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I’ve never been one to mourn celebrities. I have never really understood the logic of being sad that someone I don’t personally know has passed away. Until now, that is.

Even though I never met Benjamin Zephaniah, it feels like I knew him. His words and presence have always been there. No doubt, this is in no small part because he was a Birmingham icon, who grew up just down the road from me in Handsworth. He physically left the city as a young man, but Birmingham never left him. It was ever present in his accent and his commitment to his hometown.

His role in Peaky Blinders as Jimmy Jesus, a real-life Jamaican soldier from the 1920s, was the perfect role for him; an icon of the city, set in its iconic show. Zephaniah was a voice for the Black community in the UK in general, but Birmingham in particular. It is impossible to overestimate how much an inspiration it was to see a Black writer from the neighbourhood rise to prominence in the Eighties.

What made Zephaniah so special was that he didn’t change himself to be popular. He stayed true to his roots, his politics and himself. His dub poetry rose out of resistance to racism, hallmarked by his Rastafarian faith.

When Caribbean children first came to Britain in large numbers in the Sixties, they were deemed “education subnormal”, because of their “patois” – which was seen as “broken English”. Rastafarians were demonised as unruly ghetto youth, to be feared and policed. When the urban rebellions rocked the nation in the Eighties, in places like Brixton and Handsworth, the soundtrack was reggae – and the lyrics captured the resistance at the heart of Rastafari. These revolts further criminalised the image of Rastafarians and their trademark dreadlocks are still seen by some as a sign of dysfunction that can get a child banned from attending school.

But Zephaniah did not try to fit in to English poetry society or British society overall. Instead, he embraced the language and rhythm of his upbringing – and in doing so, he changed the establishment. He was dyslexic, left school at 13 and went on to become one of Britain most revered modern poets and a professor at Brunel – all while keeping his dreadlocks. Representation can often be a diversion from real change, but with his integrity and authenticity Zephaniah truly made a difference.

Yet he never let his fame or ambition get in the way of his politics. He remained on the front line of protest, marching against the Iraq invasion and for his cousin Mikey Powell, who died in Birmingham in police custody.

His poetry called out racism and he had harsh words for Black people who climbed the ladder and pulled it up behind them.

His principles were immortalised when he publicly rejected the Order of the British Empire (OBE) offered by Tony Blair’s government in 2003. His rejection was classic Zephaniah, when he wrote that his first thoughts were “up yours” to the invitation. Writing directly to those in power, he said: “No way Mr Blair; no way, Mrs Queen. I am profoundly anti-empire.”

At the time, this was a stunning breath of fresh air from someone not only refusing to play the game, but publicly rebuking those in power. We didn’t have social media back then. His notoriety was forged within the community; conversations about him were blasted straight into the mainstream. His poem, “Bought and Sold”, to me perfectly captures the feelings of what trying so hard to fit in was doing to Black artists:

Smart big awards and prize money

Is killing off black poetry

It’s not censors or dictators that are cutting up our art.

The lure of meeting royalty

And touching high society

Is damping creativity and eating at our heart.

This is one of my favourite Zephaniah poems – the description embodies everything he was not.

He will be sorely missed. He represented the heart and consciousness of Black Britain in a way that few ever have. He was the “people’s laureate”; a voice for the community that was so clear and unapologetic that it always cut through.

In honouring his memory, we should always remember to speak the truth loudly – and most of all, never change ourselves to seek “success”.

Kehinde Nkosi Andrews is a professor of Black Studies in the School of Social Sciences at Birmingham City University. He is the author of Back to Black: Retelling Black Radicalism for the 21st Century (2018) and Resisting Racism: Race, Inequality and the Black Supplementary School Movement (2013)

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The first-ever National Arts Centre Hip Hop Theatre Festival takes place from January 31–February 10, 2024. This new festival will celebrate and bring attention to the beautiful intersection that hip hop and theatre share. Apt613 sat down with the festival’s curators, Nina Lee Aquino (Artistic Director, English Theatre) and Rose-Ingrid Benjamin (Engagement Strategist, NAC), to talk about what bringing this festival to life means for hip hop and theatre communities.

Tell our readers a little bit about yourselves and your connection to hip-hop.

Aquino: I am the Artistic Director of English Theatre at the NAC. My role in programming the first NAC Hip Hop Theatre Festival has been a journey into understanding hip hop’s connection to theatre. My curiosity was piqued by a team member’s question: Why aren’t hip hop events considered theatre?

For me, the relationship between hip hop and theatre is profound. Theatre, a vivid medium of storytelling, and hip hop, a culture pulsating with the rhythms and stories of a community, both share a dynamic narrative power. Integrating hip hop into theatre opens new avenues for expression.

Benjamin: I am the Engagement Strategist at the National Arts Centre, artist, and curator of the NAC Hip Hop Theatre Festival. In many ways, hip hop gave me the permission to be bold, to rage, to speak up, and to fight back.

Hip hop became a soundtrack for a part of my identity that I rarely saw at school or on TV. Being the only Black kid in predominantly white spaces, I latched on to symbols and stories that helped me ground my experience. Artists like the Wyclef and Muzion were particularly influential because they sounded like my mom and ma tantes and oncles. In a world where we’re often told to stay in your lane, take up less space, make yourself smaller, and keep your head down, I see hip hop as a vehicle to say and be the opposite.

What are you most excited to see in this festival? What are you most excited for audiences to see?

Aquino: As someone new to the hip hop world, I’m eager to immerse myself, meet the artists, and experience everything from The Cypher to battle rap. The virtual panels”Can I Kick It Too? An Exploration of Queerness in Hip Hop” and “Dangerous Minds: In Conversation with Hip Hop” are particularly exciting. They offer a deeper dive into hip hop’s role in education and society.

Benjamin: Personally, I am stoked to be in the room for Cold Heat. To have a battle rap event programmed and hosted by the NAC is something that you don’t ever see. I’m also excited to welcome some of Canada’s top Black poets for The Old Black Maple. We have some of my faves from the slam world.

What do you think will be an important takeaway?

Aquino: I hope the festival provides audiences with a deeper, multifaceted understanding of hip hop culture and its significant influence on modern society. Showcasing hip hop’s role in shaping narratives and as a theatrical force, the festival aims to foster respect for hip hop as a vibrant theatrical form.

Benjamin: For hip hop heads, practitioners and those who love them, I hope that folks feel seen, honoured, and celebrated. I also hope that they see the heart behind the work—to write a love letter to a culture that shaped and formed so many of us.

I want folks to understand the diversity within hip hop communities, its deep roots, not just in the United States where it began, but right here at home. Too often hip hop and Black art has been relegated to the sidelines or as “urban” or “community programming” and not as an integral part of Canada’s artistic identity and imprint. So many of my hip hop heroes come from right here on our side of the border. May this festival inspire curiosity, exploration and challenge [people’s] personal ideas of what encompasses hip hop as a culture.

For someone not familiar with the history of hip hop in popular culture do you have any recommendations?

Benjamin: Shad, a Canadian rapper, hosts a Netflix show called Hip Hop Evolution that could be a great start for folks who want to learn more about the history and culture of hip hop.

Jon Corbin, a rapper and teacher from southern Ontario (who will be on the Dangerous Minds panel) co-wrote a resource geared to youth from grade 7–12 for Music Counts called #BlackMusicMatters, highlighting Black history in Canada through the lens of hip-hop.

This interview with the legendary Master T talks about hip hop’s start in Canada and how hip hop has developed here over the years.

Folks can go to the Ottawa Art Gallery and see their exhibit 83 ’til Infinity. It’s on until February and free of charge.

CBC’s Q has an episode that includes an oral history of “Northern Touch“, one of the most iconic Canadian hip hop collaborations.

2023 marked the 50th anniversary of hip hop. What are your hopes for the next 50?

Aquino: I hope hip hop continues to evolve and redefine its forms, intersecting with and influencing various art forms. It should break new ground, resisting any attempts to be boxed in. This festival represents just the beginning for the NAC to celebrate hip hop in all its facets—not just in text and theatre, but also in music, dance, and visual arts. Hip hop deserves a prominent place in the art world and in our lives, influencing and inspiring future generations.

Benjamin: I hope that folks continue to discover and fall in love with hip hop, not just as a musical genre but as a culture and breathing history of an oppressed people owning their voice and story. I look forward to the day where it won’t be an anomaly or a “special event” to program hip-hop next to the ballet or with an orchestra.

We are so excited for this festival and if you’re not sure what to get your loved ones for the holidays, tickets are on sale now at the NAC website.

Presented by NAC English Theatre, the NAC Hip Hop Theatre Festival runs from January 31 to February 10, 2024, featuring two concerts, two free panels and the spoken word presentation The Old Black Maple. Find out more online.

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(Credits: Far Out / Alamy)

When the term ‘rock and roll’ was first coined in 1954, the landscape of popular music changed indefinitely. While acts like Little Richard, Buddy Holly, and Jerry Lee Lewis quickly rose to the top of this cultural tidal wave, there was little dispute that Elvis Presley was king of the new sound. Elvis did not arrive on the scene fully formed, however, and were it not for the contributions of artists who had come before, it is possible that we would have never heard the name of Elvis Presley. One such artist who pioneered the revolution was Bill Haley.

‘Rock Around the Clock’ by Bill Haley and His Comets introduced rock ‘n’ roll to most mainstream audiences. First released in 1954, the single was re-released the year later and quickly reached number one on the charts. The short song may seem tame by today’s standards, but at the time, it was a revolutionary sound that paved the way for rock music and infected the hearts of teenagers everywhere.

Haley himself first started making music in 1948 before becoming a disc jockey in Pennsylvania. In the late 1940s and early ’50s, Haley occupied himself by making country and western music with his band, The Saddlemen, but it was his cover of the R&B hit ‘Rocket 88’ that set Haley and his Saddlemen on a course for rock ‘n’ roll greatness. The song was not a hit, but it planted the seeds in Haley’s mind to sell an R&B-influenced big-beat sound to teenage audiences. Some years later, having renamed his backing band to The Comets, Haley achieved this with ‘Rock Around the Clock’.

Obviously, the real origins of rock ‘n’ roll lie in the history of jazz and blues, predominantly the music of Black artists who were often uncredited or underappreciated for their contributions to the genre. It must be said, however, that Bill Haley was responsible for introducing rock ‘n’ roll to the masses, and without his music, the condition of popular music as a whole would be very different.

Despite this, once Haley burst onto the scene, he struggled to match the early success he had garnered with ‘Rock Around the Clock’. Soon enough, more energetic, radical, young and beautiful musicians like Little Richard and, of course, Elvis came onto the scene. An ageing and out-of-shape, Haley simply could not keep up with the young crowd and the rock ‘n’ roll acts that now dominated the charts; he was left in the dust.

For the remainder of his life, Haley enjoyed modest success living off the back of his early hits, embarking on tours and cashing in on a wave of 1950s nostalgia in the 1960s and 1970s. Try as he might, he could never eclipse his early singles or the impact that they had. The singer struggled with alcoholism during the latter part of his life, and it was reported in 1980 that he had been diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumour.

However, his third wife, Martha Velasco, who was with him during this time, denies this diagnosis, suspecting that he simply did not wish to continue touring anymore. Whatever the truth of it was, Haley was said to have behaved very strangely during his final days, painting his windows black and calling friends and family to ramble nonsensically at them. He died at home in February 1981 from a reported heart attack in bed.

If Elvis was the king of rock ‘n’ roll, then Bill Haley was surely one of the genre’s founding fathers. Although he could not compete with the number of hits produced by his contemporaries, he changed the face of popular music indefinitely.

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Patrick Varine is a Tribune-Review staff writer. You can contact Patrick by email at pvarine@triblive.com or via Twitter .

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A day before Thanksgiving, an American Holiday, I have only recently started celebrating in its bastardised form of Friendsgiving, Ed Bereal grants me a career highlight with an interview where he peels back on possibly one of the most influential and interesting art careers to come out of the West but also takes me on a tour through his beautiful house where he now lives with his wife and fellow artist Barbara Sternberger raising horses, and doing what he has done for the greater portion of his career: creating art, and passing on knowledge now no longer at the University of California or Western Washington University where he once taught but in art classes organized by his wife here in his house. ‘‘We’re about 12 miles from the Canadian border.’’ Bereal shares with me warmly. ‘‘My wife and I bought a farm up here, getting out of Los Angeles. And we are in a rather rural area. We bought this property because of the barn, which was a large building that we could convert to studios, shops and workspaces. So it worked out pretty well. We’re very comfortable.’’

Today, at age 86 and with the iconic moustache that has followed him for most of his time in the limelight, Bereal’s eyes are as sharp as his perspective as he shares with me that he has historically never cared for exhibitions. ‘‘I’ve never been one that has either hunted down exhibitions for myself or paid a lot of attention, except for a couple of friends whose work I get invited to see. I don’t pay a lot of attention to the art business. Let me put it that way. I am very much into art as an activity. I’m not that knocked out about the art business.’’ Bereal’s disposition to not partaking in a lot of exhibitions is what makes his participation in the 2023 Art Basel Miami 2023 exhibitions where he will be showcasing a selection of his work across his six-decades-long career that has been punctuated with world-like America; A Mercy Killing which was donated to the Smithsonian Museum. But exhibitions and the commercial part of the art business have never been the focus of Bereal’s career anyway. His art has been described as a ‘disturber of the peace’ while the artist himself has been described as ‘the most important activist artist you don’t know by Hyperallergic’, but Ed who has witnessed, worked with and helped shape the biggest art meets political activism moments of the last half a century wants to be described as a landscape artist. ‘‘I’m both a political cartoonist and a landscape artist’’ Bereal tells me when we talk about how he has been described in the media. ‘‘In the sense that I am working with the social-political landscape that I’m living through daily. So the landscape I’m living through right now has informed my art, or as the landscape 10 years ago, was informing my art and totally another way. So it takes me a while to make a piece. So that I can’t pop about every day, but I am taking note of what’s going on right now. And my question for myself is, can I in some way, encapsulate what’s happening right now? manipulate it, put it in an in an art and put it forth.’’

Ed Bereal may be one of the people who was seemingly born to do this – he told me his mother had told him that when he was born, he crawled over to a pencil and started to draw. His parents were active participants in the late 20th century Harlem Renaissance where Black artists and musicians would come into Central Avenue to play and even though by the time Bereal, was born in the late 1930s, the Harlem Renaissance had ended, it played some role in his interest in art and experience. By the 1950s, Bereal gained admission to Chouinard Art Institute to study art history in the late 1950s and studied privately with John Chamberlain for the majority of the 1960s. Soon after, he became the toast of the art scene, touted not just as the next big thing but the big thing. Reaching heights was almost unheard of for a black artist in the 60s. Unfortunately, this meant the artist was soon disconnected from the Black community he had come from. ‘‘I have had an awful lot of help. And a lot of support in the art world. I was. I was picked up by what I called the Major Leagues before I left art school. And I was busy being an artist in America and enjoying all the fruits of an artist who had great potential and was on his way up. I was getting a lot of applause at the time.’’ This would all change when Bereal found himself face to face with a machine gun on his way out of a bar on a 1965 evening.

From August 11 to 16, 1965, the Watts riots would shake Los Angeles as Black people protested for amongst many things high unemployment rates and racial discrimination. The riots remained the worst until Rodney King’s riots in 1992 which impacted nationwide conversation on segregation. Ed Bereal at the time, toast of the art scene in every sense of the word, was cocooned off in privilege, unaware of the political realities until he walked out of a bar into a machine gun pointed at his face. At this moment, Bereal recalls that the largest impact this had on him was that it forced him to examine how and why he was shocked. He remembers thinking that he wasn’t supposed to be surprised, the only reason he was surprised, he insists, is because he had not been ‘on the job’. Swayed by privilege, he had been almost disconnected from the very community that once fueled his authentic self – a thing core to his practice. Upon surviving the encounter, Bernal’s practice would forever change. 

‘‘I went back home and started writing. And I ended up trying to write a play about my experience and my awakening. The play that I was writing got so complex, that I needed to build a stage set that would reflect what was going on in my world, and a stage set that would reflect the power structure, the middle class, position and the whole scheme of things, the ghetto, and its position, and the whole scheme of things and how these all related to one another. The power structure, the middle class, the lower class, the class system, racism, sexism, all of it.’’ Needing a bigger stage to show his work, Bereal got to work building a stage set. The result was America: A Mercy Killing. The piece marked a turn in Bereal’s career. The response to this was such that even after being acquired by the Smithsonian, Bereal shares it was vandalized by a staff member who likely didn’t agree with the politics. ‘‘When I left somebody on the staff of the Smithsonian, attacked the piece and vandalised it, and broke a bunch of stuff. They didn’t like the politics. What happened was, the picture that you probably saw is the picture of the damaged piece. And that’s it, they have recently gotten some funding to repair the piece. And it’s gonna be on exhibit for one I’m told in the next couple of months. But the director of the Smithsonian, when he made a statement about the piece, that what amounted to the fact that this piece would never go on exhibit, as long as he was the director of the Smithsonian.’’

The director who made this statement, according to Bereal, has recently passed on and arrangements are currently being made for America: A Mercy Killing to be put on display at the Smithsonian for the first time.

America: A Mercy Killing is far from Bereal’s only work to get backlash. Not long after being radicalized by his experience at the 1965 insurrection, Bereal began working on the Bodacious Buggerrilla, an acting collective that at some point opened for the likes of Richard Pryor often considered the greatest comedian of all time, and was on PBS for a total of ten days before being pulled for being too much for casual viewing. 

Almost three decades later, Beetle looks back to the Bodacious Buggerrilla which was founded in 1968 in a Black Studies class at UC Riverside, with the fondest smile saying ‘‘The Bodacious Buggerrilla was probably the most creative circumstance that I’ve ever been involved in. Partly because it wasn’t just my creativity that was being tested, but I was part of a kind of a collective, a group of people who were not, who would never describe themselves as being artists. The Bodacious, according to Bereal, contained strangers, couples, housewives and students all coming together to make a statement by use of shock, satire, and humour to explore the environments they found themselves in. ‘‘We work primarily in the black ghetto, of Los Angeles, which is huge. And we became quite well known because we were worth, we were kind of the voice of the, of the, of the neighbourhood of the community. And we had a quality of the outrageous that made our consumers happy. And we also were a mirror of the committed community and, and and the culture. One person described the bodacious as both a mirror and a window. A mirror that made many of our audience look at themselves, as well as a window through which to see much of the rest of the world. It was a fantastic group of people doing some pretty fantastic stuff.’’

The Bodacious Buggerrilla would come into seemingly great fortune when they got commissioned into a series by PBS. Unfortunately but still a testament to the guttural truth the collective spoke to power, they were cancelled just ten days after being aired – not as a result of poor quality – Bereal noted that their work and talent and quality were constantly praised even in the conversion through their end on Cable TV. Bereal, a fan of Beyonce’s use of her Superbowl performance in 2016 to push the conversation into an area the mainstream society found uncomfortable still believes there are modern ways to push the conversation to uncomfortable but needed directions. Speaking on the possibility of a return of the Bodacious Buggerrilla in modern times when I asked him if the reality of Youtube and less monitored services would make it more possible today, Bereal isn’t against the idea and fully looks forward to the possibility. Just as he looks forward to more artists using their platforms to push the conversations into important albeit uncomfortable directions. ‘‘Now some young rappers need a political education. They have the microphone And maybe they have the microphone because an establishment gives them the microphone. Possibly because their politics are so underdeveloped. Other artists are speaking truth to power and, and to the degree that they think they can. But I would suspect that my recommendation would be that money is not everything. And you do owe even your consumers, you owe them the truth of where you came from.’’  Bereal says this with the empathy and understanding of someone who has once lost his way, disconnected from the authentic self that Bereal shares is integral to creating art. 

‘‘Are you familiar with winos? People who drink wine.’’ Bereal asks me, and when I say yes. He goes on. ‘‘Here, in the States, they hang around the liquor store. And their whole life is devoted to a bottle of wine. Otherwise, I know that you used to, I always loved talking to those guys, because they’re our version of philosophers. But this one gentleman told me, I’m not gonna say that you’re lying. But you sound like me when I’m lying. And I think looking at art is the same way, you can tell pretty much when somebody is very highly influenced, if not copying other artists, or AI, if you can tell whether they dug down deep into the kind of thing that they’re trying to do.’’ Bereal has been passing along lessons on art for most of his six-decades-long career, but today, at 86, the lesson he learnt when a machine gun was pressed on his face when he realized he had become disconnected from the social community, the people and the identity that fuel his authentic self, remains the most important for him to impact. And on that Wednesday evening – morning for him – Bereal shares them with me, ‘‘I think we’re all born with an original self, or an original, authentic self. And because we, as we drop out of our mothers, we drop into a social culture of one kind or another. That’s there to tell us who to be, and what to think, and how to act. And we lose the original aspect of ourselves. And that’s where an honest art comes from. And I would say to a young person, there’s, even though everybody’s in your ear, telling you all kinds of things. You better get in touch with yourself. I would say that to anyone. But certainly for sure to the young artist, who is trying to find out what he or she wants to talk about.’’

Words by Desmond Vincent

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Happy Holidays!

Name someone who mattered in Black culture in 2023, and tell us why:

Fani Willis — both positively and negatively. Folks lauded her with the RICO charges against Trump and she inspired a lot of memes. But on the other side, she’s wielding those same tactics against Young Thug. She’s at the center of two of the biggest legal stories in Atlanta and the country. — Mirtha Donastorg

Senator Raphael Warnock. As this country continues to hurl its way toward a battle between democracy and a dictatorship, Warnock is one of our strongest voices in Washington, as evident by the mad GOP rush to get rid of him. — Ernie Suggs

Halle Bailey was one to watch in 2023. I could not get enough of young Black girls reacting so authentically and beautifully to a Black Little Mermaid. My inner child felt so seen and my adult heart was so full. If that wasn’t enough, the superstar earned her first Grammy nomination as a solo artist with “Angel.” Plus, the release of “The Color Purple” is right around the corner. Bailey is playing Young Nettie in the latest adaption of Alice Walker’s famous novel, so we can continue to revel in her immense talent through the end of the year. Of course one of the most influential people of the year is from Atlanta! — Najja Parker

As far as Atlanta is concerned, I’d say Gunna is someone who mattered in Black culture. He ended last year as the target of unfair snitching allegations, and he ended this year with one of the most popular songs in the country and one of the best rap albums (which had zero features). — DeAsia Paige

André 3000: He’s back, and despite his own reluctance to understand his importance to Black culture, he still has something to say. His album was embraced by the hip-hop community and showed young artists that they need to continue to grow. — Todd Duncan

Radcliffe Bailey. His passing is a reminder of the successes and challenges for Atlanta Black arts community. — Gavin Godfrey

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