Bars Behind Bars: How Prison Shaped the Soundtrack of a Generation
- David Anglin
- May 14
- 2 min read
Updated: Jun 26
An immersive music heavy exhibition
From “Badman chat” to Grime beats, the voices of those inside have long echoed through the speakers of London’s youth. But are we listening to the lyrics — or just the legend?
"Lyrics from a cell now lyrics of the world?" That was the question on my mind after a conversation with Top Dolla. We were talking about the music coming out of our community — whether grime or rap, there’s always been this undertone of what I’ll call “Badman chat.”
Growing up, a “Badman” — from the Jamaican patois — was someone who rejected society’s rules, living by the code of violence and survival. It was an identity forged on the margins, and often glamorised in the music we made and consumed.
It’s fair to say genres like Dancehall and Bashment helped shape the sound of Black London in the early 2000s. But it wasn’t just riddims and road tunes — RnB had us too. I remember a heated classroom debate with my mate Elliott: who was the better singer, Joe or D’Angelo? He backed Joe. I went for D’Angelo. That day I realised my classmates didn’t really understand soul. I blamed the parents. And Kelmscott’s music curriculum. In that order!
The point is: our listening was diverse. But the stories being told were increasingly singular — tales of prison, of power, of pain. Top Dolla and I circled back to the same conclusion: the music was being shaped by those closest to us entering the prison system.
These weren’t just cautionary tales. These were icons in their own right. Gold chains, flashy cars, designer creps — they were living proof of what was possible outside the rules. Rebels, yes. But with no mission? That’s debatable. Their ambitions — extreme, dangerous, magnetic — dominated the narratives. Fast money. Fast life. Scars marked like 666, the sign of the beast.
Inevitably, many were caught and did time. From inside HMPs, the calls kept coming — stories of holding it down for the ends, refusing to bend. “Badman don’t tek chat.” Those messages shaped the minds outside. They filtered into the studios. “Death before dishonour,” as one lyric goes. Music became a medium of coded communication.
In the 2000s, rap and grime were the mouthpieces of our estates. Today, it’s Drill that carries the baton — the language has changed, but the themes remain. Different beat. Same burden.
So are lyrics from the cells now lyrics of the world? Or have old wounds simply been repackaged with fresh paint?
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