Voices of Hate, Sounds of Hybridity Black Music and the Complexities of Racism

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Voices of Hate, Sounds of Hybridity: Black Music and the Complexities of RacismAuthor(s): Les BackSource: Black Music Research Journal, Vol. 20, No. 2, European Perspectives on Black Music(Autumn, 2000), pp. 127-149Published by: Center for Black Music Research - Columbia College Chicagoand University of Illinois PressStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/779464.

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VOICESOF HATE,SOUNDS OF HYBRIDITY: LACKMUSICAND THECOMPLEXITIESF RACISMLESBACK

It is worth stating the obvious. The music of the African diaspora is nota recent import to Europe; rather, it has been an integral part of numer-ous European societies since the eighteenth century. In England, thesesounds were introduced through the hands and voices of slave musi-cians, jubilee singers, jazz orchestras, reggae sound-system operators,and hip-hop DJs.It is-or should be-impossible to think about the socialhistory of Europe in general, or England in particular, without under-standing the place of black music within it.In Victorian England, the sounds of jubilees and spirituals were assim-ilated across the lines of class and political division. KarlMarx, who livedin London for over thirty years, would render "German folk-songs andNegro spirituals" while walking with his daughters in Highgate (Wheen1999, 221). The Fisk Jubilee Singers enjoyed adulation from aristocratsand paupers alike. They entertained Queen Victoria and Prime MinisterWilliam Gladstone (Gilroy 1993, 90), and their memoir recounts a partic-ularly eventful concert introduced by the Earlof Shaftesbury at the annu-al meeting of the Freedmen's Mission Aid society, the City Temple,London, on May 31, 1875:So greatwas the gatheringabout the buildingthat to get even to the doorswas a formidabletask, and the chairman,LordShaftesbury,was delayedsome minutes in reachingthe platformby the difficultyof penetratingthedense crowdthatfilled the corridors. n ascendingthe standhis eye caughtThis article is adapted from Out of Whiteness:Color, Politics, and Culture,Vron Ware andLes Back, eds., to be published by University of Chicago Press. Copyright 2002 by VronWare and Les Back. All rights reserved.

LESBACK s a Reader in Sociology at Goldsmiths College. London.

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sightof thesingersin thegallery,whom he greetedwith a cordialsalutation,and in his remarkson takingthechairhe said:"Iamdelightedto see so largea congregationof the citizensof Londoncome to offera renewalof theirhos-pitalityto these noble brethrenand sistersof ours,who arehereto-nighttocharmus with theirsweet songs.Theyhave returnedhere,not foranythingin their own behalf,but to advance the interests of the coloured race inAmerica,and then to what in them lies to send missionariesof their owncolour to the nationsspreadover Africa.When I find these young people,gifted to an extent that does not often fall to the lot of man,cominghereinsucha spirit.I don'twant them to becomewhite,but I have a strong dispo-sition myself to become black. If I thought colour was anything-if itbroughtwith it theirtruth,piety,and talent,I would willingly exchangemycomplexionto-morrow."Marsh1900,79-80).It is strange, a century later, to read that the sounds of the blackgospel moved this peer of the realm to indulge in a fantasy of self-transformation.

Doug Seroff has documented a parallel story of the infatuation withgospel singing at the other end of the social scale. He points out thatanother legacy of the Fisk visit was the formation of groups of whiteworking-class jubilee singers. One such choir was formed in Hackney, ineast London. Thirty young singers from the local "Ragged School" touredLondon, raising money for Hackney Mission, in 1875-the same year thatthe Earl of Shaftesbury introduced the Fisk Singers on the London stage(Seroff 1986, 48).

Although Marx may have cheerfully lent his voice to spiritualmelodies, the reaction by twentieth-century European Marxists to blackmusic was often less than positive. Theodor Adorno's criticism is perhapsthe best known, particularly for his denunciation of jazz and recordedmusic. Adorno's argument is easily misrepresented, in large part due tohis own rhetorical excesses (for example, in one article entitled "UberJazz," he wrote that jazz most closely resembled "the spontaneoussinging of servant girls" [Adorno 1990, 53]). His objection is sometimescharacterized as rooted in a racially loaded form of European aesthetics,but such attempts to read his position through some kind of implicit"racial bad sense" risk missing an important nuance in his argument.Fundamentally, Adorno opposed jazz not because it was archaic or"primitive" but because it provided the ultimate theme tune for moderncapitalism. In part, he objected that the commercialization of jazz rein-forced stereotypes, a judgment affected at least in part by his own expe-rience of studying at Oxford in the 1930s, where he encountered the waysin which jazz was assimilated within the elite circle of the English aris-tocracy (Wilcock 1997). He argued that modern capitalism exploited

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Back * Voices of Hate, Sounds of Hybridityblackness: "Like commodity consumption itself, the manufacture[Herstellung] of jazz is also an urban phenomenon, and the skin of theblack man functions as much as a colouristic effect as does the silver ofthe saxophone" (Adorno 1990, 53). Adoro's point is that this results inlittle more than a parody of colonial imperialism. Nothing that is vital orsensuous is embodied in what he refers to as these "bright musical com-modities."The reason for invoking Adomo here is that he provided an importantinsight to the ways in which the commercialization of music was pack-aged through racial fetish. Paul Gilroy has recently picked up this line ofcritique. He argues that similar processes of commercial exploitationhave reinforced racist ideologies and reduced black music to the "mar-keting of hollow defiance" (Gilroy 2000, 206). Yet paradoxically, themechanical reproduction of music through recording also enabled blackmusic to travel in ways that were previously unthinkable. The sounds ofblack music circulated within the African diaspora and enabled connec-tions between dispersed peoples through place and time (Gilroy 1987). Inaddition, black music entered and was embraced and practiced in newworlds.In order to understand these processes, it is necessary to develop aclose understanding of the web of social relations into which blackmusics are received, enjoyed, and ultimately practiced. For the purposesof this article, I concentrate on black music in white worlds. Roger Hewitt(1983) has referred to this phenomenon as the "black through white" syn-drome. I draw on two particular music scenes in order to situate thesequestions in a particular English social and historical setting. I will exam-ine the broad issues referred to in this introduction in the context of theemergence of English skinhead styles and what came to be referred to asthe English "northern soul" phenomenon. What follows is an attempt torecover the story of these movements through oral history and ethnogra-phy. Through this, I want to address a larger question: How does the fas-cination with and love of black music fit with the cultural configurationsof English racism?SkinheadMoonstompand the Rhythmsof WhiteChauvinism

In his seminal book Subculture: The Meaning of Style, Dick Hebdige(1979) argued that one can find within postwar British youth styles thetraces of an embodied history of "race relations" that both assimilate andexpunge. So a deep-seated and profound cultural hybridity could existeven in those styles most associated with racism. The best and most dra-matic example is skinhead style, whose early proponents were compul-

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BMRJournalsive collectors of black American soul and Jamaican rocksteady music. AsKobena Mercer (1987; 1994) has noted, black music became a register ofwhite pride and identity like the equivalent of a photographic negative.In an excellent discussion of skinheadism, Anoop Nayak (1999, 76-77)emphasizes that this form of identity is a tightly choreographed perfor-mance. What is interesting and perplexing is the degree to which blackmusic provides its signature.Skinhead style had its origins in Britain and, more specifically, in theworking-class districts to the south and east of London in the mid to late1960s. Characterized by cropped hairstyles, braces, Doc Marten boots,and tight Levi jeans, this style used industrial working-class imagery toproduce a conservative masculinity in a period of political, economic,and cultural upheaval. Skinheadism came of age in 1969 in an era whenurban protest, gay politics, feminism, and a host of other social move-ments were also emerging. Early writers viewed the style as a symbolicattempt to resolve the social transformations and communal breakdowntaking place within working-class districts in postwar Britain (Cohen1972; Hebdige 1981). This was achieved through the assertion of a whiteworking-class identity, albeit in a burlesque form. Skinhead style wasunderstood as deeply imbued with the domestic semiotics of class, mas-culinity, race, and power. The whole nature of skinhead performance waspredicated on the performance of a very particular masculine culture."The dance of the Skin is, then," commented Dick Hebdige (1982, 28),"even for the girls, a mime of awkward masculinity-the geometry ofmenace" (Hebdige 1982, 28) (see Fig. 1).Although skinheadism was imbued with heterosexual, masculinized,and conservative class symbolism, its attraction was not confined towhite straight men. The style from its very inception had an ambivalentgender politics. For women skinheads (referred to as "rennes"), fashionwould combine styles considered to be masculine (Ben Sherman and FredPerry shirts, penny loafer shoes, or monkey boots) with women's cloth-ing (miniskirts and fishnet stockings). This complex male/female stylis-tic composite was best expressed in "The Feather" hairstyle, which com-bined the "short crop-top" style worn by men with a feathered fringe thatfell down over the eyes and neck. Equally, the masculinism expressedthrough dance-often resulting in groups of men dancing together barechested and in large numbers-possessed a kind of homoerotic quality,and from the very beginnings of the skinhead culture a small number ofgay skinheads set up their own scene, particularly in the working-classdistricts of inner London. Murray Healy (1996, 72), in his excellent studyof gay skins, quotes one account by a gay skinhead of club night held atThe Union Tavern in Camberwell in the late 1960s: "Tuesday night was

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Figure1. DougieandBrenda, hotographedyNickKnight.Usedbypermission.

skinhead night and you could walk into the pub and there'd be a sea ofcrops. Fantastic And everyone was gay We'd dance to reggae all night,you know, the real Jamaican stuff, and all in rows, strict step. It was aright sight seeing all those skins dancing in rows. The atmosphere waselectric." These connections complicate any idea that this was a simplis-tically chauvinistic culture. But equally, one might ask: Why did the mas-

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BMRJournalculine tales of gangster "rude boy" life extolled in rocksteady and skamusic resonate in this constituency?According to Hebdige (1982), two particular maxims held the skinheadmovement together in the early days: the recovery of Englishness/Britishness and the preservation of authenticity. This is not to say that theculture of first-wave skinheads did not assimilate the black registers ofmetropolitan multiculture. Indeed, a kind of opaque hybridity coexistedalongside open racism and racial nationalism. Roger Hewitt (1995, 24)recounts a story offered to him by a skinhead of a conflict in 1969 at adance hall called the Locarno in Streatham, south London. The skinheadgave his version of the racialized dynamics of the respective scenes, awhite fantasy of urban dominion:

[Skinheads] ormed a big massive movement. We had control of a placecalled the Locarno, t's up Streatham.There were thousands of skinheadscome from all over the place.And the Old Billnever touchedus.l And onenight the nig-nogscameup. Theywere called "soulboys"then,the niggersthemdays, and they came,about five hundred of them,from a placecalledthe RamJam.Do you know GenoWashingtonand the RamJamBand?Wellthatwas their scene-Brixton.2 Andour areawas Streatham-a white man'sarea. And we run that place, doing the SkinheadMoonstompand all that.And they cameup and reckonedthey wanted to take it over. Ourplace.Sowe said, "Fairenough." The word got around Londonand thousands ofskins drove down. By nine o'clock there was 1,000,500 in. By ten o'clockthere were 3,000skins. The nig-nogs started then and we ran them all theway to Brixtonand we walked throughBrixtonafter that.We didn't touchtheir areabeforebutwe ranthroughBrixtonand you couldn'tsee a nig-nogon the street.Any nig-nog walked on the street was dead. We could smashem to pieces.That'sthe way it should be today.Such a fantasy of racist street power would be unthinkable in contempo-rary Brixton, a place in which a black community has established itselfand where popular racism has been muted. Perhaps the accuracy of thisaccount was questionable even in its day, but this particular "skin"embodied some of the culture's complexities and ambiguities. Hewittcomments: "He was a mandarin of Nazi books and pamphlets. He was acommitted racist. He was also Jewish and wrestled with some fiercedemons. 'Them' and 'Us' were within him as well as without, a syn-cretism in desperate need of relief" (24). The skinhead subculture retainsthis discordant hybridity at another layer beyond Hewitt's insightfulaccount. The Skinhead Moonstomp, invoked in the story as the dance of

1. "Old Bill" is slang for police.2. Brixton is an area of south London adjacent to Streatham, with a racially mixedpopulation.

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Back * Voices of Hate, Sounds of Hybriditythe whiteskins of London, was in fact pounded out on dance floors toJamaican artists and black records. The white devotees of the style adopt-ed Jamaican forms of music (such as ska and bluebeat), producing agenre that came to be known as "skinhead reggae" (Griffiths 1995). Ablack Jamaican group called Symaryp cut "Skinhead Moonstomp," arecord that defined the attitude of the genre: "Iwant all you skinheads toget up on your feet, put your braces together and boots on your feet andgimme some of that ole moonstomping." The ghetto rude boy celebratedin rocksteady and ska music mirrored and enabled the expression of acommensurable white masculinity and its fantasies of urban mastery.A small number of black skinheads were involved in the scene (see Fig.2). Elsewhere in south London clubs such as The Galaxy in LowerSydenham played Jamaican music to audiences of black and white club-goers. The involvement of some of these people was caught between thestyle's putative racism and what it symbolized from the outside view.Darryl, a black skinhead from Bournemouth,3 commented on this syn-drome: "I've had it from all sides. Some skinheads don't believe I shouldbe one because of my colour. Then I get black people coming up to meand saying, 'You're a disgrace to your race"' (quoted in Marshall 1991,122). These complications were part of this music scene from the begin-ning. In the 1970s and early 1980s, multiracial elements seemed to besuperseded, as skinhead style converged with neofascist politics throughthe British Movement and the National Front, both of which were open-ly racist organizations that explicitly courted soldiers for their "race war."The color of the laces worn in their characteristic Doc Marten boots alsosignified the political affiliations of the skins: white laces indicated sup-port for the National Front, and red laces attested British Movement affil-iation (Hewitt 1986, 30). Musical tastes mirrored this, with the emergenceof the postpunk Oi music scene with bands like Sham 69 and theCockney Rejects. In 1979, the National Front sponsored White NoiseMusic Club, set up by two key young fascist activists, Patrick Harringtonand Nick Griffin, and the British Nazi musician Ian Stuart Donaldson.London has been the focus for much of the account of the rise of skin-headism, but it also had a provincial development from the Midlands ofEngland to Scotland, which took a variety of forms. As the racial politicsof the music scene unfolded in the industrial towns of the Midlands andnorth of England, some aspects of the skinhead scene and the soul dancemusic cultures that had also developed there, and which were complete-ly focused around the playing and enjoying of rare soul music, con-verged. It is this music scene that I take as my second main example.

3. Bouremouth is a resort and retirement center on the south coast of England.

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Figure2. BlackSkinheadphotographed y Nick Knight.Usedbypermission.



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Back * Voices of Hate, Sounds of HybridityOut on the Floor: Soul Music, ClubCulture,and "Northerness"

In the early 1970s, industrial towns such as Stoke-on-Trent (in thenorthern part of the English Midlands) and Wigan (a Lancashire town tothe west of Manchester) contained small dispersed black communities. Incontrast, in the large cities such as London, Birmingham, and Manchester,alternative public spheres had been established within the black commu-nities themselves, in which black music from the Caribbean and theUnited States was enjoyed (Gilroy 1987). The soul scenes that I want todiscuss developed in neither of these types of contexts; rather, they werelargely organized and hosted by white-soul music fanatics.By this time, clubs such as the Twisted Wheel in Manchester, Va Va's inBolton,4 and the Torch in Stoke had established soul clubs and all-nightvenues (Hollows and Milestone 1998). Blues and Soul writer Dave Godincoined the phrase northernsoul as a way of capturing the distinct soul cul-ture of the north of England and the Midlands. The scene was built on a

seemingly inexhaustible supply of black music and unknown great soulrecords, largely recorded in Detroit and Chicago and drawn from labelssuch as Okeh, Ric Tic, Sansu, La Beat, Revilot, and Backbeat.5Many of the top northern soul DJs built their reputations by seeking

out these 45s in American ghetto record shops and dusty warehouses andby owning exclusive records. The identities of these rare demos oracetates was fiercely defended, and DJs would literally cover up the labelof the record and give its artist and title a false name in order to deterrival DJs. (Ironically,more copies of great northern soul records probablyexist in Britain today than in the United States-so much so thatAmerican record dealers now use the term northern soul to describe thisgenre of black music.)The best-known venue was the Wigan Casino and featured DJs RussWinstanley, Richard Searling, and John Vincent. It opened its doors in1973 and staged regular all-night rare soul extravaganzas for up to fifteenhundred fans (Winstanley and Nowell 1996). The scene's patrons werepredominantly young, sharp-witted, stylish, and white working-class.This was a black music culture being hosted by whites.The dress of the day incorporated and adapted aspects of skinheadstyle, which for men was Spencer's soul bags (trousers), Ben Shermans,bowling shirts, red or lime-green socks and loafers or brogues, whereaswomen wore long, flowing full-circle skirts, Mary Quant look-alike fash-ions, and sandals. The loose-fitting style was perfect for the flamboyant

4. Bolton is another Lancashire town near Manchester.5. The "northeress" of this soul scene refers to the clubs that hosted it in England andnot to the areas in the United States where many of the records were made.

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BMRJournaland acrobatic forms of dancing that were invented inside the scene (seeFig. 3). Fans would throw talcum power on the floor to lessen the frictionon their leather-soled shoes. The "niters" were peaceful and an alterna-tive to the glitz of mainstream 1970s pop culture. "It was such a big fuckoff to record companies and clothes companies and all these folk thatwere trying to sell you something and tell you the way you should be,"comments Keb Darge (1997), who attended the Wigan Casino regularly."Everyone was so pleased to have something that was theirs, that wascreated by them."Keb was first exposed to soul music at a disco on a local RAF base inhis native Elgin, Scotland. Soon he joined the ranks of thousands ofScottish soul fans-or "Troups"-who regularly visited the Englishnorthern soul clubs. His first trip to England was to attend the Casino:

Wegot on this local coachand therewas Dundee6boys on therewho hadmoved to Bolton to live so thatthey could go to the all-nighters.Thisgivesyou an idea of what the northernpunterswere like.... Therewas a coupleof youngNorthernboys sittingat the frontof the coach and three or four ofthe localthugswerepickingon them. One of the Dundeeboys shit into thispaperbag on the back of thebus, ranup andsmacked t into thisthug'sfaceFigure3. Airbourne6TsAll-Nighter,100 Club, London,photographed yElaineConstantine.Used bypermission.

6. Dundee is a town on the east coast of Scotland, north of Edinburgh.

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Back * Voices of Hate, Sounds of Hybridityandsaid in his strongDundeevoice, "Youyerfucker." thought,"Whey,hisis a greatbig family thing."Youfelt you belonged (Darge1997)

The story-although not for the squeamish-illustrates the point that the"northern scene" brought people together in unexpected ways. The"Dundee boys," a product of tough working-class male cultures whowould not shirk from violent confrontation, became the protectors of apair of soul fans being persecuted by vindictive local men who objectedto soul boys' deviation from working-class masculinity.Tim Ashibende, a black soul fan from Stoke and a regular at the WiganCasino, remembers the heat generated in the all-nighters: "You justwalked in and it just hit you instantly. There was all these smells as well.You'd walk into the toilets and it would stink of Brut [an inexpensivemen's cologne]. It stank. People would go in there with a sweaty T-shirt,change into a new one and spray the Brut on. You'd go into the Casino ina white T-Shirtand you'd come out with orange stains on it. There wouldbe liquid nicotine coming off the ceiling, a combination of condensationfrom the sweat and the cigarette smoke." Butch, a white DJ and closefriend of Tim's, added: "The scene was predominantly working class andthe music was and is black American. The dedication and love of themusic is incredible. It was addictive-the raw emotion of it. There arepeople who have a predisposition to northern [soul]. The emotional makeup has to be right. On the dance floor you'll see the 'soul grimace' on theirface" (Dobson 1997).As Butch's remark indicates, the scene is still in existence. It has lastedprecisely because it captures a dramatic tension between the personal tes-timony of triumph, love, and despair and uplifting and transcendentdance arrangements. (For example, Danny Monday's "Baby, withoutYou" or Linda Jones' ecstatic "I Just Can't Live My Life (without YouBabe)" are deep soul records appropriate for dancing.) The prosaic pas-sion of its devotees defies and protects the scene from the incursion ofany trendy affectedness, but keeping track of the latest big records-many of which are covered up with false titles by DJs-is sometimesplain hard work. "It's research," as one fan told me.Women have always been centrally involved in the scene, but the menare the main collectors and DJs. "Women can be just as obsessed withvinyl as the men, but on the whole the boyfriends buy the records andspend the women's hard-earned cash," suggests fan Elaine Constantine(1997). Elaine was first exposed to northern soul at school in Bury, northof Manchester, and later became a devoted soul fan after becoming disil-lusioned with the "Scooter"scene.7 She continues, "Isaw one guy outside

7. The "Scooter" scene was an offshoot of mod subculture.

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BMRJournalThe Ritz in Manchester a few months ago and he had scratches all overhis neck. They were that deep that they'd gone green. I said to him, 'Oh,what happened to you?' He said, 'Oh, me wife attacked me and she burntall me dancing shoes so I couldn't go to any more niters.' I looked downat his feet and he was wearing carpet slippers." Many women on thescene said that one of its attractions is that it is a safe place to go alone.Sue Henderson (1997) comments, "I could go down to niters by myselfand different people would talk to me. But I am not going to get somedrunken slob come and chat me up because I'm a girl sitting by myself. Ican't think of anywhere else which is like that."The 1970s were characterized by violence and a crisis around popularracism. "Soulies" looking back now speak of the enduring friendlinesswithin the scene that also offered a relatively safe place for black fans.Tim Ashibende (1997) recalls, "For me, socializing in general during theseventies wasn't the safest thing to do as a black person. That's what Iloved about the northern scene-if you were into the music, that was allthe credentials you needed. I don't doubt there were a whole bunch ofracists on the scene, but I've never actually had any problems." Yet, trav-eling to venues could be dangerous, particularly because drinkers wouldbe leaving the local pubs just as the all-nighters were about to begin.8Dean Anderson (1997), a black fan and well-known DJ from Newark,near Nottingham, remembers a particularly harrowing journey to theCasino:

I was always very paranoidabout stopping at service stations.In the olddays on the M62,you'd always get coachloads of footballfans. Thisnightwe stopped and I was playing on one of the pinballmachinesclose to theentrance.Clive who was mixed racewas across he room.Allof a sudden thedoorsopened and these lads walked in, must have been twelve blokes,andtheytook one look at me andin unisontheystartedchanting"SiegHeil,SiegHeil,Sieg Heil."

Dean and his friend made for the crowded restaurant, where they hopedthat they would be safe:One by one each of these blokes came up to us right in our faces and saidthings like, "Wedon't want to beat you up lads,we want you to come out-side so thatwe cankillyer."It was [as]if it was rehearsedand sayingevery-thingunder the sun, theythought theycouldterrorizeus intogoing outside.Mywhite mates werejustashamed.They'dneverexperiencedanything ikethat,and they reallyfelt as blackas we did when we were sat at the table.8. According to the licensing law in the United Kingdom, public houses-"pubs"-couldnot serve alcohol after 11:00 P.M.

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Back * Voices of Hate, Sounds of HybridityWhentheyrealised heycouldn'tget us, theyturnedto one of the white lads,got himby the scruffof the neckandsaid "Don'tmix "Thosewordsjust ringin my mind....Therewas a table behindus and there were two ladies and two men.Thelady was fromLiverpool.She stood up in the restaurantand she said "Areyou people in this restaurant o weak, have you seen what these two ladshave beenthroughfor the last fifteenminutes?Isanyone willing to standupwith them?"The whole restaurantwent quiet.Shesaid,"Look ads,we'll bewith you, we'll walk you out to yourcar."Honestly, ortenminutes we did-n'tdarego anywhere.Tenminutes we pluckedup thecourageandtheysaid,"Comeon we'll walkwith you to your car."So therewas these two womenfrom Liverpoolwith their husbands and they walked with us to our car.Theywere the only people who spokeup in the whole restaurant, nd theydraggedtheir husbandsand said,"Comeon areyou going to walk out withthese lads?If they get it, you get it."Theywalked with us to the car.Itwasthe worst momentin my life, that whole half an hour seemed like a day andI went to the allnighterandI don'tknowwhathappenedthatnight.It was-n't the first night I'd been to the Casino luckily because if it had been Iwouldn'thave gone again.This incident offers a microcosm of the cultural politics of 1970s Britain.

The racist skinheads confronted and attacked not only black people butalso "race traitors," admonished for their "mixing." Also, the whiteonlookers in the service station were silent bystanders until two womenfrom Liverpool broke the spell of white complicity. Through embarrass-ing their husbands into action they sanctioned a moment of braveantiracist concert.For all these palpable moments of solidarity and the overt antiracistethos of the northern scene, the orientation of northern fans to towardblack music also shows ambivalences. Tim Ashibende has noted the gapbetween the professed devotion to the music and the lack of understand-ing of the people who made it: "[P]recious little is known about the peo-ple behind the music we love; the artists, songwriters, producers. Labelowners and so on who've given us those vinyl masterpieces. In contrast,we know plenty about labels, matrix numbers, discographies, alternativeversions, label connections and the like; the lack of available knowledgeand information about the former is conspicuous in its absence, and hashistorically given rise to misinformation, myths, and in some instances,downright fiction " (Ashibende 1995, 3). The end result has been to gen-erate elaborate and sometimes pernicious "ghetto lore": "How manytimes have you heard that such-and-such an artist must now be 'washingcars' or 'waiting tables' in Detroit. ... I would suggest that it renders ussomewhat guilty of racial stereotyping; a paradox for a scene whichprides itself on being socially aware, and open-minded" (3).

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Figure 4. Black on White:Jeff's Tattooof Gene Chandler,photographedbyElaine Constantine. Used by permission.a.;tz~ ~ .1..v.-

Tim Ashibende has visited the United States on numerous occasionssince 1979. During these visits, he has recorded interviews with numer-ous musicians and singers. He reflected in an interview: "Maybe it isbecause I am a black guy, but I want to know about the people who madethe music and the stories that are behind the great northern records. Yousee for a lot of people it's just about owning the vinyl.... It's a commod-ity to buy and own. The thing, is there's almost no interest beyond that.I'm not sure if some of the white guys who are on the scene really careabout the people who made the music.... I wonder what people thinkthey're doing when they're buying that piece of rare vinyl." The interestfor some white soul fans in black people is only as deep as the grooves intheir beloved records.

Echoing the point raised by Adorno, quoted earlier on in this article,blackness thus becomes a "coloristic effect" and not a reflection of the

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everyday existence of black America. For Tim, reaching out and makingconnections with the ordinary lives of black artists offers a potential tobring the human traces frozen on those 45s to life.It'sonly when you startto speakto artiststhatyou get a sense of the kind ofpeople they are.Manyof them aredoingOK,they'renot down in the gutterof some ghetto. They're ust strugglingto lead a good life. The amount oftimes those people have said, "Ohyou've got that record?I've never evenseen that record. didn'tthinkthecompanyreleasedthat record."Or,they'dsay it was only releasedto radiostations.You aretalkingto the artists andtheydon't havea copyof therecords hemselves.It's when you'redoingthatthatyou startto realise, "Christ, hese records are as rareas rockinghorseshit "(Ashibende 1997)

Soul singers often received shoddy treatment from label owners andwere too often subjected to crass exploitation. That fans such as Tim arereturning to black artists the lost voice of their youth by reuniting themwith their records is a wondrous irony. The routes of vinyl traffic arereversed as these sounds are returned from the industrial heartland ofEngland where, unbeknownst to the people who made them, they havebeen filling dance floors for close to thirty years.

Although the beginnings of the movement are distinctly "northern,"the culture of northern soul itself is almost placeless. Toward the end ofthe 1970s, the attendance at the Wigan Casino started to wane on somenights. The playing of white pop records and custom-made "British soul"disillusioned the die-hard soul fraternity. This came to head when theCasino DJs pushed a version of Doris Troy's "I'll Do Anything" coveredunder the name Lenny Gamble. The tune was in fact recorded by noneother than BBCRadio 1 DJTony Blackburn, an icon of ersatz mainstreampop culture. A rift emerged, partly as the result of the increasing presenceof white pop music combined with a disagreement over the program-ming of moder (1970s and 1980s) versus 1960s soul. In the 1980s, theTop of the World club in Stafford brought the focus back to the pursuit of"newies"-unknown 1960s tracks-under the direction of DJs Keb Dargeand Guy Hennigan, dubbed the "Sixties Mafia." Today, the most highlyreputed northern soul niter is hosted at the 100 Club in London, run byAdy Croasdell. He remembers: "Towards the late seventies I think peoplehad got fed up with the 'northernness' of the northern soul scene, in thatit was only the dance beat and the speed of the record that seem to mat-ter. The soulfulness of the records was getting less and less, it was moreof a dance culture than a soul culture. In 1979 I started the 6Ts club withmy partner Randy Cozens and that coincided with a Mod revival, andhere we are 18 years later" (Croasdell 1997).

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Today, its almost total disregard for the trappings of contemporarystyle and fashion makes the northern soul scene unique. At the 100 Clubin London, newly converted mods mix with thirty-year soul veterans;obsessive collectors perch over boxes of vinyl as if praying for an elusivediscovery. The one thing that holds these disparate people together is anobsession with the music. "As long as you're respectful of the scene, thenyou're accepted regardless of who you are," comments Rob Holmes(1997), a 100 Club regular. "People in the niters are there for the same rea-son, spinning away to some fucking good sounds. You remember therecords that were played there, you remember a particularly good spinand where you were when you heard that new tune for the first time.There are people who go who can't dance at all but they are totallyaccepted because their hearts are in the right place." The typical 100 Clubcrowd is composed of a diverse mixture of people from France, Spain,and all over Britain assembled to hear exclusive tunes played by the ros-ter of DJs.

Ady Croasdell (1997) sums up his clientele as "anybody from the per-manently unemployed to the bank managing director." Today the sceneis torn between two impulses. As fans return to the scene, there is a grow-ing tendency toward nostalgia. Guy Hennigan (1997) comments: "Thesoul scene in the North is overexposed. The people who are coming backon the scene are forty years old and don't have the patience to listen tosomething they haven't heard before, and there are people who want toplay to that and reinforce it." The openness and transgenerationalstrength of northern soul can also be a weakness. Butch, also known asMark Dobson, widely recognized as the country's leading "new" 1960sDJ and a regular at the 100 Club, maintains that in order for the scene tosustain itself, it needs other DJs to push new discoveries: "I get a buzzwhen I'm at the 100 Club, but at other venues I can't wait to get off. It'ssimple for DJ's who play 'oldies' because they just stick with the estab-lished big records. The real challenge is to break a new record and to runthe risk of clearing the dance floor" (Dobson 1997). Inflated record pricesresulting from the advent of affluent "cheque book soulies" will make itharder for new DJs to acquire exclusive records. Equally, in the 1990s DJsplayed more R&B in an attempt to find new music that for some puristshad no place in the northern soul canon.Well before the British rave scene of the late 1980s, northern soul madetraveling and after-hours dance culture a way of life. Its music has weath-ered the test of time in ways that few of its contemporary equivalentscould hope to match. The great northern soul records, many of whichwere recorded in one or two takes, capture a transcendent moment ofhope that somehow defies the boundaries of time, space, and culture.

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Paradoxically, it is the apparent openness of the northern soul scenealongside the opaque nature of its inner workings that make it one of themost influential and durable underground movements in the history ofBritish popular culture.White Noise:Music, Racism,and Hybridity

Returning now to the relationship between skinhead culture and blackmusic, I want to examine the ways in which skinheadism was whitenedin terms of the music that became associated with it. The music of the firstgeneration of skinheads-that is, Jamaican ska and rocksteady-enjoyeda revival in the late 1970s and early 1980s. This "second-wave revival" ofJamaican music, this time played by bands like the Specials, Madness,and Selecter, whose members were all bor and raised in Britain, madeexplicit the imprint of Jamaican music that was partially concealed inskinhead culture. This racially mixed music scene came to be known as"2 Tone," after the record label of the same name, and took transracialdialogue to new levels (Gilroy and Lawrence 1988). It was also met withhostility by racist skinheads both inside and outside the scene (Marshall,1991, 99). At this time, expressly white-power rock bands were alsoemerging as an offshoot of the more ambiguous connection between skin-headism and white chauvinism. A key figure in this development was IanStuart Donaldson, who broke away from the National Front's WhiteNoise Music Club and set up under the name Blood and Honour.Donaldson's career bears closer discussion, because as a leading figure inthe European racist rock scene, he is unrivaled.Stuart Donaldson was born in Poulton-le-Fylde in Lancashire in thelate 1950s. A fan of the Rolling Stones and other blues-inspired 1960s rockbands, he formed a band called the Tumbling Dice in the mid-1970s thatplayed the local working-men's clubs (Loow 1998, 139). In 1977, the bandchanged its name to Skrewdriver and released its first single entitled"You'reSo Dumb" on Chiswick Records. The band veered away from theanarchism of the punk scene toward racist politics and a heavymetal/hard-rock sound.As part of this shift, on its album After the Fire Skrewdriver coveredLynyrd Skynyrd's "Sweet Home Alabama." They did so as an expressionof redneck sympathy, missing the nuances contained within the song andits defense of a more complicated Southern whiteness but providinginteresting evidence that even within the voices of hate there are some-times unconscious traces of sonic hybridity.Lynyrd Skynyrd recorded the original "Sweet Home Alabama" in 1973,and it fast became a quintessential Southern rock anthem. The record was

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largely a response to Neil Young's 1970 song "Southern Man" (from hisalbum AftertheGoldRush)and "Alabama" (from his Harvestalbum), bothof which included pronouncements against Southern racism. LynyrdSkynyrd were from Jacksonville, Florida, but spent their early recordingcareers in Muscle Shoals, Alabama. The area was known primarily as anR&B and soul-music recording center and was renowned for its studios(Wexler 1993, 193). Many of the session musicians were white and includ-ed such figures as the drummer Roger Hawkins, who recorded exten-sively with Aretha Franklin, and guitarist Jimmy Johnson, who workedwith Otis Redding, Wilson Pickett, Percy Sledge, Clarence Carter, andBobby Womack. Despite the intensities of segregation and racism duringthe 1960s, behind the door of the studio there existed an integrated stu-dio culture where black and white musicians associated freely.In 1970, Lynyrd Skynyrd's manager, Alan Walden, who mostly man-aged soul groups and was the brother of Otis Redding's manager PhilWalden, arranged for the band to record at Quinvy Studios in neighbor-ing Sheffield, Alabama. This was the studio where Percy Sledge cut thetimeless hit "When a Man Loves a Woman." The band went on to forge arelationship with Jimmy Johnson and cut tracks at Muscle Shoals Sound,including the first version of their epic "Freebird." It is interesting to notethat "Sweet Home Alabama" acknowledges the involvement of whiteSouthern musicians in black music as a response to the image of the red-neck that is very much central to Neil Young's portrayal of the South.Leon Russell had dubbed the all-white Muscle Shoals Rhythm Section"The Swampers" after he had recorded with them. The rhythm sectionincluded Roger Hawkins on drums, Jimmy Johnson on guitar, DavidHood on bass, and Barry Beckett on keyboards. Their list of recordingcredits reads like a who's who of soul music, including artists from JamesBrown to Millie Jackson (Fuqua 1991, 41). Lynyrd Skynyrd honored theband by dedicating a verse of "Sweet Home Alabama" to them:

Now Muscle Shoalshas got the SwampersThey'vebeen know to picka song or two (Yes, hey do)Lordthey get me off so muchThey pickme up when I am feelingblueNow how aboutyou?The song is typically interpreted as a redneck cri de coeur, but in fact itcombines a subtle rejection of George Wallace's segregationist politicsand a celebration of Muscle Shoals' integrated recording culture. Leadsinger Ronnie Van Zant himself grew up in a racially mixed working-class neighborhood and as a young person first sang in church with achoir of black women gospel singers. All this complicated the "rebel

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image" that in large part was encouraged as a marketing tool by theband's record company.In its cover of the song, Skrewdriver replaced the verse commemorat-ing the Muscle Shoals Swampers with a eulogy to the Ku Klux Klan,rewriting the last verse in the following way:Themcarpetbaggersried to swampherBut to theKlanwe all camethroughLord the Klanthey give me so muchTheypickme up when I am feelingblueHow aboutyou?'

It is impossible to know whether the excision and insertion of this newversion was done consciously or not. The original verse probably just didnot make sense to Donaldson and his band of white supremacists. Theend result was that the the nuances contained within the song and itsdefense of a more complicated Southern whiteness were missing. All thesonic traces of racial dialogue were written over with the voice of aninsurgent racism.9The significance of Skrewdriver is hard to overstate; it became a touch-stone of racist authenticity and established the heavy-metal sound as theform among white supremacist bands. Skrewdriver also toured, makingconnections with racist music scenes in East and West Germany, Holland,Belgium, Sweden, France, Canada, Brazil, and Australia (Hamm 1993,35). Indeed, the international networks evident in the racist rock scenetoday were mapped initially through Skrewdriver's international circuitof live gigs. What was important about Ian Stuart Donaldson was hisview of the potential for music to unite racists across Europe through gui-tars and sound, without the cumbersome apparatus and regalia of polit-ical parties.Conclusion

Two points require emphasis by way of conclusion. First, black musiccan be situated within racist cultures that bear a complex hybrid history.Some of these traces remain opaque, be they in the form of the blues roots(via the Rolling Stones) of the white-power group Skrewdriver or the9. The best postmoder antidote to Skrewdriver's bile is the Leningrad Cowboys' ver-sion of "Sweet Home Alabama" (Leningrad Cowboys and the Alexandrov Red ArmyEnsemble, Total Balalaika Show). This live recording includes a faithful reproduction of theLynyrd Skynyrd version, complete with a tribute verse about Muscle Shoals and with theaddition of a Rusian orchestra leitmotif provided by the Alexandrov Red Army Ensemble.The result is an extraordinary cocktail of southern rock, Finnish surrealism, and the meterof the Soviet parade ground.

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BMRJournalJamaican rhythms that bring the Skinhead Moonstomp to life. What Iwant to stress here is that in the everyday lives of white people, infatua-tion with black music can exist alongside overt racism without a neces-sary contradiction. This was brought into sharp focus for me personallyin the 1990s during an argument I once had while working on a projectwith my colleague Anoop Nayak (see also Nayak 1999). Daniel was a fif-teen-year-old skinhead from the English Midlands. He was not a follow-er of Skrewdriver but rather a devotee of rave and house music. I tried touse the fact that house music was crucially influenced by black gay DJsin Chicago before it was imported to Britain. Something of an antiracistpantomime ensued in which I insisted, "Oh yes, it is black," and Danielreplied, "Oh no, it isn't."I cautioned Daniel that if he threw all black peo-ple out of the country, then his music would go with it. A moment ofsilent reflection ensued, and Daniel cocked his head to one side. He final-ly replied, "No, because we will still have the tapes, won't we " Black cul-ture without black people: problem solved. It struck me afterward thatthis was a kind of a triumph and perversion of Walter Benjamin's well-known ideas about the possibilities of the mechanical reproduction ofculture. Here, black music becomes, to use Franz Fanon's phrase, "anobject amongst objects," where its sonic effects and pleasures can be sep-arated from any responsibilty to the human beings that created it.Ultimately, the music has no flesh or sinew because it lives on in "thetapes" alone.Second, I want to argue cautiously that the embrace of black music inwhite worlds can possess a latent and transgressive dowry. As I pointedout in the introduction, critics such as Theodor Adorno emphasized thatthe commodification of music both ossified human creativity and pro-duced soporific effects in its listeners. But this view does not appreciatethat also preserved in the grooves of the vinyl are the voices and soundsof those who created the music. One of the limits of much sociologicalwriting on music is that it often pays little attention to the content andsound of black music. Rather, what are privileged are its social effects tothe degree that little attention is paid to why particular genres of musicare so compelling.Common to all the early recordings of reggae and soul is that theyapprehend a live moment that encapsulates all of the nuances and condi-tions of production in the studio. That these records were made with min-imal amounts of overdubbing or multitrack recording emphasizes theirimmediacy and intensity. Their allure is largely derived from this "real-time" quality. There is no index to help us recover these registers or toidentify those responsible for creating them. However, their existenceoffers an invitation, which is not obligatory, to respond. As the white

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vinyl archaeologists scrutinize record labels for scraps of informationabout production or songwriting credits, they are reaching into a worldwhere black people lived not as a coloristic effect but as complicatedhuman beings. As Tim Ashibende noted, putting the "sounds" and the"people" back together may disrupt racism's objectifying caricatures andstereotypes. It is certainly true that for some of the soul fans that I haveinterviewed, their encounter with black music has led them to read aboutthe political culture of the Civil Rights movement and to understand thehistoric social forces embodied in their favorite records. It is easy to dis-miss this as trivial, but to do so would be to miss the role that black musiccan play engendering critical thinking in the space of everyday life. Thisform of reckoning with racism and racial supremacy is by no means auto-matic; rather, it is a latent potential because history and meaning areenshrined-both explicitly and implicitly-in the music itself.

Finally, the voices of hate can also conceal the sounds of hybridity.Deracinated and severed from its British roots, skinheadism has spread toGermany, Russia, Brazil, Australia, Sweden, Denmark, Norway, andFrance (Pilkington 1996; Fangen 1999). As I have tried to argue, the poli-tics of the reception of black music need to be evaluated carefully in termsof time and place. But it is not just the racist incarnations of skinheadismthat have been globalized; its complexities, hitherto hidden from publicview, have also been offered up to the forces of global dissemination.Germany, where young people have embraced some of the styles ofEnglish chauvinism and which has also become something of a mecca forracist skinheads, has also imported some other aspects of its cognatestyles. On a cold December night in 1997, I made my way to meet my oldfriend, poet and sociological traveler Flemming R0gilds-somewhat indisbelief-at a northern soul all-nighter in East Berlin. Arriving at theVolksbiihne, a Brechtian theater on Rosa Luxembourg Platz, I found adance floor full of young Germans and a few Turks and Africans immac-ulately turned out in Ben Sherman shirts, Fred Perrys, Crombies, Levijeans, and Mary Quant styles. Records by Melba Moore, MajorLance, andGene Chandler filled the dance floor. Here, black music was being usedas a resource to foster a more tolerant way of being a young European. Atthe end of a long and inspiring night I remember walking out in the daz-zle of daylight. Through the mist, I could see the red-and-white televisiontower that dominates the East Berlin skyline. This was northern soul along way from Wigan and black music finding a new home.

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148 BMRJournalDISCOGRAPHY

Jones, Linda. I just can't live my life (without you babe). WB 7278 (1969).Leningrad Cowboys and the Alexandrov Red Army Ensemble. Totalbalalaika how: Helsinkiconcert. Pluto CD 7004 (1993).Lynyrd Skynyrd. Sweet home Alabama. (1974).Monday, Danny. Baby, without you. Moder 1025 (1966).Skrewdriver. After thefire. Rock-O-Rama RRR75 (1988).Symaryp. Skinhead moonstomp. Skinheadmoonstomp-ha lbum.Trojan187 (1980).Young, Neil. After thegold rush. Reprise 7599-27243-2 (1970)..Harvest. Reprise 7599-27239-2 (1972).

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Verso..2000. Between camps: Nations, cultures and the allure of race. London: Allen LanePenguin Press.Gilroy, Paul, and Errol Lawrence. 1988. Two tone Britain: White and black youth and thepolitics of anti-racism. In Multi-racist Britain, edited by Philip Cohen and Harwant S.Bains, 121-155. London: Macmillan Education.Griffiths, Marc. 1995. Bosssounds:Classicskinheadreggae.Dunoon, Scotland: S. T.Publishing.Hamm, Mark. 1993. Americanskinheads:The criminologyand controlof hate crime. Westport,Conn.: Praeger.Healy, Murray. 1996. Gay skins:Class, masculinity,and queerappropriation.London: Cassell.Hebdige, Dick. 1979. Subculture:Themeaning of style. London: Methuen.1981. Skinheads and the search for a white working-class identity. New Socialist(September): 38..1982. This is England And they don't live here. In Skinhead,edited by Nick Knight,26-35. London: Omnibus Press.Hennigan, Guy. 1997. Interview with the author. Saddleworth, England, October 21.Henderson, Sue. 1997. Interview with the author. London, September 27.



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