Black nightlife and party culture

If you’ve read the first instalment of CC, you would have seen a few lines from Tumisha on how parties can double up as cultural moments. I loved it so much that I decided to focus this month's CC: on that very sentiment. The role of parties and the impact it has on culture, music and fashion. 

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a party boy. I debuted on the scene as my mum's +1. I’d follow her to (read: I was forced to go to) Ghanaian hall parties. It was here that I was introduced to hiplife and highlife, the precursors to the globally recognised afrobeats tracks we bellow today. Not to give mumzy too much credit but without her and the aunties, I don’t know how much music from the continent would have crossed over. Through the migration of African and Caribbean elders, ancestral sounds arrived on the dancefloors of run-down community centres across the UK. How glorious.  

After a while, I stopped following my mum outside and started to carve a lane for myself. Hackney (my hometown) hosts the sixth largest Caribbean population in the UK. So inevitably, I found myself at Bashment parties. Again I would find myself in the centre of the dancefloor, furiously gyrating my 14-year old bones to Vybz Kartel and Mavado. I vividly remember the euphoria of hearing Beg yuh a f*ck for the first time and the hold that dancehall riddims had on UK rap (see: Sneakbo’s Touch a button). In this sparsely lit and overcapacity sweatbox, I found connection to a culture that I didn’t belong to. Yet, I gained a deep appreciation for Caribbean culture and its impact on West African and British music alike. 

As I scroll through archival footage of Black British nightlife from pages like @blkandgaybackintheday and @blackndbritishh. I’m reminded that my experiences aren’t new. New to me? Yes. However, they are a part of a collective rebellion that existed long before I became a body brukka. Often as a response to structural exclusion, Black communities in Britain have always birthed these joyous and liberating spaces.

If we fast forward through multi-genre college events and the 2-hour treks to midlands for Yolo Monday and Barfest, we land in 2018. I knew that I had graduated from community hall discos and uni raves. I needed a new scene in London to take centre stage. I wasn’t too hopeful as I had forayed into Shoreditch before and the experience was soured by over-priced drinks, racist door policies, and the repetitive hip hop and r&b sets (because afrobeats and dancehall brought in a ‘rough crowd’). 

I grew disillusioned almost immediately because I had been blessed to experienced parties run by and for Black communities. If you’ve been to parties that affirm your heritage, creative expression and cultural identity. Then you’d understand why I couldn’t entertain another night out in 2017-18 Shoreditch. 

London’s exclusionary nightlife has been well documented and a few rights have been wronged but there’s still a way to go. In 2015, London’s West End nightclubs such as DSTRKT, Libertine and Mahiki were exposed for their racist door policies. DSTRKT was caught exclusively charging Black women double the entrance fee, and at times not letting Black people in at all. All the while blasting house remixes of rap and trap music from Black artists. In the same vein, a trip advisor review likens London's most popular gay night club, Heaven to the ‘Gay answer to no blacks, no dogs, no irish’. Hundreds of queer men of colour have left their frustrated reviews online, claiming to have experienced racial discrimination due to not being seen as the intended audience. 

It’s important to note, that this is more than just a few bad clubs and power hungry bouncers. It is and always has been structural. Until recently, Form 696 was used across London. A legislative form that made promoters put certain DJs and MCs on a police database or they wouldn’t be allowed to perform. This form disproportionately affected Black and Brown rap and grime acts. If we look back, Notting Hill’s Mangrove was raided 12 times by police between 1969 and 1970 on suspicion that the restaurant and bar was a front to sell drugs. Each time, no drugs were found. Similarly, Pearl Alcocks Queer shebeen in Brixton was prematurely shutdown due to the inevitable rise of police raids following the election of Thatcher and conservative values.

The structural barriers to Black nightlife are persistent, but if history is any indicator of the future. We will continue to find a way to shoobz.

In 2018, I went to my first recess. I laced my all white mcqueens *cringes* and hopped on the 149 to Tottenham's Styx bar. It was like I was 16 again, bright eyed, optimistic and care free. It wasn’t about outrageously expensive fits (even though everyone was fly). Recess felt easy and a place where all my intersections mattered. I saw the lads that I grew up with on ends, the people I was interning or went to uni with, I even saw a few ‘old-heads’ who I looked up to, and through the love of Black music and spaces, we found community. It was and still is glorious. 

I’m writing this on the back of the Recess Weekender which saw the party collective host more than 5000 ravers over the three-day jubilee celebrations. It’s awe inspiring to see how the likes of Recess, DLT, The connection party, Till Two and hundreds of other Black brits have organised in rebellion to build spaces for us to skank, catch a vibe, and experience the liberatory power of Black music and dance. 

All that to say, parties are important. For brands, parties present an opportunity to meaningfully connect with diverse audiences. The stories and relationships birthed through parties are invaluable. The role of Giggs’ Walk in the park in awakening a collective remembering of better times is invaluable. The diasporic connection to a home away from home when the Nigerian national anthem, Ojuelegba is played is… invaluable. 

I’ve seen brands attempt to connect and engage Black communities with the cookie cutter Mahiki formula. The influencer only, hyper-luxury parties where no one has anything in common apart from their income or follower count. A formula that may work for some brands, but for brands who want to future-proof their business and play an active role in shaping, and honouring culture. A good knees up can and should be a part of your community-building strategy.