As Beverley Knight releases an album of UK soul covers, she joins Jazzie B, Omar and Andrew Roachford to discuss a neglected scene
We're an hour and a quarter into a fascinating freeform debate when Jazzie B makes his definitive proclamation. "I know what the article should be about," he says, with his characteristic mix of certainty and provocation. "The Union Jack. That's what it's about, technically."
We're in the basement of a London club to talk about soul music ? specifically, the soul music made in Britain between the mid-70s and the mid-90s: music ignored by the self-appointed curators of the pop canon, but which went on to have a profound and unexpected influence in the UK and beyond. But to talk properly about British soul means wading waist-deep through the muddy waters of culture and class, race and religion, politics, pop, even punk.
The catalyst for the conversation is the release of the seventh LP by the platinum-selling Brit and Mercury prize nominee Beverley Knight. Soul UK is a spirited set of cover versions of 13 classic British soul tracks originally released between 1977 and 1996; like another great recent collection of soul reinterpretations ? John Legend and the Roots' Wake Up! ? it rebrands a disparate selection of tunes into a cohesive movement, and allows contemporary audiences the chance to explore and reassess an overlooked era in black music history.
Chatting with Knight are three of the artists whose songs she's recorded. Jazzie B is the most voluble: the founder of the soundsystem-turned-band Soul II Soul, his impact on pop has been as considerable as his influence in turning artists on to the possibilities of branding, marketing and approaching music as a business. He hasn't released a record in a while, but still DJs regularly. Omar, whose early 90s work helped birth the neo-soul movement in America, is quieter but no less focused. Quieter still is Andrew Roachford, whose eponymous band bridged the gap between rock and soul as the 80s became the 90s. He patiently waits to get a word in whenever Jazzie pauses for breath.
Later comes a contribution from Rod Temperton, perhaps the unlikeliest soul man of them all: a white guy from Cleethorpes who took up an American band called Heatwave and went on to craft some of the biggest hits in soul and pop history with Quincy Jones and Michael Jackson. He's unable to be here but supplies some thoughts in a two-page letter a few days later.
But back to the Union Jack (or flag), which, reclaimed from far-right politics, seems to symbolise black British music's sense of eclecticism, diversity and inclusiveness.
"This is the first time I've ever known somebody to cover our generation of music," Jazzie says of Knight's album. "It was really interesting that in our lifetime, we're seeing this whole thing evolve. And the reason why we've got to where we are is really down to the Union Jack ? to something that we've been beating up for many years."
"I only got the tail end of that National Front, 'There ain't no black in the Union Jack' thing," says Knight. "I was born in Enoch Powell's constituency, and he really did not like people like my mum and dad. There was only six of us black kids in a primary school of 400, but most would pick me out because of my glasses, or because I was the one who was always singing ? not because of the blackness. They saw me pretty much as just one of them, and I grew up with this image of the Union Jack as very much mine."
"That's what's great about the Chipmunk generation," Roachford says. "They're not watchin' that at all."
"With bands like N-Dubz and people like Chip," Knight agrees, "you can see now that the Union Jack is so much bigger. It's the three colours ? red, white and blue; but it's also definitely black, gold and green. And there's other stuff in there too, which I think is fabulous."
Knight's record underlines the breadth and vitality of British soul. From the hip-hop-derived grooves of Soul II Soul's Fairplay via ballads such as Temperton's Heatwave hit Always and Forever, Soul UK essays black rock (Roachford's Cuddly Toy), acid jazz (Young Disciples' Apparently Nothin') and unashamed pop (the Stock, Aitken and Waterman-penned Say I'm Your Number One, a 1985 hit for Princess). The reasons for British soul's diversity are batted back and forth, but it's Temperton who sums up the history most succinctly.
"American soul music has a direct link to its African roots, whereas British soul, in its original form, came with a heavy dose of Caribbean influence," he writes. "In the 60s and 70s, this tended to be overpowered by the relentless American machine of Stax, Motown, Philly etc. Towards the end of the disco era, young British soul musicians were well entrenched and felt the need to find their own voice."
"It's the Caribbean heritage mixed with the American influence, and then it's the cockney," says Omar. "I call it 'Lively Up Yourself with Knees Up Mother Brown'. The kind of feel that you get from it is unlike anywhere else." In 2011's fractured marketplace, many urban artists are making mainstream pop, and those adhering to traditional soul sounds are often white ? such as Adele , Rumer and Plan B. Knight's LP includes songs by white artists ? Jay Kay, George Michael and Lewis Taylor, underlining that race and identity have always intertwined with British soul music in complex and constantly shifting patterns.
"When you're talking about defining black British music, it's close to an insult," says Jazzie. "Today, watching what they call urban music ? our music ? I always think to myself: 'Where's our roots gone?' Because, slowly but surely, I think the identity is evaporating ? and I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing. What I think is beautiful with the idea of your Adeles and your N-Dubz is the lack of inhibitions: what I think is interesting is the blurry line."
"I don't know whether it's a good or a bad thing either," says Omar. "I'm seeing a lot more black faces in the industry. I always used to think it was like, 'two in, two out' ? you'd see one black female performer, one black male performer, and when their time was done you had to switch 'em with somebody else. Whereas now you've got your Tinchys, your Wileys, your N-Dubz ? there's a bunch of 'em. But they're doing one particular genre of music, so I don't know: I don't see the soul artists, the musicians."
"When I was at school, I was always curious about where things came from," says Roachford. "I didn't just listen to the music of my so-called generation. But now I think it's very different: most of the artists up and coming now are very much interested in current music. It's one thing, it's one way ? I don't know if that's good or bad, it's just how it is."
"The music we made in the 80s had its origins in roots long before we came on the scene," Temperton adds later, in his letter. "There are only 12 notes in a musical scale: they form the basis of a language that any person can use to communicate the feelings in their soul and reflect the times that they journey through. This is exactly what the great young artists of today are doing and I applaud them all."
Everyone here has arrived via different musical paths. Omar was classically trained, and succumbed to soul's spell when he discovered music where "they were singing slightly out of tune; it wasn't musically correct, but it was like: 'My God! I like this freeness.'" Roachford grew up listening to jazz and blues, "which, when I was at school, was unheard of! My mates would give me ribbin' because I listened to 'Dat ol' man music'." It was short steps from them to Jimi Hendrix and Sly Stone, but Bob Marley, Joni Mitchell and T Rex were all pivotal influences, too. Jazzie was responsible for rebranding his brothers' Jah Rico sound system as Soul II Soul and adding funk, jazz and house to its reggae and ska remit: the record deal and the groundbreaking, genre-straddling, globally resonant hits followed. All agree that British radio, with its lack of rigid generic separation, played a vital part in creating UK soul's sonic melting pot.
"I always have to say, thank God for the way that radio is in this country," says Knight. "You'd hear Bowie and T Rex, Stevie and Prince and Shalamar, one after the other. You can't go to Germany and hear that, and you definitely can't go to the States and hear that. And that encourages the eclecticism and the innovative nature of what we do and what we are in Britain."
"I don't think any of us would've had the same opportunities if we were in black America, never mind if we were probably where our parents were from," says Jazzie. "One of the reasons we're all here today is because of punk: none of us would be accepted unless punk came along, because punk helped black music penetrate the media. So we have the Union Jack and punk to thank for black music being credible as a popular choice. That's why I like the idea of the Union Jack, even though we didn't really get no accolades here."
"I look at you guys as the titans of British music," says Knight. "As far as I'm concerned, what you've done is set in concrete, is impervious, will never move. You're like Atlas holding up the world! But in terms of winning Brits ..."
"I never won a Brit," says Jazzie. "Fuck 'em. I've got the biggest Brit."
And you think he's talking about his OBE, awarded in 2008, but he means something else entirely.
"I've got a British passport," he says. "One of the best passports in the world. You could be anywhere! All of us are a bunch of Christopher Columbuses makin' it up as we go along, and hookin' it on to something. What I liked about what [Knight] did was she's made all the music hers ? the stuff she covered just became music: it wasn't necessarily black or white. And one of the things I think was just great, awesome, was it was all Union Jack stuff. And that, for me, is almost like the beginning, the middle and ? Well, we haven't defined the end, because it's still goin' on."
? Beverley Knight's Soul UK is out now on Hurricane Records; Roachford's new album, Where I Stand, is available at www.roachford.co.uk; Omar rereleases his 2006 album, Sing, this month.
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