Discovery in reggae

I didn’t grow up with reggae.Not in the house, not even drifting in from somewhere else. No uncle with dreads leaning back in the armchair, preaching righteousness over some crackling bass. No stack of vinyl hidden in a cupboard. No smoky bar round the corner. No ancient speaker cabinet with a dent in it from the last party.

Just England. Flat, grey, polite England.Which is to say, there was no plan for reggae. I didn’t “get into it.” It got into me. Slipped in sideways, quiet as a cat. Like one of those takeaways you order half-asleep and forget about, then it turns up smelling like you’ve known it forever.

It started with a new job. New voices. People who didn’t move through the world the way I’d been taught to. One day I’m knee-deep in speaker talk with this lad Angus, northern grin, knows something you don’t, might tell you if you stick around. He’s got his own sound system. Common Unity. Newcastle-built. Not flash, not shiny. Just wood, screws, bass drivers, and stubborn love.

Reggae didn’t land in this country wrapped in press releases or pushed through the radio. It came on boats. In the pockets and memories of the Windrush generation. Dropped into a cold, suspicious Britain and told to behave. But sound doesn’t behave. Sound seeps through walls and floors. It rattles windows. It claims space.

When it planted itself here, it wasn’t just music. it was survival. No clubs letting you in? Build your own dancehall. No radio play? Start your own station. No invite? Throw your own.

That’s how you get a culture like this. Community built out of basslines. Resistance running through 18-inch speakers. The kind of pressure you feel in your ribcage, like someone’s knocking from the inside.

You don’t listen to a real sound system. You stand in front of it and it rearranges you. Shakes your organs into new positions. Bassline like a handshake from history. Firm, unblinking.

And reggae, it isn’t just “good music.” It’s music with a memory. Music that means somewhere. Jamaica, yeah. But also Lewisham, Moss Side, Bristol in the rain. Newcastle on a night when no sane person would be outside, but you dance anyway.

For me, it all clicked in Manchester. Old theatre. Roof leaking. Paint flaking off in strips. The whole place held together with flyers and sweat. Three sound systems: one Scottish, one local, one Geordie.

First tune drops. Low, heavy, slow enough to feel like it’s sneaking up on you. Hits you in the spine, then somehow in the jaw. Like it’s telling you something you’re not ready to say out loud. No one’s on their phone. No one’s performing for the room. People just are. Lads leaning into the bass bins with their eyes half shut. One bloke hugging a speaker like it’s his mum after a war.

Each system a different portal. Same truth, different language.

And it wasn’t about DJs or selectors or flyers. It was about intent. You could feel which system was built with love and which one was just making noise.

The worst thing you can do is talk about reggae like it’s some museum piece, frozen in glass. Or treat it like a spiritual spa day for white kids chasing “culture.” It’s not here to fix you. But if you show up right, if you carry the weight and keep your ears open, it might let you in. Not with hugs. With a nod. A breath. A glance across the room that says, yeah, you’re alright.

Helping Angus with the rig. Lugging boxes, holding cables in the rain, watching him coax sound out of battered plywood, wasn’t glamorous. But it felt like being let in on a secret. Something stubborn. Something beautiful. Built by people who care about connection more than applause.

I didn’t find reggae. Reggae found me.Through sweat, half-broken venues, stray soundchecks, and conversations shouted over basslines.

Now it’s in there somewhere. Not as a playlist. Not as a trend. Just as a slow, low rhythm under everything else.

I left that night with dust in my lungs, my ears still humming, and something I couldn’t name. Still can’t. Don’t want to.

Find new music, new sound, new reason to listen to a culture thats different to yours. Don’t fall into the trap of listening to something just because your friends, parents or worst of all the UK top 40 tell you to. Discover what music your ears want to groove to.

P.s Angus i’m still really sorry about breaking your Amp