‘Can they play? Can they bury people? Yes’

Goldie: Kemistry and Storm (The Diptych) by Eddie Otchere (1995)

I remember riding my bike up Camden High Street and going past Red or Dead. I saw this girl Kemi, or Kemistry. She was mixed race, like me, with blond dreadlocks. Unbelievable! We ended up going for coffee and started dating. She and her friend Storm took me to Fabio and Grooverider’s night Rage. It was a cauldron of people, with their tops off on podiums, giving it loads. It blew my mind.

I wanted to make music. They just wanted to play it. If I had a pound for every hour that Kemistry and Storm spent in front of those decks, I’d be a billionaire. The question of them being women wasn’t a thing. Can they play? Yes. Can they bury people? Yes. That’s it.

It was a tragic love story. Kemi knew she was going to die young. On the night of the car accident [in April 1999], they were on their way to a gig they weren’t supposed to go to, filling in for someone. I feel a lot for Storm, having to carry that in her heart, but I think Kemi lives inside her anyway. She lives inside of me, for sure. There’s a picture of her in my studio in Thailand and, whenever I’m in arrangement mode, I look up and say: “Is that all right, Kem?” And I get the answers I need.

‘It’s not just bars for the sake of bars’

Estelle: Slick Rick by Janette Beckman (1989)

This photo feels so new, so today. You could put any artist’s head on that image – from Dave to Kano – and it would still feel relevant. Even though Rick lived in the US, he stayed authentically himself. For me, his style and storytelling laid the foundation for British hip-hop. It’s not just bars for the sake of bars. In Black British music, we tell stories. That’s the lineage he’s left.

Now I live in the US, there’s no version of me that gets to be out here without Slick Rick. Every studio I walk into, someone says something about the accent. But it’s “the Slick Rick accent”, not English. When I got the call to do a voiceover on his 2025 album Victory, I was like: “Do you want me to do anything else? Make you some toast?” It was the same when I was asked to perform with him at this year’s Mobos. I don’t play about giving this man his props. He’s our legend – and he’s also my big bro.

‘We’re being swept under the carpet’

Dennis Bovell: Linton Kwesi Johnson and Darcus Howe at the Race Today offices in Brixton (1979)

This brings back so many memories of those two battling to get Race Today on shelves. Their publications were extraordinary – there hasn’t been a newspaper or journal like it since. The first few gigs we did with Linton were heavily tied in with Race Today. A school friend of Linton’s had told him: “If you’re going to mix music with your poetry, I suggest you involve Dennis Bovell.”

At the time, Linton was working as a journalist for the BBC, and he came to interview my group, Matumbi. That’s when he asked if I would come on board. Two years passed, then suddenly he turned up at my house and said: “I’ve got some time to do some recording this weekend. Are you free?”

I’d always regarded Linton’s words as the most powerful and accurate coming from these shores. He dared to say what everyone else was thinking. He had the strength to say: “We’re being swept under the carpet. We’re being marginalised.” I wanted to lend my musicality to that kind of lyric. We were spreading the word – and there’s still a lot to be said.

‘These lads had pickaxe handles’

Fine Young Cannibal Roland Gift: Poster for the Beat’s debut studio album, I Just Can’t Stop It (1980)

When the Beat played in Hull, the keyboard player of my band Akrylykz gave them our demo and they invited us on tour. That was great, apart from when we played in Birmingham. At a fish and chip shop, these lads pulled up with what we thought were rolled-up posters for us to sign but were actually pickaxe handles. Gigs were like that back then – rough and ready, with a lot of fighting between skins, mods and punks.

In 1980, we visited the Beat while they were recording I Just Can’t Stop It at the Roundhouse studios in London. We were across the road in Chalk Farm studios, which was much smaller and not as posh. A few years later, both bands had split up, and Andy Cox and Everett Morton [from the Beat] were looking for a singer for a new band. Somebody remembered me and we became Fine Young Cannibals.

The funnest part was when everything was new: going on Top of the Pops or The Tube, hearing our song on the radio, being taken out by record companies for Japanese food. I’d sometimes see people staring and think: “Do they want to fight?” But it would just be because we’d been on the cover of a magazine.

‘Drinks flow and everyone’s laughing’

Arlo Parks: Fabio and Grooverider observe a street party on Tottenham Court Road by Dave Swindells (1988)

I love the sense of euphoria in this photo. It’s so full of life. I recently went to a Juneteenth street party in New York and there’s something about being in the street – this special sense of magic. You can feel the heat in the air, people are chatting, drinks are flowing, everyone’s laughing. It’s a part of the city. It’s an extra level of celebration and community.

I’ve been a student of club culture for the past few years. Fabio and Grooverider were so instrumental in bringing drum’n’bass to life. When I was learning about the late 80s rave scene, I heard a remix of Fools Gold by the Stone Roses. Only later did I click that it was by Grooverider. I love the fact that, when they were on the pirate radio station Faze 1, they were playing a lot of soul, hip-hop, disco and house. They’re sonic explorers with an adventurous, genre-less love of music. There’s this DIY energy to it – they’re invested in the grassroots, building a legacy from the ground up and uplifting other artists through their own record labels.

‘He laid the ground for people like me’

Courtney Pine: Folder for sheet music owned by Leslie “Jiver” Hutchinson (1930s)

I’ve been researching Black musicians right back to John Blanke, an African man who played trumpet for Henry VIII. Leslie Hutchinson’s name came up. I don’t even know his music – I just know he was a trumpeter who came from Jamaica and went into the military. He was refused several times, but he was the best and, despite all the naysayers, became the military band leader. He came with his skills and a mission to be the best. He laid the ground for people like me to follow.

My connection to him is kind of spooky. I did a BBC Radio show on him, have spoken to his daughter, jazz singer Elaine Delmar, a couple of times, and he was born on 18 March, like me. To me, it’s mind-blowing that there are actually manuscripts of his work – that somebody, back in the 1940s and 50s, was scoring their ideas and making it applicable to a big band setting. At that time, so many musicians from the Caribbean were concocting what jazz could be. Not all of them are known, but we do our best to make people aware of their legacy. This folder is a time capsule.

‘I performed on streets I roamed as a kid’

AJ Tracey: Five girls at Notting Hill carnival by Johny Pitts (2010)

This picture perfectly encapsulates the spirit of carnival. You can feel the energy of the day and the effort they put into getting ready for a celebration of our culture. I grew up in Ladbroke Grove, west London, and I’m 32, so I would say I’ve been to at least 25 carnivals. I’m Trini, so it means a lot to me. It’s a piece of our culture that exists here. I’m into soca, but I also love hearing Vybz Kartel or old-school Bob Marley – anything that’s going to put me in a positive mood. Every year you hear a wide range of Caribbean music and it’s always going to have an influence on me. At least 50% of the new songs I’ve got coming up have probably come out of carnival – dancehall, reggae and ragga.

I used to always go to Rampage [sound system], where the most energetic partygoers are. I saw So Solid Crew there and, eventually, when I became an artist, I got invited to perform myself. The first time was with Toddla T and Annie Mac, and I saw all my friends and family in the crowd. Performing in your own area, on the streets I used to roam as a kid is completely different to performing anywhere else. It was surreal.

‘Winning this was a big deal’

Stella, Renée and Jorja from Flo: Brit awards trophy designed by Slawn (2022)

Stella: This was our first Brit, our first proper award actually, so it was a big deal. The fact that Slawn is a Nigerian artist just made so much sense, given the role that other countries – especially Black countries – have played in the making of Britain.

Renée: It was incredible that his heritage was highlighted. Not just, “This person made an award” but, “This is where he’s from. This is the influence.” It felt so specific to our generation. We never want to chase awards, but recognition is one of the most important things. Seeing people like you doing amazing things can be so inspiring.

Jorja: We have people from so many different communities telling us that they connect to the emotion and rawness of what we do. But every time we accept an award, we’re doing it on behalf of all the girl groups that came before us – especially those with Black British members, like Little Mix and Sugababes. They made it possible for us.

• The Music Is Black: A British Story opens at the V&A East Museum, London, on 18 April.