conflating Black music with gangsta rap (Marlow; Charles, “Hallowed”). The group asserted their autonomy and business acumen as women, stating they wrote their own material (Robinson; Simpson), which featured party lyrics and songs about relationships described as “sexy and fun” (Washington, qtd. in Desmond). They prioritized having British producers on their debut album (Black), and Nash explained that Mis-Teeq had a hands-on role in terms of budgeting and schedule management, as well as ensuring payment was received before performances (Donovan; Garratt). Mis-Teeq presented as distinctively savvy Black British women in control of their image, artistry, and business. The mainstream press used reference points outside of Black Britishness (notably African-Americanness and white Englishness) to reach a wider public. They were often called Britain’s answer to Destiny’s Child since both were Black girl groups of equivalent age with transitions from four members to three. Dixon’s relationship with MC Harvey from the So Solid Crew led to their being dubbed the “Posh & Becks of Garage” (Donovan), a reference to “Posh” Spice Girl Victoria Beckham and her husband “Becks,” England footballer David Beckham.

Importantly, unlike their ’90s predecessors (Seal, Gabrielle, Eternal, etc.), Mis-Teeq read as authentic and were able to maintain underground credibility as they crossed into the mainstream because they were already connected to the 2-step garage scene, having raved and performed there. Their musical style, their image, and their presentation to the mainstream were authentic reflections of the scene. They dressed and were styled like their contemporaries, with sleek hair and designer garb. All three women in the group have Jamaican ancestry and connections to authentic soundsystem culture, business, the nighttime economies, and/or performing arts. Mis-Teeq incorporated elements of underground Jamaican sonic sensibilities in their music and performance, alongside R&B and 2-step. Significantly, Dixon, group MC, brought Jamaican patois into their musical delivery. In contrast to her feminine and slight appearance, she masculinized her delivery by lowering her pitch and incorporating patois, enunciation, and projection to assert the seriousness of her lyrical delivery. While this delivery style was unusual in the mainstream, it was a result of practices and belief systems within the underground, where female MCs need to assert their position as strong lyricists, equivalent to the male MCs that are considered the benchmark (Charles, “Hallowed”; May; Desmond).

As a successful commercial group, they received Best U.K. Act at the 2001 Garage Awards, and Best Garage Act at the 2002 MOBO awards. They successfully penetrated the American market with the track “Scandalous” on their second (and last) album, Eye Candy (Polydor) in 2005, before disbanding. Mis-Teeq’s assertion of Black Britishness and womanhood between 2000 and 2005 was important in terms of opening the narrative that young Black British women could be beautiful and sexy without being fetishized, objectified, or deviant. They could create and produce high quality, relevant music and visuals that were aspirational, included their heritage, represented their peers in the underground, and spoke to the mainstream and young girls (Francois; Robinson; Katsha). The trio, each having slightly different roles in the group, were able to express a range of Black womanhood and femininity from polished sultry vocals to powerful masculinized patois; fun and sexy playfulness; beauty and aspirational relatability; autonomy and business acumen; as well as British belonging.

Niomi McLean-Daley MBE, aka Ms. Dynamite, first appeared on DJ Sticky’s 2001 track “Booo!” an underground success that brought her mainstream attention when it charted at #12. Her contribution was a self-penned lyrical commentary about things that happen in a club. Her lyrical style was distinctive, with a masculinized flow and lowered pitch that incorporated Jamaican patois, enunciation, and projection, showcasing her strong lyrical dexterity and ability. Unlike Dixon, she explicitly asserts her lyrical prowess, comparing her lyrical flow to flying bullets that send men scattering to safety, being hit and/or killed by her lyrics: “Lyrical shot get pop bwoy spread!” (“Booo!” 2001). After this track’s success, Ms. Dynamite began working on her album A Little Deeper (Polydor/Interscope, (2002). In quick succession she won the coveted Mercury Prize (2002), three MOBO awards (2003), a Garage award (2002), and two Brit awards (2003), and then became pregnant. For the album, she worked with international producers, from Miami to Sweden to Jamaica (Langton), and received a lot of media attention in a very short space of time.

In the press and in media appearances, Ms. Dynamite did not assert her Britishness as a distinctive feature. However, she spoke about the album content and social activism, using her public platform to articulate Black British womanhood in powerful ways. It is evident that she was intentional about the messages that she wanted to convey to the wider public. Through her music, she spoke to women about self-love and self-respect. She addressed the perils of street life (associated with underground scenes) and wider British culture. She demonstrated against the Iraq war in 2003, challenged MPs about being disconnected to the communities they “serve,” spoke openly about gun crime, and about racism in both football and school curriculums. At moments where she had significant attention on her, such as at awards shows, she delivered uplifting and positive messages about topics ranging from conspicuous consumption and capitalism to objectification of women. At the 2002 MOBO Awards, she proclaimed, “To all my strong sisters, you don’t have to take off your clothes. You don’t need to have a big bum and have breasts—I ain’t got none of that. It’s what’s in your mind” (Horan, “Ms”).

She also spoke about the lack of understanding about and problematic representation of Britain’s own Black citizens: highlighting the disparity between public perceptions about Blackness and lived realities of the early 2000s, Ms. Dynamite explained, “The UK media don’t understand Black culture, and people in general don’t either. All they get to see is that stupid Black family on Eastenders” (qtd. in Sawyer and Allardice 41). She used her platform to critique the music industry and its relationship to Black talent, stating it is consistently overlooked: “For urban acts, we are not just seen and spotted on the streets and go on pop shows or whatever. We work hard and we don’t usually get this kind of acknowledgment” (qtd. in Burrell 2003).

Her approach—in lyrics, actions, and through the press—can be understood as rooted in three key paths: music (unplanned), academic (planned but not taken), and motherhood (taken). Ms. Dynamite did not plan to get into the music industry. Aged seventeen, she “went out to a birthday party, had a bit to drink and decided to get on the mic. I was taking the piss, just having fun and that was that. Totally forgotten about. But then a couple of months later an old family friend who was starting a garage radio station said ‘I heard you’re an MC’” (qtd. in Arkell and Simpson). She was offered a weekly slot on a pirate radio show and later offered a spot on Freak FM (Arkell & Simpson). She had planned to go to university (Viscid; Jury) to study social anthropology at the University of Sussex, suggesting a natural inclination toward understanding and speaking about social issues. She became a mother in 2003, early on in her music career. The press initially likened Ms. Dynamite to Ella Fitzgerald, Lauryn Hill, and Erykah Badu in terms of more serious lyrical content and depth of message; and to Missy Elliott due to her MC skills; but also branded her Britain’s female Craig David due to the garage connection.

After the success of her first album, Ms. Dynamite released her second album, Judgment Days (Polydor) in 2005. The album included similarly strong messages, but it was not as commercially successful,¹⁰ and she pulled promotion for the project shortly after its release (Fox). During her period of commercial success, Ms. Dynamite’s presence, through her music and social action, expanded the range of visibility and representation of Black British womanhood by drawing attention to civic mindedness, social responsibility, and intellectualism as valued traits. She brought attention to the realness of the Black British experience that was hidden in plain sight or misrepresented in the media at the time. Her contribution to the expansion of Black British womanhood involved questioning social realities and self, and calling to action everybody who engaged with her or her works.

Both Mis-Teeq and Ms. Dynamite set benchmarks for a new generation of Black British women artists at the turn of the Millennium. They opened and solidified new frames of reference for Black British women in the scenes they were connected to and in the public domain, expanding the viewpoints and aesthetics of Black British women in the mainstream British narrative. Importantly, the display of authentic Black British girlhood and womanhood in 2-step also resonated with Black audiences. However, while in many ways the UKG women intervened positively in the authentic and rooted representations of Black British womanhood, both Mis-Teeq’s and Ms. Dynamite’s careers were characterized by misogynoir that has subsequently come to light.

In recent years, lead vocalist Washington has spoken about racism, colorism, and her experiences as a dark-skinned woman whilst in Mis-Teeq (1999–2005) and after they disbanded. Whilst in the group, she expressed, “it would most probably have been easier if one of us was white” (Washington, qtd. in Garratt) in terms of marketing. It was relayed to them that Black women do not sell magazines and she noted that, once Mis-Teeq disbanded, it was much harder to gain support as a darker-skinned solo act. She released singles with limited success and labels didn’t know how to market her: “The first time I experienced racism was in the music industry. It’s not talked about” (Washington, qtd. in Armstrong and Hope). Washington may have been good enough to be the voice of Mis-Teeq, who sold “12 million records worldwide, had seven consecutive top-ten singles and even performed at the Queen’s Jubilee” (Kindon), but she was unable to get an album deal. She was told she would never make it onto the front cover of a magazine because she was too dark (Katsha; Delaney). This suggests that, regardless of Washington’s talent and her role as lead vocalist in the group, having lighter-skinned band members may have been a mitigating factor in the group’s commercial success (Wilson). Mis-Teeq’s MC, lighter-skinned and mixed-race Dixon, believed herself to be the member with the talent (“DIXON”) and had a two-album record deal upon leaving Mis-Teeq (although she was later dropped). Dixon moved to television, becoming a British household name and television personality, dubbed the Beyonce of Britain (“Can Alesha become the British Beyonce?”). She has gone on to international success in the world of television and presenting.

The role of underground UKG’s transition into the mainstream is important in this narrative for a number of reasons. Firstly, by interrogating the teleological development of UKG, we elucidate the demand for the authentic representation of Black women artists in the British mainstream and music industry. Secondly, exploration of artists’ personal narratives, related to the scene and industry, enable interrogation into the ways that Black British women artists articulate their identity, creativity, artistry, and womanhood. Finally, considering wider social and cultural contexts around the music makes it possible to see the ways Black British artists position themselves, navigate, and respond in relation to misogynoir. The unique trajectory of UKG, therefore, set a precedent for the diverse ways that Black British women could articulate their identities and lived experiences through music in the British public sphere going forward, including with regards to funky.

U.K. Funky

Funky is a British (underground) subgenre, and offshoot of UKG, that rose to prominence between 2006 and 2010, peaking in popularity in 2008 and 2009 (Muggs, “The Guide”; Odunlami). Funky incorporates a variety of Afrodiasporic sounds. Davies and Martin outline that its influences include soulful house, reggae dancehall, tribal house, UKG, soca, Ghanaian highlife, and grime. Its sound is playful and melodic, utilizing breakbeats, syncopation/offbeatness, heavy basslines, and percussive African-inspired timbres and polyrhythms (Martin). It includes R&B’s soulful vocals, MCing, and rapping. According to U.K. funky producer Roska, it attracted diverse crowds, that dispersed along various subgenres borne out of UKG: “‘real house music’-lovers, grime kids craving something less macho, hipsters looking for a new buzz after dubstep, and those raised on the riotous party sounds of dancehall, soca and West African music” (qtd. in Muggs, “Guide”).

Originally London based, funky spread to Essex in the U.K. and to Ayia Napa in Cyprus (Davies) and has been kept alive by a scene in Bristol (“Donae’o”; Gulseven). Unlike UKG, funky did not have a steady, slowly built trajectory of refinement through core roles interacting with clubbers’ preferences, leading up to its unique sound. Funky producer duo Ill Blu states that it was a DJ-led genre, spread through the club scenes, and it was a sound and vibe specifically manufactured for the purpose of the club (qtd. in Muggs, “UK Funky”). Significantly, funky was also influenced by migratory patterns and dialogue with West Africa, reflecting a rising African demographic in terms of both a new wave of Black British youth of West African heritage coming of age in the noughties and a growing number of West Africans migrating to Britain (Charles, “Don’t Shoot”).

By 2010—only four years after the scene was established—funky was considered over or dead by scene members for a variety of reasons. It became gimmicky: the dancing element became saturated and predictable with a variety of low-quality instructional skanks (see Ill Blu in Martin). It became too rap-oriented (Gulseven) and based on past examples (jungle, drum, and bass), reducing the singing and (free) dancing that was originally attractive to women in clubbing spaces. Additionally, DJs replicated the soundsystem model, adopting the exclusive dubplate approach, meaning few outside of the DJs in clubbing spaces had the chance to learn who the artists or producers were when songs were in heavy rotation. Funky also had poor infrastructure, with no labels or soundsystems to center the scene or for a fanbase to cluster around like the previous underground scenes discussed. In addition, the late noughties was a technological “no man’s land” for the distribution of music: funky emerged during the shift between CDs and streaming platforms. Therefore, if singles were released, they were generally released significantly later than when the original track peaked in clubs and after fanbases moved on (Gulseven). The genre got little mainstream media coverage (Gulseven), due in part to the transience of many DJs, producers, and artists in the scene, as outlined by Cooly G (qtd. in Muggs, “UK Funky”): they were there for personal gain, entering the scene with the intention of moving on to other endeavors in other genres or getting signed to major labels (Martin; KG qtd. in Gulseven).

Overall, funky was a very transitory, “in flux” genre, reflecting the physical migration of Black people in and to Britain, the micro-generational shifts, and the individualistic outlook of the people in core roles involved in the scene. MC Versatile (Safo) highlights that the scene did not have enough artists to sustain it. It had some producers, many DJs, but limited artists (MCs and vocalists). The jump from MC hosting to storytelling and rap, the minimization of vocals, alongside continual prescriptive dance instruction (skanks), were contributing factors to the scene’s demise. Given the role of women as drivers in singing and dancing scenes, and the position of women in the funky scene as mostly decentered vocalists, I argue that the limitations placed on women’s participation in funky contributed to the scene’s demise. Unlike UKG, the lack of self-contained scene and infrastructure reduced mainstream interest and economic possibility, which further inhibited Black British women’s maneuverability inside the scene or their ability to use it as a vehicle to move into the mainstream (if they had hopes to).

Comparing these two genres (UKG and funky) therefore provides an opportunity to examine how Black British women artists articulate their identities, creativity, artistry, womanhood, Blackness, and Britishness through personal accounts and lived experiences in music in 2000s Britain. Compared to UKG, and as an underground subgenre, funky was short-lived and received little mainstream coverage, and there were few opportunities for women to be visible or recognized as drivers of the scene. The following section documents three of the more successful women participants: Princess Nyah, Katie Pearl, and KG. The scene’s lack of supporting infrastructure for women is reflected in careers that did not reach their commercial potential. Journalistic accounts provide the personal narratives of the women funky artists who represented themselves, womanhood, artistry, Blackness, and Britishness.

Funky Females: Princess Nyah, Katie Pearl, and KG

Nyah Maskell, aka Princess Nyah, is funky royalty. She dominated the scene with her first single “Frontline” (2008), where she sings about her love of a “bad boy” who impedes her judgment and has her doing things she wouldn’t usually consider, including breaking the law and cheating. In niche music blogs aimed at audiences with an interest in “urban” music, Princess Nyah reports making music for some time before “Frontline,” through involvement with hip hop collective GFam and attendance at the renowned Sylvia Young Theatre School (“Princess Nyah”). To gain exposure for the song, she made networks across the clubbing sphere, ensuring that she made contact with and promoted her work directly to DJs and producers. DJ Marcus “Ramsey” Nasty liked the song and circulated it amongst his network of DJs, who played in the clubbing circuit (Foster and Anderson; Awbi). DJs started contacting her about her track and requesting bespoke jingles, also known as “specials,” for clubs and pirate radio.

Princess Nyah taught herself about royalties and collecting societies, promotion, and pluggers after the song’s success because she had made the track independently and did not have a team (Awbi). The song was her original idea; as she shared with Def1, one half of production duo Ill Blu, “When I first started making music, the production duo I worked with would build the music around what I sang so I felt very much part of the DNA of the tracks. Although I wasn’t playing any instruments, I understood what I wanted the music to sound like” (Awbi). Unlike the UKG artists discussed earlier, Princess Nyah was also intentional about remaining an independent artist, as she wanted complete creative ownership over her art. She manages herself, taking control of her image, her rehearsals, deciding whom she collaborates with (Foster and Anderson). “Frontline” was self-released in 2009 (Foster and Anderson; Awbi). Increased accessibility to the Internet enabled her to store her own music videos and curate herself on YouTube, presenting herself with a combination of sexiness and sassiness through music videos, as well as “behind-the-scenes” videos and videos about her life in the music industry. She self-funded her debut EP Diary of a Princess in 2009 on the My-ish label and her EPs Destroy and Rebuild and Soldier in 2012 on Royal Tease.

Princess Nyah’s journey in music offers another representation of Black British womanhood in the noughties, connecting to a slightly younger (micro)generation when compared to the UKG women discussed previously. She promotes a balance of entrepreneurship and autonomy, relatable and attainable beauty, and creativity through her DIY approaches to self-curation and a women’s empowerment lifestyle brand (Admin). Her representation provides a humanizing perspective of Black women, and the multifaceted ways Black British women can exist and advocate for themselves, one another, and women more broadly.

Another funky artist, Katie Pearl, had success with funky track “In the Air” (2008), produced by Perempay and Dee. Her digital footprint and niche press coverage is very small. Whilst authorship is unclear, she sang the song about somebody who is being overtaken by intense emotion, chemistry, or sensation, and appears to be excited by it. The “In the Air” video is available on YouTube, though Katie Pearl does not appear to have her own channel or central place for her body of work, which raises questions about the ease of exercising autonomy and ownership in U.K. funky. The video itself is set along the Thames in London, with people at different points throughout the “single-take” looking up and becoming transfixed with whatever is in the sky. The camera moves in for close-ups of particular people throughout the video. It is not obvious by the visuals alone whether Katie Pearl is present in the video, though the pearl necklace on the Black woman they focus on for a comparatively extended period may be a clue.

She has released other songs since, but there is no evidence of more substantial output, such as an EP or an album, or of an obvious online presence as an artist. Her borderline anonymity in videos, digitally and in the press, echoes the role of women in dance and soundsystem culture, where they are commissioned as vocalists, rather than promoted as artists, and thus occupy a non-authorial space.

Like Washington from Mis-Teeq and the UKG scene, Pearl has shared similar experiences of misogynoir in the industry. She too was told that darker-skinned Black women are not marketable (Safo). In fact, she wasn’t even given a chance: speaking of her experience with the track “In the Air” (2008), specifically, she said that the producers, Perempay and Dee, released the song without her knowledge, despite the trio being involved in the project together. She was not given the option to use a pseudonym on the track, whereas both male producers did.¹¹ Additionally, her solicitor fought for her to receive appropriate credit for the song. She outlines that her experience epitomizes a pattern she saw around women struggling to have autonomy over their creativity and careers, as well as to receive appropriate credit. Generally, she says that the treatment of Black women musicians in funky and more broadly was terrible. Women were overlooked and expected to do what men say: “if you do moan, you get labeled as a diva…try to take a little bit of control, you’re labeled a control freak” (Safo) or bitch and garner a reputation for being difficult to work with. She also stated that she was not allowed any creative control in the production of the video for “In the Air.” She said it reached a point where she was done with music, especially as her needs and the working conditions for her to execute her job properly, such as voice preservation, were an afterthought at best. Pearl mentioned colorism, too, as the same producers that had an issue with giving her credit had credited lighter-skinned Black women in other songs.

In the mainstream, colorism takes on a systematic approach. With dark-skinned Black women “not being marketable,” Pearl shared that they were often positioned as songwriters for lighter-skinned Black women or white women. She recalled a network of darker-skinned Black women who were positioned specifically as songwriters. Despite writing chart-topping hits for others, dark-skinned Black British women artists had difficulty achieving the same success writing and creating for themselves. In response to being locked out, Black British women are now turning to their own musical networks (Toppin; Black Lives; Girls I Rate; Girls of Grime; Princess Nyah; Gayle) or institutional programs (Red Bull’s “Normal Not Novelty”; PRS Foundation’s “Power Up”; Brighter Sound) for support and mentorship.

Pearl’s experience is significant in relation to Princess Nyah’s. In Princess Nyah’s “Frontline” (2008) video, prominent members of the funky scene, including the track’s producers Ill Blu, and prominent funky producer Donae’o, are featured dancing and enjoying the music. The fact that influential men in the funky scene are present in Princess Nyah’s video acts as an endorsement and suggests a desire to be affiliated with her. Although she has consciously taken an independent route in music, it is possible that her lighter skin, which within colorist frameworks equates to desirability, attractiveness, and beauty, could be a factor in garnering male endorsement within the scene. Princess Nyah did not speak overtly about personal negative experiences. However, she set up a mentoring program for women in 2014 to help them identify how to navigate the male-dominated industry to avoid some of the pitfalls women can find themselves in. She has advised, “Keep your knickers on tight and let people respect you first. Some people love to have a secret date with you while you think it’s a business meeting” (Admin). Not only are women at risk of being labeled derogatory names and challenged around their pursuit of autonomy, creativity, and ideas, even when operating independently and managing themselves, they are at risk of sexual exploitation, harassment, unwanted advances, or objectification, some of the ways in which women are disrespected and not taken seriously in the music industry.

Karen Nyame, a creative entrepreneur also known as the Goddess of Rhythm, offers another funky example. She is a producer and DJ (and former MC Killer Gyal) and goes by the moniker KG. She entered the funky scene with hits she produced, including “Feeling Funky” (Cin) and “808” (Odunlami) in 2009. KG has extensive experience with producing and sound technology since the age of eight (Cin; Odunlami), and she introduces sonic sensibilities of Ghanaian highlife (and other Afrodiasporic sounds) into her production (Cortega). She became involved in the funky scene with the intention of getting signed by a major label (Gulseven). To enter the scene, KG used specialist Facebook groups that were male dominated to network and share her music. She sought out and “inboxed” DJs with her work to get exposure on pirate radio and the club circuit (Cin). She opted to use moniker “KG” as it was genderless and found that when people responded to her about her music, they would include the term “bro,” assuming she was male (Odunlami). KG released her 2009 tracks online for free (Gulseven), but left producing and the funky scene shortly afterward. She has since returned to production, releasing EPs Sensei (2020) and Sensei II (2021). Her presence in the scene is important because it disrupts norms and shows that women’s skillsets can go beyond assigned or assumed core roles. She presents Black British women as capable of creative and abstract ways of thinking and of expressing themselves through music, though notably relied on a genderless name to achieve success.

Indeed, KG found her experience as a Black woman working in music defined by exploitation. She burned out regularly, making it hard for her to “maintain a healthy music career” during the noughties (Cin). She argued that “gender has always been a determining factor to gatekeepers” (qtd. in Muggs, “Endlessly”) that women have to network with in order to enter scene spaces. Women in production were often questioned and challenged about their competency, ideas, and autonomy: “Facing ‘much opposition, being a Black woman’ on the underground scene, she grew exhausted with fighting to be heard while people with a tenth of her productivity leapfrogged into DJ careers and took several steps back from the scene” (Muggs, “Endlessly”).

Examining these three women in funky elucidates the (limited) spaces available for women to express their creativity, artistry, and womanhood in the underground. UKG provided a comparatively supportive space for women participants, some of whom went on to have successful solo careers. However, the contrast between the two subgenres hides similar experiences of misogynoir across the music industry. For both mainstream and underground women, colorism shaped experiences in the music industry. Misogynoir practices challenged autonomy, stifled ideas and creativity, assumed incompetence, erased and invalidated artists, and rendered them susceptible to sexually predatory behavior. These experiences of disrespect and marginalization have led artists to leave music temporarily or altogether, voluntarily or otherwise, pivot for survival, or find ways to help new artists through support networks and mentorship.

Conclusion: Feel the Bad Gyal Bass!¹²

The women covered by my analysis are doing things on their own terms as much as possible but in a climate characterized by pervasive lack of support. As Washington reflected in 2020, “There hasn’t been another all-Black girlband in the UK since Mis-Teeq with the same success” (qtd. in Armstrong and Hope). KG works with those who she finds synergy with, and who respect her way of working and her boundaries (Cin). Princess Nyah continues making music independently, has a record label, Royal Tease, and early on in her career (2011) was focused on developing her own self-funded studio in order to learn production for herself (Dawson). Washington has set up her own record label, Swash Music (Lawrence-Jones; Kindon), in addition to setting up her own homeware line, SW home (Kindon). Dixon is working on an independent solo “passion” music project developed under her own direction (Delaney). Nash owned and ran performing arts schools in several Southeast England locations after disbandment (Ali) and before emigrating to Australia (Lawrence-Jones; Kindon; Delaney). Ms. Dynamite prioritized motherhood after her second album, encountered some issues with the law, but continued to do live performances and television presenting, as well as featuring on funky single “Lights On,” arguably funky’s most commercially charting song (#4 in 2010), with white British singer Katie “Brien” B.¹³

While the British music industry and the 1990s narrative of “Cool Britannia” largely excluded Black British music and representations of authentic Blackness, specific underground scenes connected to dance music and soundsystem culture provided routes into the mainstream for Black British women. Comparing and contrasting the development of these two genres, this article highlights the importance of collectivity in elevating or inhibiting Black British women and the feminine elements that drive scenes. The collectivist approach of UKG was essential for creating the possibility of Black British women taking up space and being their authentic selves on a larger stage. Conversely, the stifling of feminine elements in underground spaces like funky, which prevented women from acting as drivers, can contribute to the death of singing and dancing scenes. UKG demonstrates the value of support from predominantly male DJs and producers, a structure that was absent from funky’s inward-facing evolution.

However, even the comparatively successful example of UKG reveals challenges. Mis-Teeq and Ms. Dynamite’s presence in the mainstream set a precedent, enabling more diverse representation of Black British women’s artistry, creativity, and expression. These artists spoke to the absence of Black British women in the mainstream narrative through visual representation, assertion of Britishness and social activism, and articulated womanhood through their creativity and how they chose to represent themselves, where possible, through visuals, lyrics, and sound. Yet the mainstream novelty of pioneers Mis-Teeq and Ms. Dynamite was evidenced by the mainstream media having few other Black British females to compare them to as reference points; without knowledge of their ancestral influences, notably Jamaican culture and music, they could only draw comparisons with US artists, white British artists, or male equivalents. Despite their success, they were misrecognized and not understood, as expressed by Ms. Dynamite (Sawyer and Allardice 41), and a source of apprehension and anxiety for labels (Negus 86) that did not consider them marketable. This exploration of the role of sexism, misogynoir, and colorism in the British mainstream and underground scenes therefore demonstrates the challenges that Black women, and particularly dark-skinned Black British women, face in their efforts to express autonomy, creativity, and authenticity, and to broaden representations of Black British womanhood.

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No potential conflict of interest was reported by the author(s).

Additional information

Notes on contributors

Monique Charles

Monique Charles is Assistant Professor of Sociology at Chapman University. She developed a research method to analyze music for social science and cultural studies (Musicological Discourse Analysis – MDA) and a theory on Black music and spirituality in live performance/clubbing spaces (AmunRave Theory). She is on the editorial board of the Global Hip Hop Studies Journal and has been on the London Borough of Culture Board (Brent 2020). She is on the British Library’s Black British Music exhibition advisory board for their 2024 national exhibition. She is the creator, curator, and editor of Black Music in Britain in the 21^st Century (Liverpool University Press, 2023). She is a sound healer (tuning forks, voice, and cardology). Her website is available at: https://drmoniquecharles.com/.

Notes

1. “Make It Funky for Me” by Attaca Pesante (2009).

2. This name was later dropped owing to another genre of EDM called funky house that prioritized funk and disco beats/samples.

3. The women in this paper are Black or mixed race (Black/White). Their Black ancestry is from Ghana and Jamaica.

4. “90’s Girl” by Black Girl (1994).

5. Became legal in 1990 (North London).

6. Founded in 1990 (South London).

7. “Heat” by General Levy (1993).

8. Bass emphasis on each crotchet beat on a 4/4 bar.

9. “Garage Girls” by Lonyo (2001).

10. Partly influenced by negative/contradictory behavior and actions also in the press.

11. The pseudonym may have been to hide that they once produced grime, or it may have been to not be identified as working with Katie Pearl.

12. A phrase used by both Ms. Dynamite and Alesha Dixon in their songs (DJ Sticky, qtd. in Lawton).

13. This introduces additional questions around race and who has the ability to transcend and capitalize on a predominantly Black subgenre.