By Azzam Bilal 
HangupsMusic.com – London, the history of Black British music is often told through the lens of its most visible superstars—the chart-toppers and the global icons who have successfully crossed over into the mainstream. However, for author, filmmaker, and DJ Jesse Bernard, the true essence of the culture resides in the spaces between the hits. In his seminal work, Escaping Babylon: An Intimate History of Black British Music, Bernard embarks on a journey that is as much a personal memoir as it is a scholarly excavation. By weaving together three decades of sonic evolution, Bernard highlights the unsung heroes whose contributions laid the groundwork for the global dominance of contemporary UK sounds.
Jesse Bernard is no stranger to the upper echelons of the industry, having profiled heavyweights like J Hus, Little Simz, and Central Cee. Yet, his creative gaze has always been fixed on the structural foundations. Whether documenting the burgeoning grime scene in Brazil through his film COMO VOCÊ or analyzing the socioeconomic factors that shape urban soundscapes, Bernard’s work is characterized by a deep-seated commitment to authenticity. Escaping Babylon serves as a culmination of this mission, structured like the mixtapes of his youth—complete with interludes and thematic shifts—to reflect the rhythmic pulse of the culture he describes.
Central to Bernard’s narrative is the mid-2000s, a pivotal era where the landscape of Black British music was shifting from the physical to the digital. In 2006, the industry was caught in a transitionary period. While mainstream R&B acts like Craig David and Lemar had established a presence, the underground was thriving on raw energy. Bernard recalls a time when the "Black British canon" was accessed through market-bought mixtapes and early YouTube uploads rather than polished streaming playlists. This was the era of Kano’s Home Sweet Home and the gritty soundtracks of films like Kidulthood, which introduced a generation to the genre-blending brilliance of Roots Manuva. During this period, music possessed a certain longevity; an album or a mixtape wasn’t merely a fleeting trend but a soundtrack that stayed in rotation for years, deeply embedding itself into the listener’s identity.
One of the most poignant sections of Bernard’s exploration involves the artists who, despite immense talent, did not achieve the commercial longevity their peers enjoyed. He points specifically to Scorcher, an MC who dominated the underground circuit between 2007 and 2010. Bernard argues that Scorcher’s work, particularly the Concrete Jungle album and the "96 Bars of Revenge" freestyle, represented the absolute pinnacle of grime’s potential. However, the realities of everyday life often intervened, preventing many pioneers from fully capitalizing on their artistic momentum. By highlighting Scorcher, Bernard makes a vital distinction between the "grime scene"—the industry-facing side of the genre—and "grime culture," which encompasses the lived experiences, fashion, and social interactions of the youth who birthed it.
This distinction is crucial to understanding the evolution of the UK sound. Bernard posits that grime culture is an immersive environment that goes beyond the act of "spitting" over a beat. It is a multi-disciplinary lifestyle where one might be a producer one day, a DJ the next, and an MC the following evening. This versatility is mirrored in contemporary artists like Duppy, whom Bernard praises for capturing the original essence of the genre while pushing it forward. For Bernard, the preservation of this history is a safeguard against the dilution of the culture as it becomes increasingly commercialized.
The book also seeks to recontextualize British R&B, tracing its lineage back to the late 1980s and early 1990s. Bernard identifies 1989 and 1990 as foundational years where the intersection of reggae, lover’s rock, and acid house created a uniquely British R&B identity. Unlike its American counterpart, which is often viewed as the primary blueprint for the genre, Black British R&B was forged in the crucible of the UK’s sound system culture. Artists like Mica Paris and Omar, and later Lynden David Hall, utilized gospel-trained vocals to navigate soulful arrangements that felt distinctly local.
Bernard places a significant emphasis on the late Lynden David Hall, an artist whose impact is often overlooked in mainstream retrospectives. A graduate of the BRIT School long before it became a household name for pop stardom, Hall was a pioneer who bridged the gap between traditional soul and the emerging urban sounds of the late 90s. Bernard suggests that Hall’s "second album struggle"—a common phenomenon where labels failed to market the evolving sounds of Black artists—is a recurring theme in the history of the genre. Without the path cleared by Hall, the massive commercial success of artists like Craig David might never have been possible.
The spiritual backbone of all Black music, according to Bernard, is soul. This is perhaps most evident in his analysis of house music. He argues that when the soulful, gospel-inflected vocals of pioneers like Robin S or Rosie Gaines are removed or replaced by sanitized, commercial versions, the genre loses its "church." The raw, unpolished edges of original house music provided a transcendent experience that modern, over-produced tracks often lack. This connection to the "church" and the "dance" is a thread that runs through every genre Bernard touches upon, from the spiritual depths of gospel to the high-octane energy of the club.
A particularly vibrant chapter of Black British music history explored in Escaping Babylon is the "golden window" of UK funky. Between 2007 and 2011, UK funky provided a bridge between the aggression of grime and the communal joy of the dancefloor. It was a space where grime heavyweights like Skepta, Frisco, and P Money could experiment with different tempos, allowing the "man dem" to dance and let loose in a way that the often-policed grime events did not permit. This era was defined by infectious rhythms and a sense of freedom, proving that the underground could be both sophisticated and celebratory.
In his quest to honor the unsung, Bernard brings attention to figures like Charmz, the late UK funky artist known for "Buy Out Da Bar," and Do’reen, whose vocal contributions to Soul II Soul remain legendary yet under-recognized. He acknowledges that while the age of virality on platforms like TikTok can occasionally bring old hits back into the spotlight, it is a "poisoned chalice." Many legacy artists do not own the rights to their music, meaning that even when a song goes viral, the original creators rarely see the financial benefits. For Bernard, the only true way to honor these legends is through intentional storytelling and archival work that ensures their names are etched into the historical record.
Escaping Babylon is more than just a book about music; it is a corrective narrative. It challenges the "Babylonian" structures of the music industry—the systemic barriers and marketing failures that have historically marginalized Black British talent. By centering his own experiences and the stories of those who were there from the beginning, Bernard provides a roadmap for future generations to understand where they come from.
As the UK music scene continues to evolve and influence the global stage, works like Bernard’s become increasingly essential. They remind us that the sound of modern Britain was not built overnight by a few lucky individuals, but was instead crafted over decades by a community of innovators, risk-takers, and unsung heroes. Through Escaping Babylon, Jesse Bernard ensures that while the artists may not always have reached the top of the charts, their voices will never be silenced. The legacy of Black British music, in all its raw, soulful, and chaotic glory, is finally receiving the meticulous documentation it deserves.
